The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m not sure if I can explain it.” She looked up at him. “All I can say is, when I finally realized my feelings, they came as no surprise. It was like waking up with a fever, and then realizing that for the past few days I’d felt out of sorts.”

  His brown eyes became teasing. “So, in other words, you equate your feelings for me with an illness?”

  “Dear me, no. One hopes to recover from an illness.”

  Jacob’s laugh rang out—so loudly that it seemed the villagers below them should cock their heads attentively and smile. “Beauty and wit. I like that in you.”

  Now Lydia could feel her cheeks grow warm. Looking down at the hands folded in her lap, she replied, “Please don’t make sport of me, Jacob.”

  “And modesty, too, I forgot to add.” He gently took her chin and turned her face so they were looking at each other again. With all seriousness he said, “Please stop trying to deny me the pleasure of telling you how beautiful you are, Lydia.”

  “It’s just that it’s not so.”

  “It is so, Lydia Clark, soon-to-be Pitney,” he said quietly, releasing her chin.

  “Very well,” she responded to humor him. And then to change the subject, she asked when he was sure of his affection for her.

  “The day Mrs. Tanner opened the door and told me you were leaving. I feared I would never see you again.”

  “I’m glad you found the dagger when you did.” Lydia smiled at him. “One day later, and we wouldn’t be sitting here together now.”

  “I would have gone to Glasgow for you.”

  “You would have?”

  “Absolutely. But I’m glad that wasn’t necessary.” He leaned back upon his arms, looked out upon Gresham, and let out a deep, contented sigh. “This has been a perfect day, Lydia. I’ll miss you and your father coming up to join us.”

  “And I will as well.”

  “I almost feel as if we should be reciting poetry to each other.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Almost.”

  “Never did take a liking to poems,” came a familiar paternal voice from behind.

  Lydia turned to smile at her father and Mr. Ellis coming to join them.

  “Me neither,” agreed Mr. Ellis as Jacob handed him the stillheavy lunch basket Mrs. Tanner had sent up with them. The two men waved aside his offer of the boulder and settled upon the grass with creaks of aged knees. “Most are either sickeningly sentimental or depressingly morbid.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that,” Lydia protested.

  Her father nodded agreement with Mr. Ellis. “Then give us one that isn’t, daughter.”

  “Yes, Lydia,” Jacob told her, his eyes merry with challenge. “Give us one that isn’t.”

  “Very well. I’ll just need a minute.”

  “A minute she needs,” Mr. Ellis laughed. “Take all the time you wish, Miss Clark. Just bear in mind that we have to leave here at sunset.”

  The men chuckled at this bit of wit while Lydia pressed her fingers to her temples and mentally sorted through the myriad of poems she had memorized over the years. Suddenly the perfect one came to mind.

  “Very well,” she said. “I have one that you’ll all enjoy.”

  “No one dies at the end, does he?” Mr. Ellis asked, causing more male chuckles.

  “No. At least no human.”

  Jacob raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  With a smile for each, Lydia began.

  At River Bryce a tortoise bit my toe,

  I danced and roared but it would not let go…

  Chapter 47

  Six months later on the first Saturday afternoon in February, Saint Jude’s lone bell broke the snow-numbed stillness of the village. It was the signal for the congregation to don coats and gloves and, with pinkened cheeks and reddened noses showing between the space of cap and muffler, leave their fireplaces for the joyous occasion of a wedding.

  Instead of at the open main doorway, Andrew stood to greet people just inside the nave, allowing the vestibule to be a buffer between the warm air of the nave and the frigid air outside. He had asked Julia to stand with him, and so the Phelps family were the first to arrive besides Mr. Sykes, who kept the stove fires going.

  “Here, Grace, your locket is facing backward,” Julia said, motioning the girl closer. No matter how much time they gave themselves to dress, it always seemed at least one of the children managed to leave the house needing repairs to his or her appearance. She had the girl turned around in front of her and was squinting at the tiny catch on the gold chain when the vestibule door opened. Laurel and Aleda smothered giggles with their hands.

