The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “And how would you know that, Mrs. Phelps?” he teased. “You’ve never even put a stray toe off the path of righteousness.”

  “You’re speaking about Fiona now.” And just as she said her friend’s name, she looked ahead and spotted the Clays among the assemblage, spreading a picnic quilt upon the grass. Fiona fairly glowed in a pearl-gray silk gown, but as Julia and Andrew drew closer she could tell from Ambrose’s shadowed eyes that he was in the grip of the despondency that had so marked his adult life. After they exchanged greetings, Julia impulsively embraced the actor. “You’ll get through this, you know.”

  “I know, Julia,” he responded with a wan but affectionate smile when they drew apart. “I just have to wait for that next hilltop.”

  “It’s good that you came,” Andrew said as the two shook hands. “The fresh air will do you good.”

  “I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  Julia knew Ambrose well enough to know that he would actually prefer to be secluded in his apartment, but he had made this unselfish effort on his wife’s behalf. Fiona’s expression told Julia she knew as well.

  “Won’t you join us?” her friend asked. “We’ve time for a nice visit before our turns to serve.”

  Andrew nodded at the glance Julia sent him and excused himself to fetch the quilt he had spread earlier on the far side of the Maypole.

  When he returned and the two quilts were side by side, Ambrose said, “Why don’t we save yours for the children? There is more than enough room on ours. Speaking of the children, where are they?” he asked when the four had settled upon the Clays’ quilt.

  Julia returned the waves of Elizabeth and Jonathan, still overseeing the table of lunches to be auctioned, and nudged Andrew to do the same. “Elizabeth is helping Jonathan with the auction.” As her stepdaughter’s nausea was limited to early mornings, she had declined Julia’s offer to have Laurel and Aleda take her place. “Philip went fishing for a little while with his friends, and Laurel and Aleda are following the children’s parade—to keep an eye on Grace, they say.”

  Andrew blew out a breath. “And I’m exhausted from just hearing their whereabouts, so you can imagine what it’s like to keep up with them physically.”

  “And you love it…both of you,” Ambrose smiled.

  “Yes, of course,” Julia replied quietly, remembering that the couple would likely never have children. But God had given them an extra measure of grace in this regard, for they had never shown any sign of jealousy. In fact, they had become like an aunt and uncle to Julia and Andrew’s children.

  The brass band Mr. Durwin had assembled several months ago began tuning their instruments on the platform, producing inharmonious but not unpleasant little sounds. While Andrew and Ambrose discussed Saturday’s Rugby match in Queensferry between England and Wales, as reported in yesterday’s Shrewsbury Chronicle, Julia moved closer to Fiona to ask about the new lodger. “I haven’t been over to meet her because I didn’t want her to be overwhelmed by so many new faces. I hoped to see her Sunday, but Andrew says she went home with a headache.”

  “I don’t think it lasted long,” Fiona said. “She was in good spirits at lunch.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Very agreeable. At times she seems a little sad, but no doubt she still misses her husband.” Fiona craned her neck to look past Julia’s shoulder. “Why, there she is now. She wasn’t down for breakfast, so I wasn’t sure if she would be here.”

  Twisting around, Julia scanned the people gathered in groups to chat or lounging upon quilts on the grass. The only new face belonged to a young woman speaking to Mrs. Sykes across the lemonade table. She was fashionably dressed in a dress of white pique sprigged with small bouquets of brown and pink. After accepting a cup from the churchwarden’s wife, she sipped it while looking about her as if a little lost.

  “That’s not her, is it?” Julia asked, motioning discreetly. Because most of her lodgers were elderly, she had assumed Mrs. Somerville would be as well. And Andrew, having never been one to comment on other women’s appearances, had not said anything about her age.

