“Well, I’ll be off to that shop now,” Mr. Sanders informed her from the ground beside the wagon.
Lydia looked over at him while a thought formed in her mind. But dare she? She twisted in her seat to glance at the children, whose saucer eyes took in the shops and bustle of traffic and pedestrians with wonder. If this impresses them, they’ll love the castle.
This helped her to decide. “Would you mind waiting, Mr. Sanders?”
“Waiting? Uh-yes. I mean, no. Not at all, Miss Clark.”
She beckoned to Phoebe and said in a low voice, “You know we have a long wait ahead, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied. “But what are we going to do with the others?”
“What if we joined them later?”
“Yes, ma’am. But where would they go?”
Whispering that part of the plan to the girl, who gave a hesitant nod, Lydia then turned back to Harold Sanders. “Are you in a hurry to shop, Mr. Sanders?”
“No, ma’am. No hurry at all.”
His hopeful expression pricked her conscience in light of what she was about to ask him to do. She smiled. “I’m so glad. May I ask a favor?”
“What does it say, Mr. Sanders?” Trudy Meeks asked Harold as they stood looking at the carved wooden signpost among the flower beds of the castle grounds. The building, of the same red sandstone used throughout most of Shropshire, was imposing even if only three stories high, not counting the high slotted wall around the flat roof. The two towers were a little higher, so of course the children wanted to climb these first.
“Don’t you go to school?” Harold asked the girl.
“But I don’t know the big words yet.”
Fortunately, Mark came to his rescue. “It says the castle was founded in 1070.”
“What does founded mean?” asked Lester, who had told Harold on the way over in the wagon that he was Trudy’s twin.
Now that something had been asked that he could answer, Harold grabbed for it. “You know, they found it.”
Mark scratched his head. “I don’t think it means—”
“Well, that’s what it says, don’t it?”
“Who found it, Mr. Sanders?” Trudy asked.
“The folks looking for it, I’d wager. Are we gonter stand here all day or climb that tower?”
They decided upon the east tower first, closest to the River Severn. “Ooh, look, you can see forever,” Trudy cried while pointing her finger through one of the gaps used for aiming weapons. After the three children had made a circle, staring from each gap, they were ready for the other tower.
“Don’t you want to rest a spell?” Harold asked, having just leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “I’m still winded from the stairs.”
“Please, Mr. Sanders?” asked Trudy. “We’ve never had so much fun.”
“Oh, all right,” he grumbled.
At the top of the west tower, Harold watched them run from gap to gap, as before. He felt like he had pulled a plow through the pasture, and they weren’t even winded. Noticing that Lester was making an attempt to climb up into one of the gaps, Harold left his spot and pulled the boy back by the collar. “Don’t go doin’ that.”
He wasn’t exactly sure when his plan started to fail. All he knew was shortly after Miss Clark smiled at him, he was driving the wagon back through the streets of Shrewsbury.
“There are people down there,” Mark said with excitement flushing his face. “We could spit and pull our heads in, and they’d think it was birds!”
That sounded like a fine idea to Harold, who craned his head to spot any target below. Then he recalled how the schoolmistress had reminded him that he should set a good example for the children. While she hadn’t exactly mentioned spitting, he reckoned she would feel the same way about that as she did about swearing. With a stern voice he said, “Don’t go doin’ that.”
“I wasn’t going to do that, Mr. Sanders,” the boy turned to him to explain, eyes wide with sincerity. “I just meant it would be funny.”
“Well, it ain’t. Now just be good whilst I get my wind back.”
“But we want to see the main building too,” Trudy said.
“Please, Mr. Sanders?” Lester asked.
Rolling his eyes, Harold pushed himself from the wall again. That’s what’s wrong with children these days—they don’t want to wait for nothing.
“Is this good enough?” Mr. Pool’s nephew twisted around to ask Noelle after reining the horse to a stop in the square. He was a young man, about nineteen, with acne-scarred cheeks. Noelle had forgotten his name almost immediately after the innkeeper introduced them, for all she cared about was transportation to Shrewsbury.
