The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “It’s clean now,” she told Mr. Pitney as she handed it over, thinking how ludicrous that sounded. Would he have expected her to return it in any other condition? “I do appreciate your lending it to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” After tucking the cloth into his coat pocket, he looked at her as if he wanted to say more. Indeed, his dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

  “I’m fine,” Lydia volunteered impulsively.

  “Yes? I wanted to ask, but…”

  “I know.”

  Relief washed over his darkly handsome face. “It’s as my mother said to my sister, Gloria, when she went through the same unfortunate situation—time heals all wounds. And now Gloria is married to a very decent—”

  It was at his point that Lydia stopped smiling blankly and gasped, “You thought that Mr. Towly was breaking courtship with me?”

  “Well, uh, wasn’t that…?”

  She recalled being uncertain of exactly how long Mr. Pitney had stood on the other side of Market Lane on Sunday past. Truly, someone hearing Mr. Towly’s parting remarks could have drawn an incorrect conclusion. She shook her head with the same fervor she’d use if someone had asked if she were an anarchist. “I was informing the man that I would not be courted by him, Mr. Pitney.”

  Color flooding his cheeks, he sent a quick glance full of longing toward the Anwyl’s crest. “Please forgive me, Miss Clark. I fear I jumped to the wrong—”

  “Indeed you did, Mr. Pitney.” And the very notion that all week he had assumed that she was pining away for Mr. Towly’s removed affections suddenly struck her as funny. So much so that she let out a little chuckle.

  Mr. Pitney’s eyes widened. “Miss Clark?”

  “Oh, Mr. Pitney!” She covered her mouth with her hand as waves of mirth shook her shoulders. When she could speak again, she said, “Forgive me, but that’s rich!”

  “It is?” Tentatively he smiled. “I confess he didn’t seem well-suited to you, Miss Clark.”

  “But he considered himself well-suited to my dowry.”

  “Indeed?” The archeologist directed a frown toward the crossroads, as if he could still see the dairy farmer in his wagon. “Well, you were well-rid of him then, weren’t you?”

  “Like the whale was well-rid of Jonah, Mr. Pitney.”

  Now it was he who chuckled, and so heartily that Lydia found herself caught up in another spate of laughter. When their mirth was spent, they stood there smiling until Lydia remembered that she had duties to attend, as did he. She moved her satchel to her left hand and held out her right. “I do appreciate your concern, Mr. Pitney.”

  Still smiling, he took her hand. “And I appreciate your not being angry with me.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Pitney.”

  They bade each other good-day, and as she walked to school, her mind summoned up the whole exchange twice—as one would call for an encore to a particularly enjoyable performance. I wonder why such a nice man hasn’t married yet? But as her steps were turning onto Bartley Lane, she made herself turn her mind to the day ahead of her.

  Should try to finish reading Lorna Doone so we can start something else Monday, Lydia thought as she switched her satchel to her left hand and opened the schoolhouse door. Something short so we’ll have time to finish. It was hard to believe that April had only four more days remaining. Summer would be upon them before they knew it.

  With the door open, she set the satchel down just inside and started drawing drapes and opening windows, her first duty of the day because one must have air and light before anything else could be accomplished. One of the windows on the north side was proving a bit stubborn, so she had to put her shoulder into it before it raised with a spine-chilling squeak. I’ll have to ask Mr. Sykes to have someone fix it, she told herself. Had the day been rainy, she might not have been able to raise it at all.

  The Luck of the Roaring Camp suddenly popped into her mind. She was positive Mrs. Dearing would lend it to her again. The collection of short stories by a San Franciscan news editor, Bret Harte, would not only acquaint the children with a time and way of life different from their own, but she could definitely finish it by the end of May.

