The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Very well. Good day, Mrs. Somerville.”

  When he was gone, she stared blankly at rows of books and wondered if she had hurt him terribly. Even if their acquaintance was too new for him to feel any sort of deep affection for her, men had their pride. Father, please comfort him, she prayed before realizing what she was doing. Then she felt worse, for the prayers of a kept women surely went only as far as the slate roof above her.

  At least she had the decency not to lead me along, Paul told himself as he rode Caesar through Gipsy woods toward Lockwood. He had planned to call upon the Phelps if they were at home, but his heart was no longer in it. Fortunately his heart wasn’t shattered, as it would have been had he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon Mrs. Somerville any longer than they had. Another week or two and he would probably forget what she looked like.

  “I do hope you’ll continue reading over the summer,” Lydia said that same afternoon to her dozen students sitting at freshly scrubbed, empty desks. It was unnecessary counsel, of course, for the majority were avid readers and did not need encouraging. The few who despised books would be glad for the reprieve. But there were certain things every conscientious teacher was required to say before turning loose the brood whose minds she had nurtured for the past nine months, and that was one of them.

  Another was, “I have enjoyed having you in my classroom, and I will continue to pray for each of you every day.”

  “Thank you, Miss Clark,” twelve voices murmured in unison.

  She smiled and delivered the last statement, without which the summer could not officially begin. “After we’ve finished sorting and packing up the textbooks, we’ll have punch and cake.”

  “To hear from thy lettuce…”

  On the Anwyl Saturday morning, Jacob Pitney frowned down at the bronze ax head he was in the painstaking process of unearthing from the hard ground. Lettuce? She’ll think you’re an idiot for certain.

  He gave it another try, mumbling softly so as not to be heard by Mr. Ellis, who was propped upon a huge stone and scribbling notes some twenty feet away.

  “…from thy lattice breathed, the word that shall grant…give me rest.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Ellis said for the third time that morning.

  Jacob looked over at him and for the third time replied, “Sorry. Just talking to myself.”

  His colleague returned to his notes, but not before giving him a curious look. Jacob decided it would be best to practice the lines in his mind, without even moving his lips, but he found the process much more difficult.

  It was Mrs. Dearing who had helped him find a poem in the Larkspur’s library that would prove to Eugenia that he had the soul of a poet. “You can almost feel the sultry desert night air,” Mrs. Dearing had enthused. He would have to memorize other works as well, but not before Bayard Taylor’s Bedouin Song was cemented as firmly in his mind as the tool in the earth below his fingers. And he believed himself almost ready, in spite of the occasional slip, to impress Miss Rawlins with his poet’s soul. The late hours spent in study for the past week had not been in vain.

  That evening Jacob dressed quickly for supper, giving himself time to read Bedouin Song aloud—or at least a shade above a whisper—six times. He could hardly taste Mrs. Herrick’s excellent steak-and-kidney pie, he was so nervous, and while watching Eugenia mash butter into her boiled potatoes, he wondered if it would be unseemly of him to ask her to sit in the courtyard with him. You sat in the garden together, he reminded himself. But that had been in the daytime, and where any passerby could see that nothing inappropriate was taking place.

  Yet he quailed inside at the very thought of reciting like a schoolboy in front of his fellow lodgers—especially a poem having to do with love.

  Perhaps tomorrow would be a better time, while we walk home from church. What was one more night of fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of himself spouting nursery rhymes or the alphabet or some such foolishness? But what if the Durwins accompanied them, as they had just Sunday past?

  He drew in a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. Why anyone cared for poetry was a mystery to him, if learning it caused so much anxiety.

  “I felt compelled to scold Mr. Trumble for selling the horrible stuff,” Mrs. Dearing was saying, making Jacob curious enough to snap out of his self-torment and pay attention to the ensuing discussion. “Why, it’s almost criminal!”

  To the best of Jacob’s knowledge, Mr. Trumble was a good Christian man. What could he possibly sell that would raise affable Mrs. Dearing’s ire?

