The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Don’t you both look charming, with those pink dresses,” Mrs. Dearing told them after greetings were exchanged all around.

  “I can hardly tell you apart!” Mr. Durwin exclaimed, bringing a smile to Grace’s somber little face.

  “Thank you. Laurel and Aleda have costumes of the same fabric as well, but they’re off playing with friends.” Mrs. Phelps and her daughter sat in chairs near the sofas. Grace stayed just long enough to be polite before excusing herself to visit Mrs. Herrick in the kitchen. Sarah brought in tea and biscuits, and after they had been consumed, the vicar’s wife casually asked Noelle if they could speak privately. This did not raise the eyebrows of the other three, who must have supposed they had business to discuss concerning lodgings or such.

  “My husband and I were wondering how you were faring,” Mrs. Phelps explained from the chair Noelle had insisted she take, while she herself brought over the bench from her dressing table. She had been surprised when the woman suggested her bedchamber instead of the library, but considered the nature of what they would likely be discussing and was grateful.

  Noelle knotted her fingers in her lap. “I have kept all of the conditions so far.” Anxious then that she had given the impression that her obedience was only temporary, she added, “And I intend to continue keeping them, of course, because they’re pleasing to God, and for my own good and…”

  “Miss Somerville?” her visitor cut in.

  “Yes?”

  “Do relax, please? I’m only here to offer my help.”

  “Thank you,” Noelle breathed, feeling some of the tension seep from her shoulders. She drew in another deep breath. “Sunday night I forgave the people in my past. My family included.”

  Mrs. Phelps smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I thought I had burdened you enough.”

  “Oh, but you haven’t. And such news would be just the opposite of a burden. I can’t wait to share that with the vicar.”

  Noelle returned her smile. “I just hope I never take this for granted—feeling clean.”

  “Just remember to thank God every morning for that cleansing, Miss Somerville, and you’ll lessen the chance of that happening. Gratitude gives us marvelous staying power, I’ve discovered.”

  “I’ll remember that,” she promised. But a thought that she had kept buried under activity and conversation all morning rose to the surface again. The smile eased from her face. “I’m still dreading facing Mrs. Clay tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Phelps said with a nod. “But she’s the most charitable woman I know. I’ve no doubt that she’ll forgive you.”

  “That actually makes it more difficult. I regret so much how wretched I’ve been to her…from the very first.”

  “Indeed? She’s never mentioned as such.”

  Recalling something Vicar Treves had told her, she explained, “It’s just the same if your thoughts are ugly. I saw how fine her clothes were and how easy her life was, and allowed myself to get jealous.”

  Oddly, Mrs. Phelps’s gave her a sad smile. “Mrs. Clay has earned the right to an easy life, having spent most of hers in servitude.”

  Noelle blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Didn’t you know? In fact, she was the housekeeper here for a year.”

  “Why, no.” If she had felt low for flirting with Mrs. Clay’s husband before, Noelle wondered now why God had not struck her dead the minute she knocked on that apartment door. “I’m so sorry,” she said meekly.

  “I didn’t come here to chastise you, Miss Somerville. I came to tell you my husband and I are still praying for you. And…to talk with you about your future.”

  “My future?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Phelps paused before saying, “May I ask you a very frank question?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her life was an open book anyway as far as the Phelps were concerned.

  Mrs. Phelps’s green eyes took on a maternal expression, though she was probably only a decade or so older than Noelle. “It’s about your lodgings, Miss Somerville. Don’t you think it would be in your best interests to sever that tie completely?”

  Noelle had forgotten about that page in the book revealing her life. Embarrassed that she had not mentioned the support money at the vicarage on Friday, she asked, “How did you know?”

  “Didn’t you tell us?”

  There was nothing to do but admit that she had held back that bit of information purposely. “I was afraid you would make me leave for certain.”