  “Girls!” Andrew scolded in a hushed voice. “Remember where you are!”

  “But Philip…”

  “Philip what?” the boy asked, entering and quickly closing the door behind himself.

  Julia smiled and even Andrew let out a chuckle, for Philip’s auburn hair stuck out in all directions. He put a hand up to his head and frowned. “It’s my cap.”

  “You’re just going to have to spit on your hands and smooth it down,” Andrew told him.

  “Andrew!” Julia said, shocked.

  “Well it’s either that or go outside and get a handful of snow. He can’t walk around looking like a porcupine.”

  “I’ll go back in there,” the boy said, heading back toward the vestibule and sending injured looks to all three sisters, for even Grace had joined in the giggling.

  The locket straightened, Julia leaned down to brush a fold from the hem of Aleda’s green satin gown, her Christmas dress. The girls then went up the aisle to sit in the second pew, today reserving their usual places in the front row for the families of the bride and groom. Philip came back through the doorway, looking much neater and accompanied by Ben Mayhew.

  “My family’s on their way,” the boy explained, his cheeks tinted pink from either the cold or self-consciousness as Andrew shook his hand. “I thought I would come on ahead and get a good seat.”

  “Very prudent of you,” Andrew observed with a nod toward the rows and rows of empty pews.

  After sending her husband a quick warning glance, Julia smiled at the boy. “It was good of you to come, Ben. I realize boys your age don’t care for weddings.”

  “I’m actually starting to like them,” Ben assured her.

  “And we know what that means,” Andrew whispered as the two boys moved toward the front. “I don’t care for the idea of Ben and Laurel sitting together. It might give them ideas.”

  “It’s too late to do anything about that, Andrew.” Apparently the poetry Ben continued to send Laurel had won her heart. At least he was a decent young man, and if they did indeed marry some time in the future, he would make her a fine husband. But if he moves her across the country, I don’t know how I’ll manage her father.

  The door opened, and Elizabeth and Jonathan walked through it. “Hello…Papa, Julia!” Elizabeth greeted, looking surprisingly robust for having given birth six weeks ago. They exchanged embraces and kisses, and Jonathan surrendered the blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms to Andrew, who cooed down at the face of his grandson, John Andrew Raleigh.

  When it was Julia’s turn to hold the newborn, the child stared back at her with innocent blue eyes and worked his tiny bow mouth as if to speak to her. She laughed and pressed a kiss against the soft little forehead. Why didn’t anyone tell me how wonderful it is to have a grandchild? she thought. But other families could be heard entering the vestibule, and she had to give the baby back to Elizabeth.

  “Why don’t you sit between Laurel and Ben?” Andrew suggested as they started up the aisle.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jonathan turned to ask.

  Andrew sighed. “Never mind. I might as well try to stop a moving train.”

  “What train?”

  “We’ll explain later,” Julia told him. She had just enough time before the door opened again to touch her husband’s bearded cheek and say, “This
is a joyous occasion, Andrew. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, the crinkles she so loved appearing at the corners of his hazel eyes. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

  “I know you will.”

  They both turned to greet Mrs. Shaw, who went up to the organ with sheet music under her arm and began softly playing Bach’s Mass in B Minor. The Reeds, Caspers, Mayhews, and Johnsons arrived next, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Trumble. Everyone seemed to have a comment over the likelihood of more snow.

  “I noticed some of those nimble-strategic clouds up over the Anwyl,” Mr. Trumble told them with a knowing nod. His wife, the former Miss Hillock of the infants’ school, simply smiled serenely at Julia, the message in her eyes clear. He’s still a good husband.

  Seth and Mercy Langford arrived with their children, Thomas and baby Amanda. Ever since the squire and Mrs. Bartley’s wedding, Mrs. Langford was asked often to sing at weddings and funerals for all denominations in the village.

  The Worthy sisters were dressed in their usual Sunday black, but for the special occasion also wore spring bonnets bedecked with gay silk flowers. If they were not quite suitable for February, there was none present who would have the heart to tell them so. In fact, Julia supposed the village sentries could wear flower pots and geraniums upon their heads without causing so much as a snicker.