  “One can hardly pass a group of children without being reminded of cows working at their cuds,” she went on.

  “But how can we expect them to do otherwise?” Mr. Jensen suggested tactfully. “Look at the example adults have set over the years with their snuff-dipping.”

  “Well, I think it’s even nastier than snuff-dipping,” Eugenia entered into the discussion, her spectacles shifting as she wrinkled her elegant nose. “I actually stepped in a wad of it on my way to the barber’s Tuesday. It was murder to get off my shoe.”

  Her hair. Jacob had thought she looked different lately. Without being obvious, he looked across at her again and realized about two inches had been shorn. You have to be more observant, he lectured himself.

  “And that’s only when they have the good sense to spit it out,” Mr. Durwin added. “Imagine what it does to the intestines of those who simply swallow it.”

  “But isn’t chewing supposed to be good for the teeth?” queried Mrs. Durwin in her usual meek manner. “Dogs chew bones to keep theirs clean.”

  “Yes, but bones do not adhere to the teeth as chicle does.”

  “What exactly is chicle?” Mrs. Somerville asked.

  Mr. Jensen patted his mouth with his napkin before replying. “It is the dried milky sap of a Mexican jungle tree, the sapodilla. There was a most enlightening article about it just last month in the Saturday Review.”

  “But I believe Mrs. Durwin has something there,” Mr. Clay said with a wry smile that alerted all lodgers that the next words from his lips would not be serious. “All we have to do is convince Mr. Trumble to sell bones to the little ones instead of gum.”

  “The bigger task would be convincing the little ones to buy them,” said Mr. Ellis, bringing chuckles from everyone but Jacob, who was still trying to find a foothold in the subject of conversation.

  Gum? What was that?

  Mrs. Clay, apparently believing him to be too timid to speak, turned to him and smiled. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Pitney?”

  All Jacob could do was confess his inattention. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I didn’t hear the first part of the conversation.”

  “Woolgathering, Mr. Pitney?” Mrs. Dearing asked.

  Sheepishly he replied, “Ah…a little.”

  “About archeology?” Mr. Durwin asked. Before Jacob could reply, a positively mischievous look passed over the elderly man’s face. “Or perhaps about a particular young wo—”

  “Bertram!” Mrs. Durwin interrupted in a surprisingly forceful whisper.

  “Oh, do forgive me, Mr. Pitney,” her husband said after a second or two of stunned silence. “I let myself get carried away.”

  Jacob forced his lips into a smile. “Think nothing of it.” But he did not look at Eugenia to see her reaction. As heat stole through his cheeks, he concentrated on his steak-and-kidney pie and hoped no one noticed.

  His first inclination was to flee to his room when the meal was finished. But as he stood near the doorway with the other men to allow the women to exit first, he felt a touch upon his elbow. He turned to find Eugenia smiling up at him. “According to Mrs. Clay, the breezes are quite pleasant this evening. I thought I might sit in the courtyard for a little while. Would you care to join me?”

  “I…uh…yes, would be delighted,” he stammered, pretending not to notice Mr. Clay’s wink over her shoulder.

  The evening breezes were indeed pleasant, and more so because Eugen
ia shared the bench with him. In the west, a faint orange glow of setting sun made the Anwyl stand out in bas-relief against a sky of deep purple. The aroma of white jasmine wafted over from the Worthy sisters’ garden, reminding him of his mother’s garden at home. If only his family could meet Eugenia! They would be as enchanted as he was, he had no doubt.

  Eugenia gave a little sigh of contentment beside him, which he wished he could save and press into a memory book. And her words made him even happier.

  “I wanted to speak with you privately because I realized today how much I appreciate you, Jacob.”

  “You do?” he said, wondering if he had heard correctly.

  Her gray eyes shone even in the evening dimness. “It dawned upon me while I was laboring over a particularly difficult scene involving Valentina and Count Lobue. After a half hour of scratching out sentences so that my page resembled an ink blotter, I simply forced myself to stop and conjure up a mental picture of myself reading the scene aloud to you. I even imagined the thoughtful angle at which you hold your head as you listen.”