  “I see. Then we must have assumed as much when you mentioned that Lord Paxton had sent you here.” Mrs. Phelps grew thoughtful. “This is a puzzling situation, Miss Somerville. While some might argue there is nothing inherently sinful about accepting the money, as long as you’re no longer seeing him—”

  “I don’t want it, Mrs. Phelps,” Noelle told her quietly, but adamantly. “Not one penny. But I don’t know how to begin to support myself.”

  “And you’re still convinced that your family won’t allow you to live with them?”

  “I would be very surprised if they did.” And almost disappointed, she realized, for as much as she wished to see her family again, she’d found a measure of peace here in Gresham—in spite of making a spectacle of herself. Incredibly, London was losing its appeal. Realizing that Mrs. Phelps was speaking, she apologized for allowing her thoughts to drift. “You said you were on your way to the lending library?”

  Mrs. Phelps smiled and shook her head. “What I said was that Mrs. Summers wishes to discontinue her position there as soon as possible. Her age is catching up with her, she says. I’ve recommended you for the position, and the squire says it’s yours if you’d like to have it.”

  “Mine?”

  “Of course, if you do move in with your family later, he understands that he would have to find someone to replace you.”

  Noelle shook her head in disbelief. “But why would he hire me? I don’t even care for reading.”

  “But you can read, can’t you?”

  “Yes…”

  “And Mr. Trumble still boasts about his shelves. You have a gift for order that would be put to good use.”

  “I do?” Coming up with a system for organizing the shelves had been easy, so Noelle didn’t think she had done anything that anyone else couldn’t do. But a gift?

  Julia wondered at the disbelief in Miss Somerville’s green eyes. Surely she was used to compliments, at least on her appearance. Had the people in her life not noticed that behind that comely facade was an intelligent mind? Did she even realize it?

  “The squire would give me wages?” the young woman asked.

  “Of course.” However, a serious drawback accompanied the offer. Julia wondered if she would be too proud to accept it. “But I’m sorry to say your wages would not cover the cost of your lodgings here. And to keep the servants and amenities we have, I cannot afford to rent your room for any less.”

  “Oh dear. Then what good would it do to take the position if I couldn’t support myself?”

  “You could support yourself. There is an extra bedchamber upstairs.”

  With a puzzled glance at the ceiling, Miss Somerville said, “You mean the attic? Where the servants live?”

  “Yes. But the attic is more comfortable than you may think. There is even a water closet and bath. You would still be considered a guest, and take meals in the dining room, but at a much reduced rate.”

  Her face gave signs of an intense inner struggle. “What would people think?”

  She’s very young, Julia reminded herself. Gently, she said, “Is that so important, Miss Somerville? More important than the self-respect you would gain by taking control of your own life?”

  “My own life,” the young woman murmured thoughtfully, but with no easing of her expression. “But, Mrs. Phelps, what if something were to happen? What if the squire isn’t pleased with my work? Or I could contract an illness and not be able to work for a long time…” />
  “And Lord Paxton could tire of supporting you and stop sending money. Every path we take has its risks, Miss Somerville. While I don’t believe in making rash decisions, there is a time when we must prayerfully step out in faith. Why don’t you pray about this for a little while?”

  “I will. Thank you,” the young woman replied in an unsure tone.

  Well aware of the magnitude of the decision she was leaving Miss Sommerville to make, Julia rose from the chair. “And with that, I’ll bid you good morning. Grace and I are on our way to Trumbles to look for a birthday present for one of her friends.”

  Miss Somerville got to her feet and held out a hand. But before Julia could take it, the young woman stepped forward impulsively and embraced her. When they drew apart, Miss Somerville’s eyes were shining. “You can’t imagine how grateful I am for your kindness,” she said in a thick voice. “After knowing everything I’ve done.”

  “It’s all in the past and forgiven, dear,” Julia told her, her own voice altered by emotion. “And I see a promising future ahead for you, Noelle Somerville. You’ll be surprised at how gratifying it is to accept God’s help in taking control of your own life.”

