The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Oh, but I insist,” Noelle said, pulling her hand away. “And I’ll certainly explain that to Lord Paxton.” Along with some other things, you knee-patting toad.

  “Fine, then,” he replied while a smug smile spread itself under the cratered nose. “We’ll see just how well you can take care of yourself.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The weasel eyes narrowed as his mouth opened to give reply. But he snapped it shut again, and his face assumed a blank expression. “I only meant that you could accidentally board the wrong train, Miss Somerville. Have a pleasant journey.” He turned on his heel and was off, threading his way through the press of people with his coachman following in his wake.

  Four hours later the train screamed to a halt at Birmingham Station, where Noelle would disembark and wait for the Severn Valley Railway for the next leg of her journey. While waiting for a porter to open the door of her first-class coach, she used the time to bid farewell to the Shipleys, a mother and daughter who had been her traveling companions all the way from London. That way she wouldn’t have to spend any time with them on the platform, meeting family members who surely would be just as boring as those two had been.

  “You’ll be sure to visit us soon, Mrs. Somerville?” Mrs. Shipley’s irritatingly shrill voice gushed in the sentimental tone one would use when parting from a lifelong friend.

  “I’ll be looking forward to it,” Noelle replied, adding under her breath, Then you can tell me again every detail of the wedding plans.

  Mrs. Shipley’s daughter, Amelia or Abigail or something like that, bobbed her too-giggly-to-be-marrying head. “Do come, Mrs. Somerville! I would love to show you my gown.”

  I’ll see your gown every time I close my eyes for the next week, Noelle thought while gracing the girl with a warm smile. She had spent the better part of an hour hearing about satin fabric, Belgium lace, and seed pearl trimming. When the porter finally came around to release her from her prison, Noelle snatched up her reticule, gave the two a wave, and stepped out of the coach.

  Fortunately the platform wasn’t nearly as crowded as Paddington’s had been, giving Noelle reason to hope that she would have a coach all to herself when her train arrived. Behind her, she could hear Mrs. Shipley trill to a group of waiting relatives, “And her husband lost his life saving the queen from an assassin! He was a captain in the Royal Guard, you see…”

  Noelle smiled to herself. At least traveling with the Shipleys had given her an opportunity to rehearse the details of her new identity. If she had to be a widow, she would at least invent an interesting reason for being one. She was hungry, having had only tea for breakfast, and went inside the depot’s refreshment room to see what was being offered. Other passengers had the same idea, and some fifteen or so were queued up at the counter before her. All this trouble for food that smells like shoe leather? Abandoning her meal plans, she freshened up in the accommodations room and then found a bench and watched porters unload trunks as effortlessly as if they were bed pillows. Some quarter of an hour after the London & Birmingham Railway had switched tracks for its return trip to London, the Severn Valley train came in sight, shrilling and belching smoke.

  Chapter 12

  “May I be of assistance, miss?” a burley porter asked Noelle after the first boarding whistle had sounded and people were scurrying for the different coaches. She shook her head, then thought again and motioned toward a huddle of luggage that had been taken from the earlier train.

  “I’m going on to Shrewsbury. You’re positive my trunk will be in there too?”

  “Oh yes, miss.” He gave her a sociable grin, exposing two missing top teeth. “But that won’t do ye any good if ye ain’t on the train, now will it?”

  “I’ll be along, thank you,” she responded with a polite chill, for familiarity irritated her when coming from people in servile positions. Especially if such people were unattractive. The man shrugged and went on about his business. When it appeared that most people had boarded, Noelle got to her feet and walked toward the front of the train. There were only four first-class coaches—none of them vacant. As she had not realistically expected the situation to be otherwise, her disappointment wasn’t overwhelming. At least she wouldn’t be forced to listen to wedding plans, for she could see through the open door of the third coach from the engine that the lone occupant, a sandy-haired gentleman seated at the opposite window, was staring intently at a book he held open before him. He looked over at her as she stepped through the doorway.

  “Good afternoon,” Noelle said, taking the seat facing his but just inside the door.

  “Good afternoon,” he returned in a pleasant baritone.

  He appeared to be about her age and was exceedingly handsome, with Nordic blue eyes and a tall, athletic frame clothed in a black suit. But Noelle’s heart was still raw and aching from missing Quetin, so she was not disappointed when the man returned his attention to the book. Resting her head against the back of the leather seat, she closed her eyes. The train began moving shortly afterward, lulling her into a dream in which she and Quetin were walking in Kensington Gardens. An abrupt crunching sound brought her back to the present.

  “I beg your pardon,” apologized the sandy-haired man as Noelle looked over at him. He held up a large red apple with one bite missing. “I didn’t realize…”

  Noelle couldn’t help but smile, for his clean-shaven cheeks were stained pink with embarrassment. “Please, enjoy your apple.”

  “Would you care for one?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.

  As if on cue, her stomach made a sound like a coiled spring, which he either didn’t hear or was too gentlemanly to give sign of doing so.

  “You have another?”

  “Yes.” He set the open book upside down upon his knees and reached into a leather satchel on the seat beside him. Handing the apple across to her, he said, “They’re last year’s, but still quite good. My parents have an orchard.”

