The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  When Mrs. Somerville—Miss Somerville—stopped speaking, Julia felt as drained as the young woman looked.

  “Can God ever forgive me?” Miss Somerville asked, wiping red and swollen eyes with Julia’s handkerchief.

  Andrew nodded. Ambrose had gallantly excused himself as soon as the confession touched upon things not related to her early-morning knock upon his door. “Of course He can. Have you asked?”

  “Last night,” she told them in a voice becoming increasingly hoarse. “A hundred times.”

  A soft knock came at the door, and Dora brought tea. “Mr. Clay said you might be needin’ this now,” she said apologetically.

  Thank God for your thoughtfulness, Ambrose. Clearing a space on Andrew’s desk, Julia thanked Dora and poured. It was not the time for social pleasantries, so she added sugar and milk to all three cups without asking for preferences. Miss Somerville gave her a grateful nod, held hers between both hands, and gulped half before pausing for breath.

  Thank God for milk too, Julia thought, or the young woman would have scorched herself.

  “You said you’ve asked forgiveness,” Andrew reminded Miss Somerville after drinking from his own cup. “Surely with your background, you’ve learned that God forgives when we truly repent.”

  “Of course,” she said, closing her eyes to breathe in a ragged breath. She looked at him again with glistening eyes. “Then, why don’t I feel clean?”

  Julia’s husband became thoughtfully quiet for several seconds, and then understanding came into his expression. “Our feelings aren’t always true barometers of God’s workings, Miss Somerville. But I wonder if there’s some unforgiveness on your part that’s hindering your fellowship with God?”

  “Unforgiveness?” She held up a palm and let it drop again, as if overwhelmed. “Of course I have unforgiveness, Vicar. Lord Paxton and his solicitor…Meara Desmond. Look what they’ve done to me.”

  With a sigh Andrew wondered why anyone under the age of twenty-five was even allowed out-of-doors. But he had much compassion for the young woman in his study. There, but for the grace of God, sits one of my daughters. “The people you named, Miss Somerville…I’ll grant they’ve treated you wrongly. But they were also the instruments in your finally realizing what you were becoming. And the hatred you’re carrying is like a live coal in your heart—far more damaging to yourself than to them.”

  She was staring back at him, but Andrew couldn’t read in her expression whether or not she understood and accepted this. For the sake of clarity he added, “I’m not suggesting that they deserve forgiveness, Miss Somerville. And I would strongly advise against contacting them.”

  “I don’t know…” she finally said in a faint voice.

  “Then think about it. And bear in mind that forgiveness is almost a selfish act because of its immense benefits to the one who forgives.” He was about to advise that she meet with Julia and him often until her fellowship with God was restored but realized that he could not. Whether Miss Somerville was allowed to stay at the Larkspur was in Julia’s hands.

  He looked at his wife and nodded.

  Why did this have to happen? Julia thought. And the day had started out so nicely. The rain had prevented Andrew from making calls and the children from scattering, so they had enjoyed some family time. How could she have guessed that she would soon be evicting one of her lodgers?

  “Why did you choose Mr. Clay, Miss Somerville?” she had to ask. “Are you in love with him?”

  “Love?” The young woman looked startled. “Why, no. But Lord Paxton didn’t want me anymore.”

  What was it, Julia wondered, that made young women—herself included, at that age—feel incomplete without a man’s attentions? She continued in a gentle tone, “We applaud the courage you’ve shown in coming here, and that you were forthright with us. You didn’t have to tell us about your past, and we would never have known.”

  “Oh, but I did have to, Mrs. Phelps! If you only knew how good it feels to own up to everything.”

  Julia nodded understanding. While her transgressions had never reached the magnitude of Miss Somerville’s stunning confession, sin was sin, and she had experienced the healing of the soul that came from drinking from the cup of mercy. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be impossible for you to continue to live at the Larkspur.”

  Miss Somerville went white as a ghost. “But I have nowhere else to go.”