  As the train wheels began slowing for the last time, Fiona sent a weary but happy smile to Leila Keegan, seated across from her in the first-class coach. “Gresham.”

  “Aye,” Mrs. Keegan said. “It seems we’ve just left—and yet it seems we’ve been away forever.”

  Tom Keegan turned from staring out the window, his flaxen hair almost white in the morning sun. “If you’d ever be needin’ someone to go to Ireland with you again, Mrs. Clay, I’d be most happy to.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Fiona said, and when the boy turned back to the window, she traded smiles with his mother again. A girl from Dublin had won the sixteen-year-old’s heart. He had promised to write, and true to his word, he began drafting his first letter while in the boat crossing Saint George’s Channel, until seasickness drove him up on deck.

  So many things to tell you, Ambrose, Fiona thought, appreciating how nice it was to have someone waiting to hear about her experiences.

  And indeed he was waiting, all smiles, along with the rest of the Keegans. As the youngest Irish tot was lifted up into his mother’s arms, Fiona was caught up into her husband’s. “I couldn’t sleep last night for happiness!” he murmured into her ear.

  “Nor I,” Fiona told him, smiling.

  As fond as she was of the Keegans, Fiona was pleased to discover Ambrose had asked Mr. Herrick to deliver the family home in the landau, having borrowed the Phelps’s horse and trap for themselves. “Would you care to have breakfast somewhere?” he asked after arranging for her trunk to be delivered and helping her into the seat.

  She shook her head. “I just want to go home.”

  “Home it is, then,” he said with a smile and snap of the reins.

  On the way she told him of Aileen’s wedding, how her family was faring, and of her journey to Kilkenny and back. There was so much news to share that it was only when they were halfway to Gresham that she thought to ask what had been going on in the village while she was away.

  He turned to her with a wry smile. “Well…”

  At half-past eleven, Noelle was finally groomed and dressed for the day. She had spent the night in restless sleep, even having to get up once to tuck her sheet back into the foot of her bed. When morning came, she decided she would rather have the extra sleep than breakfast and did not venture out of bed until past ten o’clock.

  You can’t hide in here all day, she told herself when she became aware of what she was doing. She had no sooner touched her doorknob when a knock sounded from the other side. Noelle opened it.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Clay exclaimed with a little jump.

  Noelle winced. “I’m sorry!”

  The Irishwoman put a hand to her heart and nodded. She showed no signs of the strain of travel in her blue-gray serge traveling outfit and smart Rabagas hat with black ostrich feathers. “I just have to collect my breath.”

  “Would you care to come in and sit down?”

  “Yes, please. But not to sit.”

  Has he told her yet? Noelle wondered, moving aside to allow entrance.

  To her surprise, Mrs. Clay closed the door and turned to look at her. “My husband has told me about your mistake.”

  Unable to meet the appraising violet eyes, Noelle replied, “It wasn’t a mistake, Mrs. Clay. I knew full well what I was doing.”

  “And that’s what I needed to hear,” her visitor said in her soft Irish brogue. She stepped forward to take Noelle’s hand. “And so it’s all forgotten, Miss Somerville.”

  But that wasn’t enough. Noelle forced herself to look up at her. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please say it,” Noelle whispered.

  Her hand was squeezed as the actor’s wife smiled. “I forgive you.”

  When Mrs. Clay was gone, Noelle had to sit in her chair for a little while. She felt drained of strength, but in a good way. Like a laborer who can finally sit by his fireside after a fruitful day of work. It was the same way she had felt after organizing Mr. Trumble’s shelves.

  Completely forgiven, she thought on her way downstairs to lunch. She returned the smiles from the dear aged faces at the table, the Clays, and the maids at the sideboard. Had she allowed her impulses free rein, she would have embraced everyone as well. Except for Mr. Clay, she told herself and was even able to smile about that.