  “We were surprised as well.” The young woman looked in their direction, and Fiona raised herself to her knees. “You don’t mind my asking her to join us, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Mrs. Somerville, first looking to both sides as if unsure if Fiona had meant her, smiled and handed her cup back to Mrs. Sykes. “Mrs. Somerville is coming over,” Julia leaned over to tell Andrew and Ambrose at the first pause between talk of place kicks and scrummages. The two men made moves to get to their feet, but by that time the young woman had reached them and held up a hand for them to stay put.

  “Please, don’t get up,” she said. She was quite attractive, with strawberry-blond curls straying from a narrow-brimmed straw bonnet. “I’m staying but a minute. I just wanted to see what was going on.”

  “We’re glad you came,” Fiona said, smiling. “Will you join us?”

  “Oh, no thank you.” Mrs. Somerville gave a sheepish little shrug that looked charming on her. “I don’t want to impose on anyone. I thought I would bring a sandwich back to the inn.”

  “Now, we can’t have you doing that,” Andrew told her. “We’ve room enough here to spare.”

  “But I wouldn’t want to intrude….”

  She was assured by both couples that she was most welcome. The men moved over to the next quilt, and Julia and Fiona made room for the newcomer between them. “I’m so sorry we didn’t have a chance to meet Sunday,” Julia told her, extending a hand. “I’m glad your headache went away.”

  “Oh, I was crushed,” Mrs. Somerville assured her as they shook hands.

  The three women chatted about London for a bit. No matter how happy Julia was to be settled in Gresham, she enjoyed hearing about the city. “It’s been a bit over a year since our last visit,” she explained. “Fiona tells me it has changed even since then.”

  “It’s dizzying how much it changes,” Mrs. Somerville agreed. “Why, there are ready-made clothing shops springing up all over. For women as well as men. It doesn’t seem natural, does it? Just walking in from the street and coming out with a gown.”

  “There is such a shop in Shrewsbury now,” Julia told her. “I’ve never been inside, but our parlormaid bought a dress there just last week.”

  “Just one shop?” The younger woman shook her head sympathetically. “I don’t see how either of you aren’t terribly homesick.”

  “What do you mean?” Fiona asked.

  “For London.” She waved a hand to indicate her surroundings. “Not that this isn’t a lovely place, mind you. But the city has so much more to offer.”

  “We had no choice in the matter,” was Julia’s honest reply. She smiled at Fiona, whose loyalty and optimism had made those terrible days bearable when her home was foreclosed. “Or at least…I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t either,” Fiona corrected softly.

  “Incredible,” Mrs. Somerville said at length in a strangely flat voice. “Then that makes three of us.”

  That was a curious thing to say, Julia thought. According to her solicitor, Mrs. Somerville had applied of her own volition because her family was concerned about her. But then, some families were more insistent than others. She supposed that as long as Mrs. Somerville got along with her fellow lodgers and paid her rent, it was none of her business why she was here.

  Noelle leaned back on the heels of her hands and watched a darkhaired young man ask for attention from the platform where a brass band had just finished playing. “The Phelps’s son-in-law, Jonathan Raleigh,” Mrs. Clay supplied from beside her. “He’s schoolmaster of the grammar school. And the young woman handing him a basket is Elizabeth, his wife.”

  “Thank you,” Noelle told her. Sheer boredom had driven her from her room where she had planned to spend the day. If only Quetin would write! Other lodgers received mail, so the postal system had to be aware of this place. But perhaps mail takes longe
r to get here, was her only consoling thought. Surely small villages weren’t first priority, with so many people in the cities to service.

  As young men, and some old, began taking sheepish steps toward the platform, Noelle breathed in the aroma of freshly cut flowers and had to admit to herself that this was preferable to sulking in her room. Her father’s duties had never allowed time for such nonproductive frolic when she was a child, and Quetin certainly wouldn’t have taken her to any such celebration in the London parks. He was quick to accuse her of being a snob, but he himself was only interested in events frequented by the bon ton, the upper crust. Why, he had even admitted to her once, after several glasses of wine had loosened his tongue, that he actually found opera maddeningly tedious!