  “How convenient.” She took a bite, and the fruity aroma filled the coach. When she had finished half, she said, “You know, I’ve never been overly fond of fruit. But this is delicious.”

  He looked up from his book again and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” Extending her free hand, she said, “My name is Noelle Somerville.”

  “Paul Treves,” he said and shook her hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Suddenly loathe to slip back into her lonely retreat, Noelle asked, “What are you reading?” He picked up the cover to show her the title, which did no good because the imprint was small against the leather cover.

  “Journal, by John Wesley,” he said, then lowered the book again. “Have you read it?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Oh, but you should treat yourself to it sometime. Fifty years ago, I would have been afraid to show this in public.”

  This took Noelle by surprise. He seemed too unworldly for the type of licentious books Quetin kept on a shelf in her parlor—for fear that his wife would accidentally come across one in his own flat. “Is that so?”

  “Most definitely,” the man said. “He was considered such a renegade during his lifetime. But now his commentaries are much admired, even by the Church hierarchy.”

  This conversation was becoming too complex for Noelle. But her ears had caught a word that was all too familiar to her. “Are you a minister, Mr. Treen?”

  “It’s Treves, actually,” he corrected in a friendly tone while wrapping his apple core in a handkerchief to stash back into his satchel. “And yes, I’m in the ministry.”

  Wonderful! Noelle thought, now regretting her choice of this particular coach.

  “I was assigned to Lockwood just last year after being promoted to vicar,” he continued. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there?”

  “I’ve never been outside of London.”

  “Oh. Do forgive me.” Now another flush tinted his face. “I’ve been trying to break
the habit of monopolizing conversations.”

  In spite of her misgivings about his vocation, she found herself amused again at his embarrassment. Had her father ever been this unsure of himself at any time in his life? “But I started it by asking you about the book, remember?”

  He gave her a grateful smile. “So you did. And may I inquire as to your destination?”

  “Shrewsbury. Or at least that’s where I leave the train. My final destination is a village called Gresham.” She could tell he recognized the name by a subtle shift of his expression. “Have you been there?” she asked.

  “Many times.” The smile faded, but still he spoke in a friendly tone. “In fact, Lockwood is just eight miles to the east.”

  “Indeed? What’s it like?”

  “Gresham?”

  “Well, both,” Noelle said, remembering her manners, when in actuality she had no interest in Lockwood because it didn’t affect her life.

  “Green and pleasant—both places.” He smiled again. “And inhabited by people who are the salt of the earth.”

  “How reassuring.”

  Now it seemed that she had given something away in her expression, for he studied her face and said, “You’re not happy about going there?”

  The concern in his voice caused tears to sting her eyes, but she blinked them away and pretended nothing was amiss. Quetin would be ashamed of you for being so weak, she scolded herself. That spurred her on to muster a smile. “Just a bit anxious. But my…mother and father insisted that the change of scenery would be good for me. I find myself unable to cope with London’s frantic pace since my husband passed away two years ago.”

  She didn’t understand why she felt compelled to pretend that she had normal family ties in front of this man, clergy or no clergy. In all likelihood she would never see him again. And her lifestyle had ceased to cause her shame—at least in the presence of her friends and acquaintances. The quiet of night was sometimes another story, but one that she didn’t like to think about during the day.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mr. Treves was saying, his blue eyes filled with sympathy.

  “Thank you.” Noelle allowed herself a brave little sigh. “But life must go on, mustn’t it?”

  “Yes, it must. Even through the times we wish it wouldn’t.”

  “You’ve lost someone as well?”

  He shook his head in an almost imperceptible motion. “Not the way you have. Your situation is far worse.”

  The drift of the conversation was only adding to Noelle’s melancholy, so she decided against relating the story of her fictitious husband’s heroism and guided the subject back to less emotional ground. “Perhaps my parents are right about my getting away from London. But I won’t know a soul in Gresham.”

  “You’ll find yourself well received, I can assure you.” He also seemed relieved at the change of subject. “Will you be staying for a while?”

  Ages and ages. “A few months. I’ll be lodging at an inn called the Larkspur.”

  “I know it well. At least from the outside.”

  There was a hiss of steam as the train started reducing its speed. Noelle peered out the window at the approaching platform for any sign of where they happened to be.

  “Albrighton,” Mr. Treves supplied. When she looked at him again he said almost apologetically, “I’m very familiar with this route. I visit my family every six weeks or so—they live in King’s Heath, a few miles south of Birmingham.”

  It was touching, the way his voice warmed at the mention of his family.

  “I’m sure they’re happy to see you,” Noelle found herself saying.

  “Well, they claim to be.” He smiled again. “That’s the nice thing about family, isn’t it? No matter what, there is always someone happy to see you again.”

  “Yes,” Noelle agreed just before turning her face to resume her stare out the window.

  Why do you always speak before thinking, Paul Treves chastised himself as Mrs. Somerville still stared out the window, even though the train had come to a stop. Hadn’t his failure with Elizabeth taught him that? And a minister was supposed to be sensitive to people’s needs. He had gone blathering on about how wonderful his family was, when she was still mourning the loss of her late husband.

