The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “It’s good to be able to say it…and mean it.”

  Vicar Phelps smiled. “I knew you would be able to one day.”

  They chatted then, of news of the diocese, sermons they were in the process of writing, and other ministry-related topics. But as much as he enjoyed talking over these things with his mentor, that wasn’t the reason Paul had knocked at his door. And the longer he sat there and delayed mentioning the matter on his heart, the more anxious he was becoming. So during a pause in conversation, he took the leap and bared his soul to one of the few people he trusted to handle it with care.

  “I came to ask your counsel, Vicar,” Paul began.

  The older man nodded somberly, sitting back in his chair. “About Miss Somerville, I trust?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Just a guess, actually. But it has troubled me for weeks, the look on your face when I told you the truth about her. I suspect you cared for her more deeply than I imagined.”

  “More deeply than I imagined as well,” Paul told him. He did not know Miss Somerville well enough to consider himself in love with her. Quality love, such as what his parents and the Phelps enjoyed, took time. All he knew was that over the past month he had thought about her often, in spite of his efforts not to do so. She had repented and turned her life around, according to Vicar Phelps. Paul was to the point where he believed he could forget about her past sins. But would he be acting wisely by attempting to see her again?

  He voiced the question to Vicar Phelps, who replied, “It all depends upon you, Paul. We have to assume that if you begin seeing her again, it could lead to courtship and perhaps even marriage, if she feels the same way. But can you forgive her past?”

  “Don’t you mean forget her past?”

  His friend shook his head. “While God can and does forget, and it’s noble for you to attempt to do so, I don’t believe it’s possible for a man to totally expunge such a thing from his mind. What I’m asking is if you can forgive what she did.”

  “But it’s not my place to forgive sins that weren’t committed against me,” Paul responded, perplexed. “She didn’t even know me back then.”

  “If you should happen to marry Miss Somerville one day, then they will have been committed against you. As well as herself and God, of course.” Vicar Phelps’s hazel eyes were serious, almost grave. “Our sins all too often affect the people in our futures. The woman who frivolously marries a drunkard sins against the children she will bear one day, who will suffer having him as a father. The man who gambles away his inheritance steals from his unborn children, who will grow up in poverty.”

  “What will she have taken from me?”

  “Total peace of mind, Paul. There will be times when you will have to struggle not to think about what she has done. And if you have not forgiven her completely, it will cause a breach between you that can only widen over time and possibly break your family apart.”

  Paul nodded understanding. He had been in the ministry long enough to discover that most people’s unhappiness was a result of seeds planted years earlier. Above anything else on earth, he wanted a home one day filled with harmony and love. “Have you ever witnessed a successful marriage in such a case? Where one partner has had to forgive the other for something of that nature committed in the past?”

  “Yes,” Vicar Phelps replied, smiling warmly. “And that family is a joyous sight to behold. But I will offer you the same counsel I gave to one of the partners—in this case, the young woman—before they married.”

  “Please do.”

  “Repentance is only the first step on a spiritual journey. It is not wise to assume that the person who has turned abruptly from his or her sin has immediately become a mature Christian.”

  “Of course,” Paul agreed. He too had witnessed short-lived rededications.

  “Then I would advise you to give Miss Somerville a little time to grow spiritually before you consider courting her. For her sake as well as yours. Your courtship will be on a more solid foundation, and you won’t have given away your heart prematurely.”

  That made perfect sense, but Paul couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Yet he had not sought counsel just to ignore it if it didn’t suit him exactly. “I’ll do that,” he promised.

  “Very good.” Vicar Phelps glanced at the clock on the chimneypiece. “It’s almost ten. This would be a good time to pay her a call at the library. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  “But you said…”

  “I didn’t say you shouldn’t be friends, Paul. Julia and I were friends before we began courting. You don’t want Miss Somerville to forget who you are while she’s growing spiritually, do you?”

  In the back room, Noelle read aloud the last page of The Story of Little Sarah and Her Johnny-cake to the three women in chairs—one holding a baby—and seven children seated cross-legged on the rug of a rich sapphire blue:

  The ploughman he ploughed, and the grain it was sown,

  And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown;

  It was ground at the mill, and again in her bed

  These words to young Sarah the grandmother said:

  “You shall get me a Johnny-cake—quickly go make it;

  In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.”

  Holding up the final page, Noelle allowed her small audience a look at the picture. “And so now Sarah finally has all she needs to bake her grandmother’s cake,” she told them.

  “The story don’t say nothin’ about eggs,” Mrs. Kerns, a cheese factory worker’s wife wearing a faded yellow calico, said in a worried tone as she jiggled her baby boy lightly on her knee to keep him from fussing. “She won’t be able to bake a decent Johnny-cake without eggs.”

  “Mayhap she keeps chickens,” Mrs. Draper, whose husband worked on a dairy farm, offered as the children began getting to their feet.

  Her six-year-old son asked Noelle through two missing front teeth, “Will you read the one about the bluebird again, Miss Somerville?”