  “Be sure to notice the lace on the bride’s veil,” Iris Worthy whispered, her arm linked with that of her sister-in-law.

  “Did you spin it?” Andrew asked pleasantly.

  Jewel gave him a long-suffering look before they moved away. “Would we be tellin’ ye to notice it if we didn’t, Vicar?”

  Several more villagers came through the doorway, some with children and even two more babies. Mr. Jensen, along with the lodgers and servants alike, arrived from the Larkspur—including the most recent lodger, Mrs. Grant, a widow from Derbyshire. Also along was Mr. Kendal, the young archeologist who now occupied one of the family rooms. Since the significant find on the Anwyl, five more archeologists were stationed in Gresham—the other four procuring rooms at the Bow and Fiddle.

  “I was afraid you would be too busy to come,” Julia said to Miss Rawlins, who had just recently signed contracts with her publisher for several more novelettes.

  The writer smiled and shrugged. “I simply made myself put down my pen at the last minute. What good is it to write romances if you can’t find time to attend the most romantic event of all?”

  Next Julia clasped Mrs. Dearing’s hand. “How did all of you fit in the landau?”

  The woman sent a smile toward Mr. Jensen, who was speaking with Andrew. “Oh, Mr. Jensen didn’t want us to have to come in two shifts, so he hired Mr. Thatcher’s wagon for the men. Only, we all fussed over who should get to ride in it—it reminded me of the hayrides of my youth.”

  “Your youth has never left you, Mrs. Dearing,” Mr. Jensen assured her, with no lessening of his usual dignity, and he shook a stunned Julia’s hand.

  Fiona was next, beautiful as usual in a gown of blue velvet. They embraced and Julia whispered, “Did you hear that?”

  “They sat next to each other in the wagon as well,” Fiona whispered back.

  Their shared smiles were in danger of becoming laughter when Ambrose gave them a suspicious look and asked Andrew, “And what are these two plotting?”

  “I would just as soon not know,” Andrew replied with a feigned shudder.

  Julia was grateful for the levity, for she did not want to think melancholy thoughts about Monday, when she and Andrew would be seeing the two off at the railway station so that Ambrose could begin rehearsals for Sardanapalus in London. But as much as she dreaded saying good-bye, the knowledge that they would eventually return to the place they considered home always brought her comfort.

  “I can’t thank you enough for suggesting we hire Miss Somerville!” Mrs. Bartley exclaimed after planting loud kisses upon Julia’s and Andrew’s cheeks. Her husband, more reserved, shook hands. “Did you know she has talked Miss Clark into beginning Thursday evening classes to teach reading to adults?”

  “Subscriptions have increased by almost a third,” the squire added, pumping Andrew’s hand.

  Julia and Andrew had heard those same praises about Miss Somerville from the two many times before, but as they had both had parts in bringing about such good tidings, they delighted in hearing them again.

  Mrs. Bartley leaned closer to Julia and Andrew to say in a voice that could probably be heard halfway through the nave, “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re asked to conduct another wedding soon. Miss Somerville asked if Helen Johnson could take her place today so she and a certain young vicar could do some shopping in Shrewsbury. At a jewelers, no less!”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re engaged, Mrs. Bartley,” Andrew protested.

  Mrs. Bartley gave him a merry wink and took her husband’s arm to move on up the aisle.

  “What’s wrong, Andrew?” Julia asked Andrew in a low voice.

  There was hurt in his hazel eyes. “Well, I don’t mean to be petty, Julia, but since Paul asked my counsel early on, I should have thought he would have told me they were about to become engaged.”

  But there was no time for her to reply, for Harold Sanders arrived with his wife of one month, the former Mrs. Meeks. Already Julia found herself forgetting that the four accompanying children weren’t his by birth, for he seemed to wear the role of fatherhood as comfortably as one wears a favorite garment. It was a joy to see the family seated together in church every Sunday.

  “You’re looking radiant these days,” Julia said to Mrs. Sanders. Indeed the careworn look about her face had melted away so that attention was drawn to her smiling brown eyes.