“Yes, that’s fine,” she told him. When it dawned upon her that the boy didn’t intend to assist her from the carriage, she snatched up her reticule, kirtled her skirts around her ankles, and stepped down to the street. “Fetch me here at three.”
“That’ll be another two bob.”
“What?” She took two steps toward the driver’s seat. “But I already paid you.”
“Aye, for the trip down here. I’ve got to go all the way back to Gresham and then back here again.” He held up four snuff-stained fingers. “You can’t expect to pay just two shillings for four trips.”
“Very well,” she grumbled. “But I won’t pay the rest until you return. I don’t want to be stranded here while you’re in a card game somewhere with my money.”
He shrugged agreement and took up the reins again. Noelle’s glare followed him as the carriage moved on down the street, but she was just as perturbed at herself. She had considered it beneath her dignity to procure a much cheaper ride on one of the cheese wagons, as it seemed everyone else in Gresham without a carriage did. And if she would have only waited another week as Mr. Jensen had suggested, Mr. Herrick would have driven her down for nothing. But the Herricks were visiting their son in Stafford, where he was a university student or something, and Noelle had thought she would die of boredom if she didn’t see something other than sleepy lanes and cows.
After what seemed like hours, the door leading into the inner recesses of Mr. Beales’ practice opened and the dentist entered the parlor. He was as tall as Mr. Pitney, though slump-shouldered, no doubt from the years of bending over required of his profession. Meeting Julia’s questioning look with a nod, he waited until he was closer to say, “Your husband is fine, Mrs. Phelps.”
“Thank you.” Julia stood and glanced past him at the doorway. But then why wasn’t Andrew with him?
Mr. Beales looked over at the two other waiting patients, both men, whose faces wore the same mixture of pain and trepidation that Andrew’s had. Lowering his voice, he replied, “The tooth was split down into the root, unfortunately, requiring a slice in the gum. I administered chloroform beforehand, and he’s on a cot in my office sleeping it off.”
“Oh dear. May I see him?”
“There’s nothing that can be done for him now except to allow him his rest. Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours?”
Julia wouldn’t think of abandoning her husband, even if she couldn’t be in the same room. “I’ll just wait here—”
But the dentist was propelling her by the elbow to the front door, his voice gently insistent. “It’s just a tooth, Mrs. Phelps. We’ll take good care of him. Meanwhile, have some lunch, do some shopping.”
She had no choice but to leave, and supposed Mr. Beales was right. She could do Andrew no good by wringing her hands in the parlor. It was still such a new experience, having a husband who needed her as much as she needed him. Wandering about in the shops, she had little inclination to buy, and besides, she had not anticipated being in Shrewsbury when they left the house this morning, so carried very little money in her reticule.
The bell above Saint Alkmund’s chimed out the eleventh hour. Another hour, she thought. She supposed she might as well have the lunch the dentist had suggested. Andrew surely wouldn’t have any desire
for a meal when she was finally allowed to collect him. She and the children had patronized a cafe on Market Street on a shopping trip last summer. It was a casual place—no maître d’, just a dozen tables or so, and a menu limited to soups, sandwiches, and meat pies. She stepped inside and glanced around. As the noon hour drew closer she would likely have to share a table, but as of now, she didn’t want to intrude upon any of the handful of patrons who had already staked out places.
She was about to step over to an empty table by the window when she sensed someone watching her. Julia turned to the left and met Mrs. Somerville’s eyes—just before the woman’s gaze shifted abruptly from her.
She saw me, Julia thought. But did she recognize me? Surely if she had, she would have shown some sign. But then, Mrs. Somerville wouldn’t have expected to see her in Shrewsbury, and Julia herself had been known to stare past members of even her own family while deep in thought.
It seemed approaching her was the right thing to do. If Mrs. Somerville had indeed recognized her and was merely bashful, it would be snobbish to move on as if they had never made eye contact. Weaving her way over, Julia paused at her table. “Mrs. Somerville?”