  The next morning she walked across the green and told Vicar and Mrs. Phelps she would be pleased to accept the position at the lending library. That having been done, she went back to the room that would be hers only until the end of June and wrote a brief letter to Mr. Radley.

  Mr. Radley,

  Please inform Lord Paxton that his support, while appreciated in the past, is no longer necessary.

  Noelle Somerville

  Yet something inside her still wasn’t quite right. She realized what it was that evening. All the lodgers and Mr. Jensen were gathered in the hall and in especially good spirits, querying Mrs. Clay about her trip to Ireland, and expressing excitement about the debut of the new pulpit in Saint Jude’s in two more days.

  “I’m so glad your knee is healed, Mrs. Somerville,” Mr. Ellis told her. “It would be a shame for you to miss church on such a special occasion.”

  There was a chorus of agreement that pricked her heart. For she had not yet set straight the falsehood she had told on her first day in the Larkspur. And as long as she allowed them to address her as Mrs., she was perpetuating the lie. You may as well do it now and save yourself some sleep, she told herself when tempted to push the thought aside until later. She lowered her crocheting to her lap when there was a lull in the conversation. “If you please, I have something to tell all of you.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Somerville?” Mrs. Dearing asked, smiling. “Have you some marvelous secret to share?”

  “Not marvelous, I’m afraid.” Noelle pulled in a deep breath. Just say the words. “I’m not a widow. In fact, I was never married.”

  “Never married?” Mrs. Durwin blinked. “But your husband was a hero…”

  “He was completely fiction.” To Mr. Jensen’s concerned look, she quickly added, “I’ve confessed the same to Mrs. Phelps.”

  “But why, Mrs. Somerville?” Mr. Durwin asked.

  “That would be Miss Somerville,” she corrected tactfully. “I was told that sympathy would secure me a place here more easily.” She restrained herself from pouring out her whole sordid past, because though it was an offense against God and herself, there was no wrong committed against any of them. “And now I must ask your forgiveness.”

  “And you have it, Miss Somerville,” Mr. Clay was the first to respond. Others murmured agreement, and Mrs. Clay smiled across at her. Only Miss Rawlins, seated in a chair next to Mr. Pitney’s, looked crushed.

  “I was going to base a character on him,” the writer said.
/>   Noelle gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

  “But surely you still can, Miss Rawlins,” Mr. Ellis told her. “You write fiction anyway.”

  “I suppose so,” Miss Rawlins said, then sighed. “I might have known it was too good to be true. There just aren’t many romantic men around anymore.”

  The smile she then gave to Mr. Pitney made it obvious that she considered him an exception to that statement. Noelle smiled to herself at the happiness on the archeologist’s face and thought how glad she was that he had found love. Perhaps she would find it herself one day, but for now, forgiveness was more than enough.

  Chapter 42

  “You must’ve left the coffee beans in the wagon yesterday,” Mrs. Winters said to Oram when the Sanders males were all at the table for lunch that same Saturday.

  Oram swallowed the beef stew filling his cheeks. “I forgot to get some, Mrs. Winters.”

  She shot him a vinegary look. “You forgot, did you? And me already havin’ to dig in the bottom of the crock!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Not half as sorry as you’ll be if I have to drink watered-down coffee all week!”

  “I’ll go,” Harold offered. But not because he wanted to spare Oram, who was no better than the rest of them and surely wouldn’t jump in to spare him a tongue-lashing. As long as he had to deliver the afternoon milking to the cheese factory anyway, he might as well put off returning to chores as long as possible. And there was always the chance he might happen across Miss Clark.

  “Two Sanders in two days?” Mr. Trumble greeted him from behind his counter.

  “Oram forgot Mrs. Winters’ coffee beans, and she’s fit to be tied. If we don’t wanter eat porridge all week, I’d best bring her a sack.”

  “He didn’t forget ’em. I told him I was out but would get more in this morning. Didn’t he tell her?”

  “Nope. But next to Oram, I’m a generous.”