  Perfect, she thought, smiling as she raised the second north-facing window. It never ceased to amaze her how God had created the mind to continue working when a question had been posed to it, even when the person has gone on to think about other things. A fitting scripture came to her mind: I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

  When she had made the full circle of the room raising windows, she collected her satchel from the door. That was when she noticed the bouquet of daisies in a canning jar upon her desk. Mr. Pitney was her immediate thought, irrational that it was. She quashed it immediately, for fantasies were for schoolgirls. “Please Lord, not Mr. Towly,” she prayed on her way across the room. She set her satchel on the edge of the desk and picked up the folded sheet of paper propped against the jar.

  Dear Miss Clark,

  I am mean as a snake and stupid as a box of rocks.

  Will you marry me?

  With fondest regards,

  Harold Sanders

  “Obviously he didn’t write this himself,” her father said that evening at the supper table, trying to compose himself after a good chuckle. He squinted at the neatly printed note. “I don’t think any of those Sanders can read except for the two in school.”

  “And the daughter,” Lydia’s mother reminded. “She married that horse farmer, Mr. Langford.”

  “I would assume one of his younger brothers played a trick upon him,” Lydia ventured. She did not tell them that it had stung a little, for it was a variation of a game that had been played occasionally in the school yard back when she was head and shoulders taller than all of the boys her age. When a boy wanted to tease another into trading fisticuffs, all he had to say was, “You’re going to marry Lydia Clark.” The Sanders boys had reputations as pranksters. She did not appreciate being the ammunition one used to play a prank on another.

  But by the time Mrs. Tanner had served a dessert of chestnut pudding, Lydia had consoled herself with the thought that it was far preferable to be ammunition for a prank than the object of Harold Sander’s affection.

  Chapter 16

  “Mr. Trumble tells me you’ve assisted him with donating his marble collection to the British Museum,” Mr. Durwin said to Jacob and Mr. Ellis Friday night over a supper of stuffed breast of wood pigeon with marsala sauce. “I must say he’s excited about it.”

  First dabbing his mouth with his napkin, Mr. Ellis replied, “We shipped them off with our last batch of artifacts—except for a handful that have sentimental meaning to him.”

  “Have you found any more uphill?” asked Mr. Clay.

  “Dozens, actually. It was a popular game among the Roman children.”

  “And to think…I thought marbles were a new invention when my brother brought some home as a boy,” Mrs. Dearing declared, shaking her head with wonder.

  Mr. Ellis chuckled. “They would have been had you lived in Egypt three thousand years before Christ, Mrs. Dearing.”

  “Three thousand years?”

  “B.C.,” he reminded her.

  Even Mrs. Somerville, who was rather quiet most of the time, looked interested. “But how can you tell by looking at a marble how old it is?”

  “That would fall under the realm of Mr. Pitney’s expertise,” Mr. Ellis replied with a smile in Jacob’s direction.

  Jacob had long ago figured out that this was the older man’s way of graciously drawing him into the discussions. And it had been effective over the past two years, for Jacob found himself far more at ease among his fellow lodgers than he had been during those first few months. Except for Miss Rawlins.

  But even she was looking at him expectantly now. He cleared his throat and prayed he didn’t have food between his teeth. “The oldest set we’re aware of was found buried with an Egyptian child in a grave site at Nagada. And once the date of the grave wa
s determined by translating the hieroglyphics, it was simple to determine the age of the marbles.”

  “Were they of glass, Mr. Pitney?” Mrs. Durwin asked.

  Jacob smiled at her. He liked Mrs. Durwin, recognizing in her the same timidity that had plagued him all of his life. “They were carved of semiprecious stones, Mrs. Durwin. But marbles have been made of all sorts of materials through the ages—clay, hazelnuts, even ordinary stone.”

  “Then how did they come to be named marbles?”

  This question was posed by Miss Rawlins, incredibly enough. With his heart beating a little faster in his chest, he replied, “It was the Greeks who named them thus—or rather, marmaros, which was their term for the polished white agate they used.”

  The sweet that followed the meal was apple-and-raisin pie, Jacob’s favorite, but in his state of happiness he could scarcely taste it. At last he had found a subject that interested Miss Rawlins besides her books, which he was sadly ill-qualified to discuss.