  Mrs. Draper shushed the boy, but Noelle smiled and put a hand up to her throat. “I’m afraid story time is over, James. I have to save some voice for next week. But you may bring it home with you if you like.”

  With an eager face he turned to his mother. “Not this time,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “We have a new policy,” Noelle mentioned casually, so as not to embarrass any of the women. “One storybook per child may be checked out at no charge. If you return it within the week, you may choose another and so on.”

  It had taken all her reasoning abilities to talk the squire into that one. “But subscriptions are necessary to keep the library selfsupporting,” he had argued. “And we already have the lowest rate in the county.”

  Noelle’s point of view was that very few children’s books were checked out anyway, so the loss would be minimal. Most people with means purchased books for their children and handed them down among siblings. And while those with limited means were willing to invest a half-farthing for a thick novel, they considered it wasteful to spend it on a picture book that could be read in a half hour. It was a shame to have such a wonderful children’s collection sitting mostly undisturbed upon a shelf. Books were no good to anyone unless they were read.

  The Wednesday morning story hour was another of her ideas. Illiterate adults who normally would be too intimidated to step foot into a library—such as the three women present—needed an incentive to encourage reading in their children. Mr. Jones had spread word as he delivered mail, and today’s meeting, the second, had double the attendance of the first.

  Noelle had no idea where this passion to promote reading in Gresham came from. She still found it difficult to settle her busy mind long enough to become absorbed in a novel. Yet she did enjoy telling stories to her little group, watching their eyes grow large at times, such as when Jack’s giant searched for him, and hearing their giggles when Old Mother Hubbard’s dog danced the jig. Even
the mothers had smiled over that one.

  As the women lingered in the reading room to chat, and the children looked through the collection of books she had carried in there with her, she excused herself to see if any patrons waited to be assisted in the main room. She started at the sight of the tall man facing her on the other side of the doorway.

  “Good morning, Miss Somerville,” greeted Vicar Treves, smiling down at her.

  Many times over the past month Noelle had wondered how he had taken the news about her past from Vicar Phelps. While she did not think he had it within him to judge her harshly for the past of which she had repented, she was positive he would have no more interest in seeing her socially. As was within his rights, she had also reminded herself several times.

  “Vicar Treves,” she said with a polite smile. She did not offer her hand, as it would devastate her if he showed some hesitation in taking it.

  But his blue eyes were warm. “I hope you don’t mind my lurking about in here. I enjoyed hearing you with the children. What a grand idea—using a library to promote reading.”

  “Why, thank you.” The compliment truly surprised her. But why was he here? Surely there was a lending library in Lockwood. The group from the back came chattering into the room, and she excused herself to move over to her desk to check out books for the children.

  “We can come again next Wednesday?” Mrs. Kerns asked.

  “Every Wednesday,” Noelle replied, happy for the question. They left presently, the children turning to wave just before walking out onto the stoop. When Noelle turned away from the doorway, Vicar Treves was walking from the back with a chair hooked on one arm.

  “You’ve changed the place a bit since the last time I was here,” he remarked, placing the chair facing her desk. “I like the rug.” He went around to hers and pulled it from the desk for her. “May we? I won’t detain you from your duties for very long.”

  As she was getting used to sleeping soundly at night, Noelle figured she might as well hear what he had to say instead of worrying herself with speculation. “I’m very surprised you’re here,” she told him when they were both seated.

  “I needed some time to think and pray. You understand, don’t you?”

  How well she did. Aware that her past misdeeds were on both their minds, shame threatened to well up within her. My Father has forgiven me, she reminded herself and quenched the hateful thoughts.

  The door opened, and Helen Johnson, the baker’s daughter, came for a book Noelle was holding for her. The girl handed her a small bundle in brown paper, and after dipping a quick curtsy to Vicar Treves, she apologized for having only one chocolate strasse inside. “My mother thought you might like a treat before your lunch.”

  “Please tell her it was very thoughtful.”

  “I will.” Helen looked pleased but still lingered with a preoccupied expression even when the book was in her hand.

  “Is there another book you would like to see?” Noelle finally had to ask.

  Twisting a dark braid, she replied, “Miss Clark says I have a very good reading voice, with lots of expression. Do you think I could help you on Wednesdays until school starts?”

  “Why, I think that’s a delightful idea. That way we could take turns, and I could see about the desk every now and then.”

  “Oh, thank you!” the girl gushed.

  When the door closed behind her, Vicar Treves smiled again and said, “I can recall your misgivings about being here when we first met on the train. But you’ve made a place for yourself in this community, haven’t you?”

  “They’ve made a place for me,” Noelle said, returning his smile. She asked if he would care to share the pastry.

  He shook his head and apologized for staying longer than he had promised. “I’ll get to the reason I came so you can enjoy your treat without me staring across at you.”

