“He’s a dear boy,” Julia agreed. “And if God means for them to be together, we’ll accept that. But he has such ambitious plans for his career. We hate the thought of having Laurel move away.”
“Perhaps he’ll live in Shrewsbury,” the squire said by way of consolation, his hatless head shining almost as much as his wife’s bracelet. A pat of butter had melted and formed a little pool in the center of his porridge. Unfortunately, his stomach could not abide the rich foods that he was proud to serve at his table. “That’s not so far.”
Andrew shrugged. “I would settle for that. But I fear Shrewsbury isn’t what he has in mind.”
“You have to consider that the church could very well move you one day.” Mrs. Bartley’s pause to press her lips together evidenced that she did not care for this possibility. “And once the children are settled with families, it would be almost impossible to uproot them.”
That faint possibility Andrew did not care to dwell upon. He had found his paradise-on-earth. And for the time being, all of his ducklings were happily in the nest. You’re borrowing trouble anyway, he told himself, echoing Julia’s admonition last night. So what if Ben Mayhew had given Laurel another note…had Andrew himself not attended an all-boys’ school, perhaps he would have been a notorious note-passer.
But the thought of Laurel’s interests growing beyond dolls and storybooks was depressing. He had already blinked once and found Elizabeth grown up. How did one stop time?
His eyes met Julia’s across the table. Are you all right? was the message in hers.
He smiled back and gave a slight nod. While his mind searched for another subject, Mrs. Bartley obliged him unwittingly by saying, “Speaking of romance, have you heard about Vicar Treves carrying your Mrs. Somerville in his arms at the tournament?”
Of course they had heard. Who in Gresham had not? Even Mrs. Somerville’s understandable absence from church on Sunday past had sparked rumors that she was attending Saint Luke’s in Lockwood. Andrew knew this not to be the case, for when he and Julia called upon the young woman on Monday, she was having to walk with a cane. “She injured her knee,” Andrew reminded the good woman, a little alarmed at the pleased glint in her blue eyes.
Not to be dissuaded, Mrs. Bartley chuckled. “Marriage hasn’t caused you to lose your sense of romance, has it, Vicar?”
“It has not,” Andrew stoutly assured her. “But you know what happens to those who feast upon rumors.”
The squire raised both bushy white eyebrows while his spoon made swirls in his porridge. “What happens, pray tell?”
“I don’t quite remember,” Andrew had to confess after a moment’s thought. He made a sheepish grin. “It was something one of my schoolmasters used to say. Anyway, I would rather feast upon this excellent pork. I do wish you could join us.”
“Thank you. But I’ve gotten used to my gruel,” the older man assured him with a smile.
Andrew was mentally patting himself on the back for a clever change of subject when Mrs. Bartley continued.
“Well, I don’t see why we can’t hope for a romance between the two of them. I rather like Vicar Treves. And they both look lonely, you have to admit.”
Please don’t say anything was the message Andrew hoped Julia could read in his eyes. She winked back and speared a cucumber slice with her fork.
But the squire was beaming happily. “If anyone can get two people together, my Octavia can. Why, thanks to her, that young Sanders woman had Mr. Langford headed for the altar before he knew what hit him!”
Mrs. Bartley’s modest flush did not quite match the proud smile under her hawkish nose. Raising a butter knife as a conductor raises a baton to begin the symphony, she mused aloud, “Now, let me think. We’ll invite the two here for lunch—when Mrs. Somerville is recovered, of course.”
“Of course,” her husband agreed with a nod so enthusiastic that his eyebrows quivered.
It appeared that marriage had infected him with the same fervor that Mrs. Bartley had for pairing off the population of Gresham.
And now Lockwood as well, Andrew told himself.
“Were you really worried that I might add fuel to their fire?” Julia asked her husband as he drove the trap up Bartley Lane.
“Not worried, just cautious,” he answered. “You know how our dear Mrs. Bartley has a way of influencing anyone in the vicinity.”