  He dawdled as the lodgers left the dining room, staying behind to help Sarah carry an overloaded tray to the kitchen. By the time he reached the hall, everyone had settled into chairs and sofas save the Clays and Mrs. Somerville, who had retired for the evening. Gratefully Jacob noticed that Miss Rawlins had taken her usual seat by the fireplace, in which a hearty fire snapped and hissed against the evening chill.

  She glanced at him as he ambled over to take the chair next to hers but turned her attention back to the discussion among Mr. Durwin, Mrs. Dearing, and Mr. Ellis over the identities of the “giants of the earth” in the sixth chapter of the book of Genesis. Jacob listened with only rudimentary attention, his mind consumed with how to initiate another conversation with Miss Rawlins. Finally a lull occurred in the discussion—apparently the three different opinions had reached an impasse. Jacob saw his chance and seized it.

  “Miss Rawlins?”

  She turned to look at him. “Yes, Mr. Pitney?”

  The light from the fireplace reflected in her spectacles and shielded her eyes, which unnerved him a bit. Still he ventured forth. “Would you be interested in knowing how marbles were used for divination purposes by ancient priests in the Near East?”

  He was encouraged when she smiled. But his own smile grew stiff upon his face as he listened to her reply.

  “No doubt it’s a fascinating story, Mr. Pitney. But I had just a moment ago decided to retire for the night. I’m quite fatigued.” She covered a yawn with her hand as if to give proof.

  “I…I pray you rest well,” Jacob managed.

  “Thank you.”

  After bidding everyone a pleasant night she was gone, leaving Jacob feeling twice the idiot because the others present had probably eavesdropped upon another fumbling attempt at conversation. He felt his cheeks flame and wondered bitterly why they were so wont to betray him—weren’t blushes only supposed to occur on female faces?

  He couldn’t get up and leave, or it would appear that he was following Miss Rawlins. And so he stared miserably into the fire. After a little while had passed, Mrs. Dearing walked over to sit in the chair beside him.

  “I wish I had a daughter, Mr. Pitney,” she said kindly. “I wouldn’t rest until you and she were courting.”

  Jacob shook his head. “No doubt she would find me a bore, Mrs. Dearing.”

  “You? Heaven forbid! Why, you’re one of the most interesting people I know.”

  Of course she was only trying to cheer him, but he gave her an appreciative smile. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “Oh, but it’s true.” She glanced over at the others, now discussing whether they preferred broiled or baked fish, and lowered her voice. “Miss Rawlins loves to discuss her novelettes. I realize that your occupation consumes enormous amounts of time, but perhaps if you were to read some of them?”

  “I’ve already done so. And she despises me the more for it. It seems I can’t recognize the most obvious of symbolism.”

  “Yes? Well, you mustn’t fault yourself. Clearly your mind is more scientific than perspicacious.”

  “Perspi—”

  “Discerning. At least in the case of fiction.” Mrs. Dearing pursed her lips thoughtfully for several seconds, then smiled. “I believe I have a solution, Mr. Pitney.”

  “You have?”

  “Miss Clark.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jacob said. “You mean the schoolmistress?”

  “I have spoken with her on many occasions at the lending library. She’s the most well-read woman I’ve ever met. If she can’t ferret out the symbolism in Miss Rawlins’ books, no one can.”

  “But I hardly know her. And certainly not well enough to ask a favor.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do that, Mr. Pitney. What I’m suggesting is that you offer to commission her services.”

  “Hire someone to read books?”

  “Why is that so strange? People are hired every day to exercise their particular skills. Summer is fast approaching, and I daresay she would enjoy the task.”

  The whole notion seemed so hopeless that Jacob felt emotionally drained. “I don’t know, Mrs. Dearing…”

  The elderly woman’s lips tightened, giving her the appearance of a stern schoolmistress. “Mr. Pitney, the American poet John Greenleaf Whittier had something to say about this situation.”

  “He did?”