  Any opportunity of apologizing was ruined when a gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Weston boarded with his wife and two young sons. Mr. Weston, a banker from Shrewsbury, was clearly infatuated with the sound of his own voice, for it filled the inside of the coach with meaningless chatter. After a while, Mrs. Somerville rested her head against the narrow window ledge and closed her eyes. Noticing the thick lashes resting against her clear cheeks, Paul thought she was quite beautiful, and she seemed much too young to have been widowed two years ago. He realized he was staring and happened to glance at the loquacious Mr. Weston, who gave him a knowing wink. Cheeks flaming, Paul opened his book again.

  The train pulled into Shrewsbury station two hours later. Mrs. Somerville sat up immediately, as if she had not been sleeping after all, and was the first to exit the coach. Paul was the last, his progress hindered by the Westons, who gathered parcels and moved as slowly as cold treacle. Finally stepping onto the busy platform, he spotted her standing only ten feet or so away, looking very vulnerable and alone.

  “May I be of assistance, Mrs. Somerville?” he asked upon reaching her.

  Her smile did not soften the apprehension in her green eyes. “Someone will be meeting me here. I just won’t know how to recognize him.”

  “Then I’ll wait with you.” When she started to protest, he said, “My churchwarden will be waiting for me with his carriage. If there was a misunderstanding of your schedule, we’ll deliver you to Gresham.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” she said with an easing of her posture. “I suppose it would have been wise to write what I would be wearing, but there was no time.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find you.”

  Just as the words had left his mouth, from his right came a voice with a heavy accent. “Frau Somerwheel?”

  They both turned in that direction. For a fraction of a second Paul thought it was a child who stood there, but then recognized the man from the days when he was courting Elizabeth Phelps. “Aren’t you caretaker of the Larkspur?”

  “Ja,” he replied, doffing his corded cap. “I am Karl Herrick.”

  “Paul Treves.” He leaned down to shake Mr. Herrick’s hand. “And this is Mrs. Somerville.”

  Mrs. Somerville merely nodded with a tight smile, but then she had had a long journey and was now plunged into unfamiliar surroundings. Everything will be all right, he wanted to reassure her but feared he had acted with too much familiarity already. And since there was no more use for him, Paul took his leave. “I wish you well in Gresham,” he told her in parting.

  “Thank you, Mr. Treen.”

  He did not correct her this time but shook her offered hand and moved on toward the front of the depot where his churchwarden would be waiting with his carriage. Paul always insisted that Mr. Lawson not venture out onto the platform on account of the man’s advanced years, but in truth he had another reason as well. It would shame him greatly to be seen traveling first-class. Not only was it wasteful on a young vicar’s salary, but as many of his parishioners would not be able to afford such a luxury, he never wanted to appear to hold himself above them. And had not Saint Paul written that Christians should strive for moderation in all things?

  But the Scriptures were also adamant about honoring one’s father and mother. And Paul’s parents not only insisted upon purchasing his round-trip ticket every time he visited, but they turned unheeding ears to his assurances that he was happy to travel second-class.

  The thought occurred to him that had he done so today, he would not have met Mrs. Somerville. Was it more than just chance that caused her to pick his particular coach? Was it possible that God had arranged it so that he could somehow help her?

  Immediately he discounted that notion, f
or she would be residing in Vicar Phelps’ parish. Whether it was his maturity or because he had suffered the loss of his first wife—or simply because his heart was as attuned to the Almighty as Paul longed his own to be—Vicar Phelps was infinitely more skilled at counseling. The best Paul could do would be to pray that Mrs. Somerville find the rest and solace she was seeking. And as there were people with needs in Lockwood as well, it was time to direct his energies toward them.

  “You vill come with me to the carriage bitte, Frau Somerwheel?” the dwarf asked Noelle, who realized oddly enough that she had been staring at Mr. Treen’s departing back. She turned to the little man again. Clad in a brown coat and trousers, he was old, perhaps fifty, with gray sprinkled through his brown hair. His head, shoulders, and upper torso were almost normal proportions, but the arms and legs were as short as a child’s.

  “It’s Somer-ville,” she corrected. How in the world does he buy clothes? Motioning toward the train, she said, “My trunk?”

  “I vill attend to that as soon as you are safely in the carriage.”

  He was the only person she knew in the whole of Shropshire, excluding Mr. Treen, who was well on his way by now, so she had no choice but to follow—close enough to keep sight of him when he occasionally wove around knots of people, but far enough away so as not to give those who stared the impression that she was with him. At least the landau was impressive, black and polished, behind a pair of well-groomed red cob horses.

  “Frau Herrick has packed some sandwiches and lemonade, in case you are hungry,” he said after he had provided a step and an outstretched hand to assist her into the landau. “I vill return to you shortly.”

  Noelle noticed the large cloth-covered basket on the seat beside her and wondered if this Frau Herrick had mistakenly assumed the dwarf was fetching four people instead of one. And then the name registered in her mind.

  “Didn’t you say your name was Herrick as well?” she asked just as he was turning to leave.