  “What about your family?” The family Julia and Andrew now knew lived in London, and not in the place of Miss Somerville’s own making, Truesdale.

  “They disowned me when I first…took up with Lord Paxton.” She blew into the handkerchief, gave them apologetic looks, and continued. “After three years, I doubt they would even speak to me.”

  “Even if you told them about your repentance, just as you’ve told us?”

  “It wouldn’t make a difference.” Again the handkerchief went to her nose. “I embarrassed the family. My returning would only add to that embarrassment.”

  What should we do? was the message Julia sent Andrew with her eyes.

  The message in his eyes clearly said, I don’t know.

  She made a slight motion of the head toward the door, and he nodded. Julia rose to her feet and picked up the teapot from the tray on Andrew’s desk. “Miss Somerville,” she said, handing the young woman her refilled cup. “Vicar Phelps and I will need to speak privately. Will you excuse us?”

  “Should I wait outside?” Miss Somerville asked, making a move to rise.

  Julia smiled and shook her head. “Just sit there and enjoy your tea. We shan’t be long.” When the door had closed behind them, they took a few steps down the corridor, and she whispered to Andrew, “What will we do with her?”

  “I don’t know.” The brow over his hazel eyes furrowed. “But you’re not thinking of inviting her here, are you?”

  The thought actually had occurred to her, but in the fraction of a second after he asked the question, she realized why that couldn’t happen. The vicarage was their sanctuary, a place where they could retreat from the responsibilities of the parish. Allowing a troubled young women to stay for a few days would not put a strain upon family harmony, but Miss Somerville required more long-range plans. “No, not here,” Julia agreed. “What about moving her to the Bow and Fiddle?”

  “I don’t know about that, Julia. Moving in with us would cause some minor speculation around the village, but people would likely give her the benefit of the doubt. But the Bow and Fiddle?” He winced. “The rumors would spread as rapidly as head colds in January.”

  “Well, we can’t do that to her.”

  “What if she stayed at the Larkspur long enough to write to her family and see how they reply?” Andrew asked. “They may miss her more than she thinks, and it’s wrong not to give them the opportunity to decide if they wish to take her back. We could warn her to keep her distance from Ambrose.”

  “I still don’t know if that’s wise, Andrew. I’ll grant you she should contact her family, but why can’t she wire them and have it done with in a couple of days or so?”

  “Because there is too much she’ll need to tell them for a wire. And they’ll need some time to think about it before replying—if they reply.”

  With a sigh, Julia looked down the corridor at the closed door to the study. “I wish Ambrose had stayed.”

  “I have a feeling he has,” her husband said. They walked to the parlor. Mr. Clay sat on the sofa, listening to Aleda read aloud a story she had written, while Laurel and Grace sat on the carpet cutting out paper doll clothing. Philip looked up from the fishing lure he was fashioning from feathers and colored pieces of yarn to ask, “Is Mrs. Somerville all right?”

  “She will be,” Julia replied as Andrew beckoned to Ambrose. At least I hope so. The actor accompanied them out into the corridor, near the bottom of the staircase.

  “I had an inkling that you might need to speak with me again,” Ambrose told them, as if he felt a need to explain
his presence.

  Julia and Andrew assured him that they were grateful. “We don’t know what to do with her,” Julia admitted. “I was all set to put her out, but she has nowhere to go. If we allow her to stay at the Larkspur—under several conditions—how do you think Fiona will feel about it?”

  “And how do you feel about it?” Andrew added.

  The actor blew out his cheeks. “You know how forgiving Fiona is. And I admire that she chose to come clean with you about her past. I’ve no doubt she would give my door a wide berth.”

  “And that would be the major condition,” Julia told him.

  Noelle had finished her tea by the time the Phelps returned with apologies for leaving her alone for longer than they had anticipated. “Please,” she said with a shake of her head. “Don’t apologize. You’ve treated me more decently than I imagined you would.”