  She lifted her chin and quoted softly:

  Of all sad words of tongue or pen,

  The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

  Resuming her “stern schoolmistress” expression, she asked, “Will you ask yourself twenty years from now, when it’s too late, if you could have won Miss Rawlins’ hand with just a little more effort?”

  Her argument crumbled his defenses so completely that all he could do was mumble, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to speak with Miss Clark.”

  She smiled, reached over, and patted his cheek as if he were but seven years old. “Such a bright young man you are, Mr. Pitney.”

  The quarterly regional meeting of the diocese was to be held in Lockwood on Saturday, which would be Vicar Paul Treves’ first time to host it. For that reason Andrew prepared to leave Gresham a half hour earlier than necessary to see if he could lend assistance in any way. “But won’t you hinder him from dressing?” Julia asked while he ate a quick breakfast of toast and jam with his tea.

  “If I know Paul, he dressed himself hours ago,” was Andrew’s confident reply. For the young vicar reminded him so much of himself in his early years—so unsure of himself among his peers, and so conscious of crossing every t and dotting every i correctly.

  At least Paul had shed some of the stuffed-shirt notions he had held two years ago while courting Elizabeth. A wise old bishop had once remarked to Andrew that a minister was of no earthly use until his heart had been broken. Well, that had certainly occurred when Elizabeth broke off their courtship. Since being assigned to the neighboring village, Paul looked to Andrew as a mentor, often asking advice about how to minister to his own parishioners. Evident in the young man’s character now was more empathy and more patience with people’s shortcomings.

  Just a quarter of a mile east of the vicarage lane, the wheels of Andrew’s trap left cobbled stones for the macadamized roadway leading eight miles through Gipsy woods so embowered with trees that it resembled a pleasantly cool green tunnel. It had been little more than a dirt path until five years ago when Squire Bartley expanded his cheese factory and began purchasing milk from the neighboring village. Of course Lockwood’s dairy farmers needed a good road for making deliveries.

  The village broke into Andrew’s vision as soon as his horse and trap left the woods. Sequestered in a gradual hollow, it was a pleasant hamlet where black-and-white friesians grazed in hedged pastures, and weathered buildings of stone, brick, half-timbering, and wattle-and-daub rubbed shoulders together in an amiable fashion. The fine fifteenth-century tower of the red sandstone church of Saint Luke’s roosted on a little knoll overlooking th
e village. Andrew tied Rusty’s reins to the picket fence surrounding the half-timbered vicarage, opened the gate, and walked the path through the garden.

  Fine day for a meeting, he thought, but carried his umbrella crooked over one arm just in case the smell in the air of forthcoming rain wasn’t his imagination. There was no bell chain at the door, so he knocked four times in a row. After at least two uneventful minutes had passed, Andrew gave a much stouter series of knocks while wondering if Paul had gone ahead to the town hall. Of course. Be it like him to hover over the women trying to set up tables and refreshments.

  He had just turned to leave when the squeak of the doorknob roused his attention. The door opened several inches, and Paul Treves’ face appeared, blinking and slack-jawed.

  “Vicar Phelps?”

  This is the twenty-seventh? Andrew asked himself. But of course it was, for all of his absent-mindedness, he had yet to forget an important date. The door opened wider, exposing a wrinkled flannel dressing gown and bare feet.

  “Paul?” Andrew said. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  The young man blinked again. “What time is it?”

  “Half-past eight,” Andrew replied after fishing his watch from the fob pocket of his trousers.

  “Oh no!” Paul backed away from the door. “Come in, please. I was up all night with the Gripps, and—”

  “You’re ill?”

  He shook his head and started for the staircase, motioning for Andrew to follow. “The Gripps—Stanley Gripp is a carpenter. Doctor Rhodes had to amputate his foot yesterday from gangrene.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Andrew said, jogging up the steps behind him.

  “Me too. But to hear Mr. Gripp joke about it beforehand, it was all a lark. He was making all sorts of plans for the wooden foot he was going to carve himself.”