  Self-consciously, the woman touched the curled fringe above her eyebrows. “Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”

  Pride shone in Phoebe’s eyes from behind her spectacles. “Aunt Mercy cut her hair.”

  “And she’s wearing perfume!” Little Trudy chirped.

  “Papa bought it for her at Trumbles,” added Lester. “I was with him.”

  “You don’t have to tell the whole church,” Mr. Sanders whispered, but with clear affection in his ruddy face. He gave Julia and Andrew an embarrassed grin before the family moved on to join the Langfords in one of the pews.

  “Isn’t that romantic, how they found each other?” Julia whispered to Andrew.

  “Yes,” her husband agreed in a preoccupied tone. “But speaking of romance, this wedding cannot happen without certain people.”

  “They’ll be here,” Julia assured him. From the pews came the low hum of conversations while the organ and violin played. A baby in front, probably John, began crying for just a few seconds, and she had to restrain herself from rushing up to offer assistance to Elizabeth.

  “We were afraid we would be late!” was Miss Somerville’s flushed greeting as she and Vicar Treves came next through the doorway.

  “The wedding party isn’t even here,” Andrew groused to the two.

  “They’ll be here,” Julia assured him again, though she was beginning to worry a little herself. She took Miss Somerville’s hand. “Did you enjoy your time in Shrewsbury?”

  “Paul helped me find a lovely watch and chain for my father’s birthday. At a very decent price, too. I’ll show it to you tomorrow if you’d like.”

  “Tomorrow?” Julia spoke before thinking.

  Vicar Treves gave Noelle an affectionate smile, then turned to Julia and Andrew. “Would it be possible if we visited with the two of you tomorrow afternoon? We would like to ask your counsel over a certain matter.”

  “But of course,” Andrew replied, putting a fatherly hand up to the young vicar’s shoulder.

  “Feel better?” Julia asked when they had moved away.

  Her husband smiled at her. “Much.”

  Chapter 48

  “Well, it’s that Miss Somerville’s fault!” Amos Clark defended to his wife and everyone else prese
nt as the wheels of Noah’s carriage moved down the cobbled stones of Church Lane. In spite of her growing concern over reaching Saint Jude’s on time, Lydia smiled to herself. Miss Somerville’s crime had been to show Lydia’s father a new book by Mrs. Beeton, How to Bake and Decorate Beautiful Cakes for All Occasions, when he had confessed he was growing bored with painting. After some modest but aesthetically successful attempts at birthday cakes, including Lydia’s three months ago, he had determined to bake the wedding cake himself.

  Lydia had been worried that her future father-in-law, a skilled baker, would be offended when he wasn’t asked to do the honors, until Jacob explained to her that a cake would never have survived the train journey from Dover intact.

  “Well, you could have at least allowed Mrs. Tanner to help,” Lydia’s mother said in a voice that gave evidence of an inward battle between strained nerves and her usual self-possession.

  “Yes, you could have allowed me to help,” the cook echoed. There was no mistaking the injury in her voice.

  “Help?” Lydia’s father uttered the word as if it represented some unfortunate insect squashed against the sole of his shoe. “Did Leonardo da Vinci accept help when he painted the Mona Lisa?”

  “da Vinci didn’t make his daughter late for her wedding, Papa,” Noah, at the reins, reminded him. He twisted in his seat to grin at Lydia, seated between her sister-in-law, Beatrice, and four-year-old nephew, Samuel. “What will you do if it’s in the shape of a giant pipe, sister?”

  Blessing Noah for the healing balm of mirth against her own strained nerves, Lydia smiled. “I could accept that, only if there was no tobacco used in the decorations.”

  “Get on with you now!” her father exclaimed, grinning himself. “And I’ll have you know, it looks just like one of those fancy wedding cakes in the book. Why, Jacob’s father may want to hire me on at his bakery in Dover! You’ll see!”

  But for this privilege they would have to wait until the reception, for he had assembled the baked sections at the town hall out of fear that delivery in a carriage would undo his hours of labor. And he had arrived at the cottage less than an hour ago with frosting all over his coat and even traces in his beard.