  There was affection in his eyes that should have pleased her, for she had shed her prejudice against ministers as husbands and fathers—even if her own parents had yet to write. And she had learned that contentment and peace of mind could make having only a few material belongings seem like great wealth. But everything within her cried that she wasn’t ready for a new romance just yet. She was still in the process of discovering things about herself she never knew and talents she never realized she possessed. If she allowed herself to fall in love, she feared that would again become the primary focus of her life.

  But how many times could she discourage the man across from her without his losing all interest? She certainly didn’t want that to happen. Father, I don’t even know what to pray for.

  “Miss Somerville, I was wondering…” he began.

  Noelle held her breath. Just please don’t let me ruin everything.

  “…do you think we could establish a friendship?”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have feelings for you that refuse to go away. And frankly, I don’t want them to. But I’ve been made to understand that rushing into courtship isn’t always wise.”

  Tension began draining from Noelle’s neck and shoulders. “That makes sense.”

  “It does?” he asked with a surprised expression.

  “Yes. I do enjoy your company. And I’ve never had a close friend who was a male.” She made a face. “Actually, until just recently I’ve had very few female friends.”

  “This is new for me as well, Miss Somerville,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ve never had a close friend who was a woman.”

  “I can see we both have a lot to learn. How should we go about this?”

  “Well, we could write.”

  “Letters, you mean?”

  He nodded. “You could tell me all about your workdays, and I could tell you about mine. Our thoughts on different subjects, and so on. We really know so little about each other.”

  “It would be nice to receive some mail for a change,” Noelle told him. “I’m the only person at the Larkspur who never gets any.”

  “Do you think I could bring a picnic lunch here every other week or so? We could sit on the stoop during your lunch break.”

  “Isn’t it the woman’s place to provide the food?”

  “It still would be,” he replied with a sheepish expression. “Mrs. Coggins, my cook, indulges me shamefully.”

  Noelle laughed. “Then I suppose we have all the rules agreed upon.” And this time she had no hesitancy in reaching across her desk to offer her hand. “It’s settled?”

  “Settled,” he said. But then he paused thoughtfully, still holding her hand. “But not quite.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Is it possible that we could address each other by our given names? As long as we’re friends?”

  “That sounds lovely to me, Paul.”

  He squeezed her hand gently. “Thank you, Noelle.” Then he left as promised. Noelle went to the window and watched him unhitch his horse from the post. He looked up, smiled and waved, and she waved back.

  Early the next evening when Noelle arrived at the Larkspur from the library, Sarah told her that there was a letter on her writing table. He certainly doesn’t let grass grow under his feet, she thought on her way upstairs to her attic room. But the envelope was from London and in her mother’s script. Noelle sat on her bed and stared at it for a little while before breaking the seal.

  It was quite lengthy, filled with news of her siblings, the servants, and some members of the congregation. Only in the last paragraph was it mentioned that, while her parents were overjoyed to learn of her changed lifestyle and did certainly forgive her, it would be best if she waited a while longer before visiting. Memories were still fresh, her mother explained.

  Noelle grieved over the letter all during supper and even the next day while at work. It was the visiting part that stung the worst. She had not asked for permission to move back with the family, but it would have been nice had the invitation been extended. But when she went up to her room again, she sat down and wrote,
thanking them for their forgiveness and assuring them that she understood. Just tell me when you’re ready for me to come for a visit, and I will.

  From the top of her wardrobe she took down her biscuit tin and put her mother’s letter in it. I should ask Mrs. Beemish for another tin, just for Paul’s letters, she thought. The calendar picture caught her eye, and she took it out and touched it lovingly. If she had not found Truesdale, which had only existed in a little girl’s imagination anyway, she had found a place very close to it.

  “When did you know for certain?” Jacob asked Lydia on Saturday as they finished their lunch atop a flat sandstone boulder. It was a perfect day to be overlooking the village, warm and breezy, with clouds as white as wool dotting the sky.

  Lydia’s father and Mr. Ellis, trading jokes and stories of old times, had waved them on. Lydia supposed the two wanted to savor as much as possible of the working camaraderie that had developed between them. Next Monday several archeologists from the Archeological Association would be arriving in Gresham to join the excavation. The trips up the hill—and Lydia and her father had taken several over the past month—would likely be curtailed for fear of getting in the way.

  “When did I know what?” Lydia asked after swallowing the last bite of a boiled egg.

  “You know. How you…felt.”

  Smiling to herself, Lydia marveled that her fiancé could still get flustered when speaking of their relationship. And some mischievous impulse caused her to reply, “About what, Jacob? Parliament?”

  “No, about—” He lowered a dark eyebrow suspiciously. “You’re doing this on purpose, Lydia. Aren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You are your father’s daughter,” he chuckled with a shake of his head.

  She dabbed at the corner of his mouth with her napkin. “And you have mayonnaise on your face.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Brushing crumbs from the skirt of her mauve poplin, Lydia discovered herself to be just as flustered. She folded the napkin and tucked it in the corner of the basket for an excuse not to look at his face. “I knew I loved you the day you lent me your handkerchief. I just wasn’t aware that I knew.”