  Jacob’s heartbeat against his chest almost drowned out her words as she continued.

  “And before I knew it, I was writing madly. Your enthusiasm for my stories has unleashed a wonderful new creativity in me.”

  “I’m honored that you would say so,” he told her while barely daring to breathe.

  “Well, I believe in giving credit where it is due.” She smiled. “And so I told myself today that it would be unforgivable of me not to tell you how much your friendship has meant to me.”

  Friendship? Jacob’s smile stayed locked in place as his heart broke up into pieces inside his chest. He was like a man pushed from a cliff, desperately flailing his arms for anything solid to grasp. And the only thing that met his fingers was Bedouin Song.

  Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look into her eyes and recite softly:

  From the Desert I come to thee

  On a stallion shod with fire;

  And the winds are left behind

  In the speed of my desire.

  Her mouth gaped as she stared at him in much the same manner Mr. Durwin had looked at Mrs. Durwin when she corrected him at the supper table. That could either mean she was impressed or thought him odd, but he could not allow himself to ponder that or he would forget his lines. He continued:

  Under the window I stand,

  And the midnight hears my cry:

  I love thee, I love but thee,

  With a love that shall not die…

  “Oh, Jacob!” she cried after the final stanza. “You are romantic after all!”

  He felt almost faint from happiness. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I do! Why have you been hiding it from me for so long?”

  A little stab came to his conscience with the thought that for so long was actually only a matter of days. But she was looking at him with such admiration that he could only think to reply, “Well, just because.”

  She giggled at that. “You’re too modest, Jacob.”

  Together they gazed at the first emerging star against the darkening sky, while she recited, with a breathy voice, her favorite poem—a rather melancholy one—by Elizabeth Browning titled Go From Me.

  But Jacob was not melancholy. In fact, he wondered as she allowed him to hold her hand if it were possible to die from happiness. If only Miss Clark could be here now! Good friend that she was, she would be overjoyed to see that she was wrong about the poetry.

  Chapter 35

  The stone of Saint Jude’s north wall was cool against Harold’s back the first Sunday morning in June as he waited outside the building, occasionally peering around the corner for the first sign of worshipers. His plan was so clever that he wondered what he could have done with himself if he had gotten an education. Maybe Prime Minister, he thought. Just let Papa try to boss him around then! He reckoned the prime minister didn’t have to answer to anybody but the queen, and that wouldn’t be so bad because she likely wasn’t nearly as unreasonable as his papa was.

  The first sounds that caught his ears were children’s voices. Turning again, he smiled at the sight of about a dozen boys spilling out onto the green like prisoners escaped from jail. Following them were some more orderly children—girls, of course. He cupped his hands on both sides of his mouth to call out to Phoebe and Trudy but lowered them again as he realized he would be giving himself away and needed to wait until more people were outside. As fond as he was of the Meeks, he had to remind himself it was for Miss Clark’s sake that he was here.

  A few minutes later, when the green was freckled with knots of visiting people and playing children, he spotted the Clarks emerging from the church. Harold adjusted the collar to his tweed coat, counted to ten, and just to be safe, counted again before abandoning his hiding place.

  “Miss Clark?” he said, walking up behind her.

  She turned, as did her father and mother. All three wore expressions of surprise. “Mr. Sanders?” said Miss Clark.

  “That were a lovely sermon, wasn’t it?” he asked them, shaking his head at the wonder of it. “The best I’ve ever heard!”

  The three glanced at one another. For just a second her papa looked as if he was trying hard not to laugh at something, which was odd, considering he had just been to church. Surely Vicar Phelps didn’t tell jokes up in the pulpit.

  “Yes, lovely,” Miss Clark answered. Then as if remembering her manners, she introduced him to her parents. Harold shook the hands they offered.

  “It’s good to see you at church, Mr. Sanders,” her mother said to him, smiling warmly.