The woman looked up again, and this time smiled. She was dressed in a becoming brown spring silk. “Why, Mrs. Phelps. How good to see you.”
“Thank you—and the same to you.”
“Will you join me?”
Julia smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
A waiter appeared just as she had sat down in the opposite chair. Because Mrs. Somerville had occupied the table first, Julia waited for her to order. But the woman shook her head. “I ordered just before you came in.”
So you saw me after all, Julia thought but kept her face impassive as she ordered creamed mushroom-and-leek soup and tea. And as she could think of no reason the woman would have to dislike her, she again attributed her looking away to bashfulness. “Have you been shopping?” Julia asked after the waiter left.
“Looking, mostly. And you?”
“The same. My husband had a tooth removed, and I was ordered not to collect him until noon.”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Somerville made a sympathetic face. “That sounds serious.”
“He was given enough chloroform to put him to sleep,” Julia replied. “So at least there’s no pain at the moment.”
“How are you going to get him home?”
“In our trap. When he wakes up, of course.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Somerville agreed.
“Please may we have our picnic now, Mr. Sanders?” Lester asked for the third time, when Harold and the Meeks brood were finally back on solid ground. “My stomach is making noises.”
“Well, fine then!” Harold snapped. To Mark, he ordered, “Fetch the hamper from the wagon. And stay out of the street.”
It’ll serve her right if they eat every last bit of it, he told himself. When the boy had returned, dragging the hamper at his side, Harold found a spot under a fir tree, opened the lid, and passed out boiled eggs and sandwiches wrapped in brown paper. The crockery jug of lemonade could wait until after the food was finished. Even though Trudy assured him they could eat and drink at the same time, Harold didn’t want them making a mess of their clothes and giving Miss Clark a reason to think he wasn’t able to tend children. After all, women likely took note of such things when choosing husbands. Finally the little beggars had filled their stomachs, and Harold his. He took four tin mugs from the basket and poured lemonade.
“What will we do now?” Mark asked after returning the basket to the wagon.
“Yes, what will we do now, Mr. Sanders?” Trudy echoed.
Harold propped himself back on his elbows. “There’s naught to do but wait for Miss Clark and your sister.”
“But how will they get here?”
“Hire a carriage, most likely.”
“Have you a handkerchief?” Lester asked.
“Why?”
“We could play blindman’s buff.”
“Yes, let’s!” Trudy exclaimed.
Anything to keep them from pestering me, Harold thought, leaning to one side to reach the bandana wadded in his back pocket. He reckoned he could buy his own farm today if he had a shilling for every question that had been put to him by the Meeks children.
“Will you play with us, Mr. Sanders?” Mark asked.
“No.”
Trudy’s gray eyes were pleading. “You can be first.”
“No.” If you don’t get here soon, Miss Clark, I might just change my mind about marrying you.
“Please…”
Harold motioned for them to leave him alone. “I don’t play games!” He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so harsh, but he was tired of playing nanny. And the thought of facing Papa’s wrath for slipping away didn’t help.
But he had gone and barked at them, and now the children stood staring at him as though they were statues. Trudy’s lower lip even trembled. With a weary sigh he pushed himself to his feet. At least he didn’t know anybody in Shrewsbury, so there would be no one to laugh at him for wearing a blindfold and playing a children’s game. And if anyone does, I’ll knock his head off.
He realized he was frowning and eased his lips into a halfhearted smile. “Now, don’t go lookin’ at me like that,” he told the children. “I were just joking with you.”
Chapter 22
“I thought I would go mad from boredom, so I hired a carriage from the Bow and Fiddle,” Noelle confessed after the waiter had brought identical orders of soup with a server of buns and cups of tea. Now that the discomfort of spotting the vicar’s wife at the door and then having to offer to share her table had passed, she found herself relieved to have the company. It wasn’t that the Larkspur was lacking in that regard, but the only two women near her age were dreamy Miss Rawlins and the tediously perfect Mrs. Clay.