  She had become a little nervous when children began showing up and dropping themselves down on the vicar’s quilt, but they were surprisingly mannerly and didn’t whine or pull each other’s hair as she imagined most children were wont to do. The youngest, a girl with brown curls, even took a peppermint from her pocket and offered it to her. Noelle would not have taken it had she been starving, for she was dubious about the hygiene of even well-behaved children, but the offer touched her.

  “Now, who will bid for this basket, belonging to the lovely Miss Jowett?” the man on the platform was saying, motioning toward a family seated on a quilt who nudged and whispered to a plump, crimsonfaced young woman. The first bid—for tuppence—was hooted down. But finally, the basket and Miss Jowett’s blushing company sold for a florin to an equally blushing young man.

  “What if some baskets aren’t bid on?” Noelle asked Mrs. Clay, who looked unsure and repeated the question in a low voice to the vicar’s wife.

  Mrs. Phelps leaned close enough to reply softly to both of them, “There’s scant chance of that, for there are more unmarried men than women in Gresham. But just in case, Jonathan has asked some of the older widowers to step up. You’ll notice they haven’t made any bids yet because they haven’t needed to.”

  “I see.” Though it was no concern of hers, Noelle was relieved to learn that none of the young women would be humiliated. Even having to share a picnic with an old person would be better than not being chosen, especially in front of so many people.

  A young woman wearing an obviously home-sewn yellow gingham gown passed within two feet of the Clays’ quilt with the young fellow who had placed the highest bid for her basket. His face was tanned from labor in the sun, and his clothes the simple fustian of a farmer, but one might have thought he was Prince Charming for the way the girl looked at him. And his expression plainly said that the affection was reciprocated.

  Perhaps they would marry, if they weren’t already betrothed. And the girl would spend most of her remaining years bearing and tending children, selling eggs and butter for pocket money, and saving scraps from the clothes she sewed to make quilts to warm their beds. She would likely never wear expensive perfume, experience the richness of fine silk against her skin, or know what it was like to have the waiters at Gatti’s know without being reminded that she did not care for onions in her Colin a la Polonaise.

  That’s almost how it would have been with me. If Quetin had not held the door for her at that millenary shop. She would have married some young curate or bank clerk—perhaps even another vicar, as had one of her sisters. And not knowing any better, she would have worn the same adoration on her face as the young woman in yellow had just worn.

  At least I wouldn’t have to be hiding from another man’s wife now, she thought. Her eyes stung, but she blinked the budding tears away and made herself focus her attention back on the auction. If crying did any good, she would have been back in London days ago.

  After the lunches had been auctioned, gallons of lemonade and hundreds of sandwiches consumed, and the brass band had played every song in their repertoire at least six times, Mrs. Bartley ascended the platform and asked for attention. Marriage agreed with Ambrose Clay’s former walking partner, for the rough edges to her personality had softened considerably over the past year. But I’d wager she keeps the squire on his toes, Ambrose thought, smiling to himself.

  “On behalf of Saint Jude’s Women’s Charity Society, I wish to thank you for participating in our fund-raising effort today. I’m very pleased to announce that enough money has been raised for the church’s new pulpit.”

  The elderly woman beamed with hands clasped through the ensuing applause, and when it died down, she continued. “Mr. Howard Croft has kindly agreed to apply his excellent craftsmanship to the project…”

  “The coffin maker?” Ambrose whispered to Fiona.

  “He says he can do it,” she whispered back.

  “How long will that take?”

  His wife put a finger to her lips and made a slight nod toward the platform where Mrs. Bartley was saying, “…which he assures us will be completed by midsummer, if not before.”

  There were murmurs of disappointment after the announcement. Apparently many in the crowd had expected the pulpit to be in the church by the next service. With a long-suffering smile, Mrs. Bartley explained. “This will be no ordinary pulpit, you understand. And elaborate hand carvings take time.”

  “Let’s just hope he doesn’t get carried away and carve R.I.P. on the front,” Ambrose couldn’t resist whispering.

  “Sh-h,” scolded Fiona.