  Harold nodded and thanked her. “I should’ha done this a long time ago. It’s about time I behaved like proper folk do, I figger.”

  “Well, good for you!” the old man boomed, even clapped him on the back. “Then we can expect to see you next Sunday?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Harold replied with a grin.

  Bidding him farewell, they walked over to join some people Harold gathered was Noah Clark and his family. Harold wondered if he should stroll along with them. Perhaps they would even invite him to lunch. What would Mercy tell me to do? Having his answer, he sighed and turned to where Dan was tethered to a young elm outside the churchyard. The horse had just lowered a hoof onto the cobbled stones of Market Lane when Harold glanced to his right and spotted Mrs. Meeks and her children walking across the green. He reined Dan back onto the green and waved.

  “Mr. Sanders!” Trudy squeaked, just as she did while riding the merry-go-round. The girl and Lester began running toward him, while the rest of the family sent waves from behind. Figuring it would be more polite to leave the saddle, Harold swung himself to the ground and stepped out in front of the horse.

  “Hey, Trudy!” He chuckled at the force with which she threw her skinny arms around his waist. Lester, a little more bashful, stopped just short of him and grinned. And soon, Mrs. Meeks, Mark, and Phoebe—wearing her spectacles for a change—caught up with them.

  “You were in church, Mr. Sanders?” Mrs. Meeks asked after greetings had been exchanged and they inquired about each other’s health. She didn’t look so weary today. In fact, her cheeks fairly bloomed to match the pink calico gown she was wearing. She could have been mistaken for a schoolgirl with the little straw bonnet upon her head and her long brown hair tied behind her neck with a pink ribbon.

  Harold wondered if it was church that made the change in her appearance. If it was, he supposed it was a good thing—for some people. “Yes,” he lied and felt an odd little stab for doing so. Steering the subject away from himself, he asked, “You walk here and back every Sunday?”

  “Unless the weather’s bad,” she told him, smiling. “The Fletchers kindly come for us in that case. But it ain’t so far. The children walk it almost every day.”

  She was right—the Meeks’ cottage was half the distance of his father’s place. But it didn’t seem fitting, with her and Phoebe and Trudy being so small. He r
eckoned Mark and Lester could bear it much easier. Thoughts of the children made him turn to make sure none were too near Dan’s hooves. He was satisfied to see that they were taking turns feeding handfuls of grass to the animal. “Well, why don’t they give you a ride every Sunday?” he asked, frowning.

  “Don’t be angry, Mr. Sanders.” She pointed off toward the church, several yards away, where a group of about eight people was walking in their direction. “The Fletchers also walk most days—see?”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you come see us this summer, Mr. Sanders?” Trudy stepped around to ask. “We won’t be on the merry-go-round until school starts again. We have to help Mother tend the garden and cows.”

  “Mr. Sanders has his own work to do, Trudy,” Mrs. Meeks said before Harold could even think of how to answer. She gave him an apologetic smile. “It was good seeing you, Mr. Sanders. I’d best get the children home and fed.”

  Harold nodded and bade her farewell, smiling at the way the children had to tear themselves away from Dan. He wondered if they had ever ridden a horse. Perhaps one day he would drop by and give them each a turn. If he had the time, between breaking his back for his papa and courting Miss Clark.

  “You’ve a letter, Mrs. Somerville,” Georgette announced after a knock on the door of the room in the family quarters late Monday morning.

  Noelle suffered no more pain, and the cane was more nuisance than necessity. But as she didn’t want to go through the inconvenience again, she thought it best to obey Doctor Rhode’s orders. “Thank you, Georgette,” she said, calmly winding her crochet hook through the last loop of her dresser scarf so it wouldn’t unravel before taking the envelope from the silver tray. When the maid was gone, she tore open the seal with pulse racing. Her heart fell when two one-pound notes fluttered down to land on the crocheting in her lap. And even more so when she recognized Mr. Radley’s handwriting.