  They sat down across from her, and with kind insistence in her green eyes, Mrs. Phelps said there were several conditions necessary to allow her to stay at the Larkspur, at least for a little while. “First, you must write to your parents.”

  “Yes, of course,” Noelle agreed. They’ll throw the letter away, but I’ll write.

  “Are you still staying downstairs?”

  “Yes. But my knee is fine.”

  “Good. Ask Mr. Jensen to have you moved back upstairs tomorrow.” An understanding little smile touched her lips. “Too much solitude isn’t a good thing. We all need accountability to others.”

  Noelle nodded. “I’m learning that.”

  The next two conditions were no surprise, yet Noelle’s cheeks still warmed when the vicar’s wife continued, “Even though I presume you already understand this, I have to warn you against going near Mr. Clay’s apartment. And, of course, you’re never to be alone in the same room with him.”

  “I won’t,” Noelle whispered.

  There was still another condition to come. “While you can trust that word of this won’t reach anyone else’s ears in Gresham, you understand that Mr. Clay will have to tell his wife when she returns. Husbands and wives don’t keep secrets of this magnitude from each other. And you’ll need to ask her forgiveness.”

  Noelle’s heartbeat quickened. From the start she had disliked Mrs. Clay, who had only been kind to her. She couldn’t even recall why. Jealousy? Because she was Irish, like Meara Desmond? Now she dreaded terribly the thought of facing her. Giving Mrs. Phelps a panicked look, she pleaded, “Oh please, Mrs. Phelps. Can’t you tell her how sorry I am?”

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Somerville.”

  “We aren’t trying to be cruel,” Vicar Phelps assured her, and the compassion in his hazel eyes bore witness to his words. “But when we hurt someone, it’s not enough to ask God’s forgiveness. True repentance means making amends with the person when at all possible.”

  Only for the briefest fraction of a second did Noelle regret making her confession. Had she thought hard enough, she could have invented some believable explanation for the things she had said to Mr. Clay. What was one more lie, after so many?

  A little shudder of revulsion snaked down her spine. God forgive me for even thinking that! She looked at the vicar and his wife and nodded. “I’ll apologize to Mrs. Clay.”

  They told her again that they admired her courage for being willing to change her ways, and that they would pray for her. The rain had stopped when they walked out onto the porch. At the gate the caretaker waited, while on the other side, the vicar’s horse stood hitched to the trap. “Keep it,” Mrs. Phelps said when Noelle started to unwind the shawl. “It’s an old one, but warm.”

  “Thank you. It will remind me of how kind you were.”

  “Reminders are good,” Vicar Phelps said, smiling.

  She had taken up enough of their time and bade them farewell. But just as she was about to turn away, something occurred to her. “The squire has invited me to a luncheon tomorrow. Should I ask Mr. Herrick to deliver my regrets, or tell their driver when he comes for me?” It occurred to her to wonder who the mystery guest Mr. Clay had spoken of would be, but her curiosity wasn’t strong enough to compel her to socialize in her current frame of mind.

  “We’ll ask Luke to do that on his way back.” To the man in the garden he called, “Will you take care of that, Luke?”

  “Yes, Vicar,” the caretaker replied with his faint whistle.

  “Thank you,” Noelle told him. As the trap carried Noelle down the vicarage lane, the caretaker made small talk about the sun coming out and a visit he planned to see his sister in Crossgreen next Sunday. Noelle responded politely, but her thoughts were heavy. The vicar and Mrs. Phelps had praised her for her honesty. If only they hadn’t. For she had not been able to share one detail that they would consider important. She had not admitted that Quetin’s solicitor was Mr. Radley, the same person who signed the cheques for her lodging. Truly she had repented of her sinful relationship with Quetin, but as long as she allowed him to support her, she was still a kept woman. How could she begin a new life when she was still attached to his purse strings?

  Please help me sort out what to do about that, Father, she said under her breath, hoping her prayer was being heard.