She had been too preoccupied to notice last Wednesday how attractive Mrs. Phelps was—and certainly well-preserved—to have a married daughter. Her burnished red hair—the sides drawn up into a straw hat trimmed with blue ostrich feathers—and fringe, curled above her eyebrows, contrasted her eyes so that they shone like green emeralds.
“It’s a pity we couldn’t have saved you the trouble and expense,” the vicar’s wife was saying while spreading butter on one of the rolls. “But we didn’t plan on ending up in Shrewsbury when we set out this morning.”
Noelle took a spoonful of the soup. It couldn’t hold a candle to Mrs. Herrick’s but was still warm and filling. “Are there no dentists in Gresham?”
“Mr. McFarley pulls most of the teeth. He’s the barber.” Mrs. Phelps smiled at Noelle’s look of horror. “We’re told he’s competent, but…”
“I understand,” Noelle assured her. “But what I still don’t understand is how you live like that, not when there are churches on practically every corner in the cities.” She remembered as the words left her mouth how Mrs. Phelps had said she had no choice in moving there. “Couldn’t your husband ask for a transfer?”
“Andrew?” After a moment, awareness cleared her puzzled expression. “Andrew had actually requested somewhere rural, but that’s another story. You see, Gresham is where we met. I had moved there with my three children six months earlier.”
“You mean he’s your…”
“Second husband, yes. I was widowed just before we left—” Holding her soup spoon poised over her bowl, Mrs. Phelps stopped abruptly, “Do forgive me.”
“For what?”
“I’m sure that’s not a pleasant subject for you.”
Why would I care if you were widowed? Noelle then realized the vicar’s wife was referring to her own fictitious hero-husband. “Well, one must go on,” she said bravely. And curiosity compelled her to ask, “But I confess I still don’t understand. What did force you to move to Gresham?”
“Finances. Our London home was foreclosed after my husband’s death. The Larkspur was all we had.”
“I’m sorry.” She really
meant it. “And you with three children.”
“Thank you. But you know, I treasure the lessons I learned during that time.”
“Lessons?”
A self-conscious smile curved Mrs. Phelps’s lips. “I was as shallow as a goose spiritually. Oh, I was a believer, but I sent prayers heavenward because I had been taught since childhood that it was what decent people did—not out of any desire for fellowship with God. And then when there was no one to take care of me, I began to realize how much I had taken for granted over the years. I saw how much I really needed Him. And His companionship and guidance became more important to me than even material provisions.”
That a vicar’s wife could be so transparent about any spiritual failings astounded Noelle. Her parents had striven hard to maintain auras of perfection, never relaxing their guard even in front of their own children—who were constantly reminded that they, too, must be examples.
“Forgive me,” Mrs. Phelps said. “I didn’t intend to go on and on. I’m just a bit anxious about my husband.”
“No, I was interested in hearing it,” Noelle told her. But she was morose enough about being banished from London—she didn’t care to be reminded of her own spiritual emptiness, so she artfully steered the subject back to more comfortable ground. “Speaking of your husband, I hope his recovery is swift. My brother had a tooth pulled when I was a girl, and it stayed swollen for days.”
“Oh dear. I didn’t think that far ahead, but surely he won’t be able to conduct services tomorrow.” Mrs. Phelps pushed up her sleeve to glance at a narrow gold watch, then looked up again. “Will you mind if I leave you? It’s a bit early still, but I should like to see about him.”
“Of course not,” Noelle replied, surprised to find herself a little disappointed at the loss of company.
The vicar’s wife took a florin from her velvet reticule to leave next to her half-filled bowl of soup. They said their farewells, and Mrs. Phelps wove her way back around tables now filled with patrons. Just as the door closed behind her, some odd impulse seized Noelle. She hastily left some money on the table and hurried through the cafe. Ahead on the walkway she could see the familiar royal-blue dress and auburn chignon showing beneath a straw hat.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 23