  A half hour later as they crossed Market Lane from the green, she squeezed his arm happily. “This was such a good idea, Ambrose. Just think…every schoolchild who bought a glass of lemonade will feel he had a part in the new pulpit.”

  “And every husband who paid an exorbitant sum for sandwiches?” he teased.

  Smiling, she replied, “At least you’re in good company with the squire and Mr. Durwin. I noticed their wives were equally as ruthless.”

  “You mean our dear little Mrs. Durwin is capable of extortion? What is the world coming to?”

  “It’s coming along very well,” she replied, then gave him an appraising look as they walked along the Larkspur’s garden wall on their way to the carriage drive. “And I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to make jokes.”

  “I do feel better,” he admitted. “Good company is good medicine.”

  “But apparently not for everyone.” Fiona sent a concerned glance to the Larkspur’s second story. Mrs. Somerville had excused herself from the festivities soon after the auction and was likely still alone inside. “The poor woman. So young to be widowed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think we should see about her?”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps she just wanted some privacy. If not, she’ll have plenty of company soon enough.”

  During the auction he had happened to glance in Mrs. Somerville’s direction and noticed her efforts to cover what appeared to be tears. His own bouts with despondency gave him compassion for anyone likewise suffering, and he had considered motioning to Fiona. She could have comforted General Cornwallis at Yorktown.

  But he had not allowed himself to do so. Having been surrounded by actors for most of his life, he had a keen sense of when someone was putting on a performance. And he couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Somerville had done nothing but perform since her arrival. He no longer shared his uncharitable thoughts with Fiona, who, like the other lodgers, had taken to her as if she were a tragic long-lost cousin. There was likely no harm in that, but he intended to keep a wary eye on this newcomer.

  Fiona had suffered too many hurts in her life from the hands of unscrupulous people. And he considered it one of his primary missions to see that it never happened again.

  Chapter 20

  “Shouldn’t you see a dentist?” Julia asked Andrew in the vicarage dining room Saturday morning. She was dressed to accompany him on a call but noticed the difficulty he was having chewing his breakfast. “We can be in Shrewsbury in less than an hour.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Philip offered.

  Andrew shook his head, the swelling in his right cheek obv
ious even through his beard. With clenched teeth, because drawing in air was painful, he said, “Let’s give it a few more days. Monday, if it’s no better.”

  “There is always Mr. McFarley,” Wanetta suggested while bringing in a fresh jar of marmalade to empty into the server dish. “He’s quick and only charges two-bob.”

  “I would no more allow a barber to extract my tooth than to amputate my leg,” Andrew articulated plainly in spite of the clenched teeth.

  “They used to do that, you know,” Aleda offered. “Surgeries, I mean. That’s why the pole is red and white. People were once given small poles to hold because of the pain, and—”

  “Let’s discuss that some other time, Aleda,” Julia interrupted with a glance at Andrew.

  “Are you afraid to go to the dentist, Papa?” Grace asked.

  There was a silence of several seconds before he replied. “Terrified. So let that be a lesson for all of you.”

  “What lesson, Papa?” Laurel asked with a puzzled look.

  “Not to take good health for granted. You should get on your knees and thank God every day that your teeth don’t hurt. I know I shall when this is over.”

  A half hour later, Julia and Andrew left the vicarage. As the affliction had come upon him yesterday evening, it caught them with very little salicin in the cupboard. Their first stop would have to be Trumbles. Julia drove the trap while her husband sat with his hand pressed against his jaw, letting out a low groan at every bump in the lane. When they reached the shop, Mr. Trumble turned from stocking items upon his shelves to peer sympathetically at Andrew. “Headache?”

  “One of his back teeth is hurting terribly,” Julia answered as they approached the counter. “We almost sent Philip to wake you last night.”

  “Yes? Well, I wish you would have. There’s no night so long as when you’ve a toothache.”

  Andrew made an appreciative groan and motioned toward the shelves.

  “He would like a dose of the medicine now, please,” Julia translated.