  “And how do you like the Chicken a la Marengo, Vicar Treves?” Mrs. Bartley asked Saturday noon in the Manor House garden.

  “Most excellent,” Paul replied, smiling. “As is everything else.”

  “You don’t find it too lemony, do you?” asked the squire, who had only a bowl of bread soaked in broth.

  “Not at all,” Paul reassured him.

  The married couple smiled indulgently at him and then at each other. During the next span of silence, Paul wondered again why he had been invited, as he had met the squire and his wife only once since moving to Shropshire. They were so ill-acquainted with one another that he was hard pressed to help keep the conversation going. And he had the strange impression that they were disappointed about something.

  He chewed and swallowed another mouthful, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “And I believe I detect a subtle amount of garlic, don’t I?”

  Chapter 40

  “Josette met the tall man’s dark mocking eyes without flinching,” Eugenia Rawlins read to Jacob in the Larkspur’s library on Saturday afternoon.

  “ ‘I would rather have dinner with a petty criminal in a viper pit than with you in your fine château, Colonel Nevelle!’ she seethed, tossing her head.”

  But how did she speak without her head? Jacob asked himself. The picture that his sleep-deprived mind painted of the scene was so ludicrous that he stifled a smile. Or rather, attempted to stifle one, for the next thing he knew, Eugenia was lowering her page with an annoyed expression.

  “You find this amusing, Jacob?” she asked.

  “Why, no.” He shifted his weight in his chair. “I just—”

  “Because this is the most intense, heart-wrenching scene in the story, and if it’s going to cause people to burst into hysterics—”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Only because I’m sitting here next to you, I suspect.”

  You dim-witted ox! Jacob scolded himself. She devoted long hours to her writing, and for him—who couldn’t write a line of fiction if his life depended upon it—to sit there grinning like a gargoyle was completely boorish of him.

  “Please forgive me,” he told her, frowning miserably. “I’ve not been sleeping well lately and drifted off for a second. It’s a marvelous story—your best so far.” His words were not flattery because in his opinion it was a marvelous story, in spite of Josette’s head-tossing.

  Pacified, Eugenia gave him an indulgent smile. “You poor dear. Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

  The “dear” warming his heart, Jacob reached over to cover the hand she had resting on the arm of her chair. He was still struck with awe that she allowed him to hold her hand almost any time he wished. “I’ve just been staying up too late, and it catches up with me.”

  “Well, you’ll have to put
a stop to that, won’t you?” she said in a half-teasing, half-serious manner. “We can’t have you dropping off to sleep in the middle of my stories.”

  “No, we can’t,” he agreed. If only Miss Clark hadn’t decided to discontinue the lessons! Between the excavation and the ever increasing time spent with Eugenia, his late night hours were devoted to poetry—he was now trying to commit to memory A Love Token by Adelaide Procter—and studying the novelettes. He did not share Miss Clark’s confidence in his ability to find symbolism on his own, so the speed of his work was impeded by more than a few self-doubts.

  If only this wasn’t so much work! he thought as Eugenia read on. A yawn crept up on him, but practice had made him an expert at yawning with his mouth closed so as not to insult her by making her think he was bored. Were all courtships beset with so many stipulations? He considered the Durwins’ marriage. Mrs. Durwin did not attempt to study the herbs that so fascinated her husband, neither did Mr. Durwin show any interest in needlepoint. Yet they got along famously.

  But Eugenia was an artist, he had to remind himself. They were different creatures, without whom the world would be a very dull place with no music or paintings, sculpture or stories. She had added color to his life, like geraniums in the windowsill could brighten the barest cottage. He should be ashamed for complaining, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

  He was attempting to concentrate again on Eugenia’s Josette of Manosque when another scene crossed his mind, of Miss Clark staring at him with a curious hurt in her expression and saying, “I see a man having to jump through hoops like a circus pony to gain the favor of a woman who can’t appreciate him for the decent, kind person he is.”