“Why didn’t you attempt to dissuade her?”
“For the same reason I don’t demand the River Bryce to change its course. The idea is obviously set in her mind.” He feigned a shudder. “I’m reminded of my mother, trying to push all those eligible widows in my direction back in Cambridge.”
“They’re simply wanting to offer them an opportunity to interact socially again. And remember, they did get along well at the vicarage.”
“Julia, Paul is our friend. I don’t like to see him treated like some pawn in a game of chess.”
“Neither should you treat him as one.”
Giving her a sidelong look, Andrew asked, “Why did you say that?”
“Because you act as if he has no mind of his own,” she stated frankly. “You can’t expect to shield him forever. He has some discernment about what makes a decent woman, or he wouldn’t have fallen in love with Elizabeth.”
She expected him to argue, but he looked at her again and smiled.
“I suppose you’re right. I’ve been a bit overprotective of him. And Mrs. Somerville seems a decent woman.”
Julia returned his smile. “And we know how special vicars’ daughters are, don’t we?”
“Indeed we do.”
After a brief silence during which Julia’s glance at the secondary school windows did not reveal any familiar faces, she turned to him again. “You know, something occurred to me while we were discussing the children staying put.”
“Yes?”
“Why would Mrs. Somerville’s family send her here—a village they’ve never visited? To hear her describe it, Truesdale is just as peaceful.”
“Perhaps they hope she’ll marry again. If the place isn’t on any map, the prospects of making a good marriage would surely be limited.”
“So Mrs. Bartley may be on the right path after all,” Julia teased. “Are you certain you can’t recall meeting Mrs. Somerville’s father?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been acquainted with two Vicar Smiths in my lifetime. But one passed away two years ago, and the other is a bishop in Nottinghamshire now.”
“Hmm. Well, perhaps her family will come visit her one day, and you can discover if you’ve any mutual friends.”
“That would be interesting.” He reined Rusty to a stop at the crossroads and turned to give her an apologetic look. “Are you anxious to get home?”
“Not particularly,” Julia replied, already knowing what he would ask.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind…”
“Dropping in on Elizabeth?” she finished for him. As all thought of Mrs. Somerville was replaced by the thought of a coming grandchild, she replied, “Let’s do.”
Chapter 34
Sixth loop and then under, Noelle told herself on Friday afternoon, her teeth pressed against her lips in concentration as the slender hook moved awkwardly in her unskilled fingers. Sheer boredom from being confined indoors, as well as a need for distraction from thoughts of Quetin, had led her to accept Mrs. Durwin’s offer to teach her some simple crochet stitches. Now that the dresser scarf had reached about six inches in diameter, Noelle could measure her progress and found herself eager to see the results of the hours she had poured into it.
“Come in,” she called when a knock sounded at the door. Not the door of her regular bedchamber, but of the one formerly occupied by Mrs. Phelps, for Doctor Rhodes had given strict orders that Noelle was to avoid the stairs for a fortnight. Usually Noelle practiced her crocheting in the hall where others could admire her progress and inquire about her strained knee.
At the moment, however, Aleda Hollis was
teaching Mrs. Dearing a particularly difficult piano piece, Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony—which was actually a complete composition, according to the Hollis girl. Complete perhaps, but painful to the ears at this stage of Mrs. Dearing’s tutelage. It had not taken long for Noelle to decide to quit the hall for her temporary bedchamber. The Durwins and Mr. Jensen had managed to find excuses to leave as well, so Noelle didn’t feel she was being rude.
Sarah, one of the parlormaids, eased open the door. “You’ve a caller, missus. It’s that Vicar Treves from Lockwood.”
“Thank you, Sarah.” Noelle was finding gratitude easier and easier to express, for the Larkspur’s servants had not begrudged her the extra work she had caused them by moving downstairs, and were even extrasolicitous, appearing at her door often to ask if they could fetch her anything. Reaching for the cane Doctor Rhodes also insisted she use, Noelle began slowly getting to her feet.
“Shall I help you, missus?” Sarah asked, stepping inside.
Noelle shook her head and said, “I can manage, thank you. Is the library occupied?”
“I can nip down there and have a look.”
Noelle smiled at her. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
While the girl was gone, Noelle went over to her dressing table mirror and combed her fingers through the curled fringe above her eyebrows. She looked nice, she thought, but almost wished she didn’t. For she had been expecting Vicar Treves’ call. A little sooner, perhaps, but in that instant she had looked back from the doctor’s trap and locked eyes with him, she had known.
The knowledge pained her. He was a decent person who deserved a decent woman. And he would surely find that woman, but not for a long time if he occupied himself with chasing rainbows. He had been hurt once before by a courtship that had gone on too long. As her painful experience with Quetin had taught her, one heartbreak was enough for a lifetime.
“The library’s empty, missus,” Sarah declared in a breathless voice.
“Did you run, Sarah?”
“Just a bit, ma’am.”
Noelle shook her head. “You pamper me shamelessly, you know. I’ll be tempted to bang my knee again for the extra attention.”
After covering a smile with her hand, the maid asked, “Shall I show Vicar Treves to the library?”
“Please do.”
He was standing at a row of bookshelves with hands clasped behind his back when Noelle stopped in the doorway, his blond features a striking contrast with his black suit. “Good morning, Vicar Treves.”
Turning his face toward her, he smiled. “Mrs. Somerville,” he said and started walking toward her. “Please forgive me for not calling earlier. I’ve just returned from King’s Heath yesterday. It’s so good to see you up and about.”
“There are no apologies necessary,” she told him as she offered him her left hand, for the right still held the cane. “I trust you had a pleasant visit?”
“Very pleasant, thank you.” Gently he took her hand and sent an anxious glance toward her right side. “You’re having to use a cane?”
Noelle lifted the ivory handle to show him. “Mr. Jensen lent it to me.”
“But you’re better, aren’t you?”
“Much better,” she assured him. “Doctor Rhodes says I should be completely recovered in another week.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Yes.” With a nod toward the chairs she took her hand from his. “Would you care to sit? Sarah is getting some tea for us.”
“Will you be able to manage?”
“Yes, I’m just fine,” she replied and sat down. He was still hovering near her, so she handed him the cane, just so he would feel useful. Through the open doorway drifted in the notes of Mr. Schubert’s curiously titled composition, mingled with gaps of silence, which reminded Noelle somehow of a picket fence with stakes missing.
“I had hoped to bring you some apples,” he told her when he had finally settled into the nearest chair. “Unfortunately, my mother says the remainder of last year’s crop are fit only for tarts.”
Then I would qualify, flashed across Noelle’s mind. Frowning, she tried to push the gloomy thought aside.
Vicar Treves apparently mistook her frown for disappointment. “But this year’s will be in before you know it.”
“You’re very kind,” she told him, adding under her breath, But I wish you weren’t. Because it only made what she knew she would have to do more difficult.
Sarah brought in a tray of tea and shortbread, and it took some time to pour and serve the two little plates. When the maid was gone, Vicar Treves took a sip, crossed his knees, and settled back into his chair. He seemed more at ease and asked how Noelle managed to fill her days while being homebound.
“Well, I’ve started crocheting.”
He smiled. “Yes? Do you enjoy it?”
“More than I thought I would.”
“One of my parishioners in Lockwood just learned how last month, and he crochets almost every waking minute now.”
“Well, I hope I never get that carried away. But did you say he?”
“Mr. Gripp is his name. He’s recovering from a foot amputation. His wife finally insisted he learn to crochet because all he had to keep his mind occupied was to comment on how she tended house.”
Unable to restrain a smile, Noelle told him, “I know I shouldn’t say this, considering he lost his foot, but that’s rather funny.”
“Oh, Mr. Gripp would be the first to agree,” he said, returning her smile. “You should see him. He’s as huge as an oak trunk, and the crochet hook looks lost in his giant hands. He made me a lovely table scarf, by the way.”
Now Noelle had to laugh. The two spent some ten minutes occupied with similar small talk, which she would have enjoyed much more had not the shadow of what was likely to come hovered over her. And then Mr. Treves unwittingly ruined his own day.
“Have you ever heard of well-dressing?” he asked.
“I always try to dress well,” she replied with a bemused look at him. Surely he wasn’t implying her wardrobe was lacking in some way.
He chuckled and shook his head. “Forgive me, not that kind of dressing. It’s a festival held in Waverly to celebrate Christ’s ascension. The villagers decorate their wells with biblical scenes. Some are quite elaborate, I’ve been told. And it’s only about an hour’s drive from here.”
For a second or two he paused, probably hoping she would respond in some manner. But Noelle didn’t, for she was unsure of what to say. She couldn’t very well turn down an invitation that had not yet been extended.
“They press flower petals and other natural objects into clay to form the pictures, you see,” he finally continued. “Would you care to accompany me there, Mrs. Somerville? The outing would be wellchaperoned, of course. Mrs. Coggins and Israel—”
“It sounds very interesting, but I’m afraid I cannot accept, Vicar Treves.”
“Very well,” he said with an understanding nod, as if he wished to show that he wasn’t as disappointed as his blue eyes hinted. But then a ray of hope seemed to fill them. “I neglected to mention that it’s not until mid-June. The festival, that is. In case you’re concerned about your injury.”
Noelle shook her head, wishing now she had asked Sarah to tell him she was resting or unable to receive callers. How could she have imagined how disconcerting this would be? But as she wasn’t quite vain enough to believe he felt anything more for her at this stage than infatuation, she thought it better to hurt him a little now than allow him to think there could be any sort of a courtship between them. It would be far less painful to pull out a splinter than to have to amputate a limb later.
“Vicar Treves,” she said quietly, hoping he could tell by the way she looked at him that she actually considered him a pleasant, even interesting, person. “Are you aware that my father is a vicar?” There was no use attempting to keep that quiet since her slip of the tongue Saturday past. And perhaps he already knew.
But he raised both eyeb
rows, even smiled. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“Where?”
“Truesdale. A tiny place, not even on the map.” Despising the insensitive act she was going to have to present, she nonetheless went on. “And the reason I’m not there with them is that I disliked growing up in a vicar’s household. Actually, loathed would be a more appropriate word.”
A ripple of shock passed across his face. “What have you against vicars, Mrs. Somerville?”
“Less than before I moved here,” she had to confess. “I’ll grant you that Vicar Phelps and you have not fit the mold I took for granted was required of men of the cloth. But you’re still married to the church.”
“What do you mean, married to the church?”
“Being at the beck and call of every parishioner who has a complaint or simply wishes to take up your time. Having to be pleasant to people who are often not the same to you—especially if they are generous tithers.” She shuddered. “And for that, you’re allowed to live in a vicarage that isn’t your own and watch your pennies so that there will still be meat in the pot by the end of the month.”
“It isn’t quite that drastic, you know.” It seemed Vicar Treves was almost amused, for the corners of his mouth curved faintly. “Most of my parishioners have scant time of their own to be taking up mine. I’ve discovered that being pleasant takes much less energy than being otherwise. My fireplace is just as warm, even if it doesn’t belong to me. And I’ve yet to go a day without meat.” And before Noelle could summon a reply, Vicar Treves stood and gave her a polite smile. “But I’m fatiguing you, when you should be resting. I will continue to pray for your full recovery.”
“Thank you,” was all she could say. He was correct about her being fatigued, for she suddenly felt drained of strength. Quetin had made bluntness appear to be so effortless that Noelle had not realized how taxing it could be.
“May I assist you to your feet?” he asked.
She shook her head and touched the handle of the cane he had propped against the arm of her chair. “No, thank you. I’ll just sit here awhile.”
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 36
