The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Thank you, Luke,” Paul called to him. When he turned back to Mrs. Phelps, she was studying him with a bemused expression. He had shaved in his usual hurry this morning but quelled the impulse to raise a hand to explore his face for dried blood.

  “Andrew will be so disappointed he missed a chat with you,” she said finally.

  Breathing a little easier now, Paul replied, “Do tell him I’ll return when he’s feeling more robust.”

  She smiled. “Doctor Rhodes has assured us that he’ll be himself again by midweek. So why not join us for lunch on Saturday?”

  “Surely, you didn’t,” Andrew said thickly from his parlor chair that evening. Wearing a flannel dressing gown over his nightshirt, he propped his right elbow against the chair arm and held the poultice against his cheek. Julia had offered to wind another bandage from chin to crown so it would stay in place without tiring his arm, but when Andrew had sobered enough to get a look at himself in a mirror on Saturday, the dentist’s bandage had come off.

  “And what is wrong with inviting him?” Julia asked, seated on the ottoman so she could be at his side. They rested their joined hands upon the left arm of the chair. “He said he would be returning to see about you anyway.”

  “Then why did you wait until everyone was gone to tell me?”

  It was true, she had waited until the children were occupied upstairs with homework. But only because it was easier to chat with no distractions, for the girls hovered around their father as if he were a wounded war hero. Only now Julia was beginning to realize what Andrew already suspected—that her procrastination had more to do with not wanting to be accused of matchmaking than any desire for peace and quiet.

  “They’re both lonely,” she said defensively.

  A pained expression settled upon his face—either from the missing back tooth or the subject of their discussion. She was just about to ask if he needed more salicin when he explained, “We don’t know enough about Mrs. Somerville. Paul was hurt once before.”

  “Granted. But it’s just lunch. And she seems a very decent person.”

  He merely stared at her, so Julia pressed on. “And they’re both adults. If they’re not suited for each other, surely they’ll realize it. But what if it turns out that they’re meant to be together?”

  “If they’re meant to be together, God will see to it that it happens.”

  “But God could have given me the idea to invite them here.”

  After a sigh, he halfway conceded. “Perhaps He did.”

  Though Julia appreciated hearing this, his earlier argument had planted some seeds of doubt in her mind. Paul Treves was their friend, and friendship obligated the parties involved to certain responsibilities. If Philip were older, would she instigate a possible romance between him and a woman she hardly knew? Never.

  “…Julia?”

  She looked up at her husband again. “You were saying something, Andrew?”

  “I asked what was wrong.”

  Sighing, she replied. “I must admit I acted strictly upon impulse. A picture crossed my mind of the two of them together….”

  “And it set your romantic heart to beating, didn’t it?” His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. “Well, as you said, they’re both adults. And it’s just lunch.”

  “Thank you.” She felt somewhat better now. “But you’re the romantic in the family, Andrew.”

  “I think not.”

  “Oh, but you are. In fact, I never knew a man could be so romantic until we started courting.”

  The left side of his mouth curled into a pained smile. “Indeed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Squeezing her hand, he said, “Then you wouldn’t mind fetching a romantic old fellow another dose of salicin, would you?”

  After supper the following evening, Jacob Pitney went upstairs to clean his teeth and give everyone else ample time to take up their usual stations in the hall. He descended the staircase with light steps afterward, turning left and heading past the kitchen door. From the other side the clatter of china and cutlery blended with female voices to produce sounds of comfortable domesticity. But it was the short corridor just past the kitchen that was his destination. He turned the corner sharply to the left, grateful that no one had seen him yet.

  Dusk had settled outside when he pushed open the courtyard door, the western clouds stained crimson from the sun hiding behind the Anwyl. The door had no sooner closed behind him when Jacob noticed the two faces turned in his direction from one of the benches.

  “Good evening again, Mr. Pitney!” Mr. Clay greeted.

  “Uh…good evening,” Jacob replied. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Clay. “I was just…walking about.”

  The two didn’t seem to find anything odd about this. “We’re enjoying the evening breezes,” Mr. Clay explained. “They’re quite refreshing. Will you join us?”

  All you have to do is decline politely and walk past, Jacob told himself. But then wouldn’t they wonder why he was headed off toward the back lanes at this time of evening? Only Mrs. Dearing, Miss Clark, and her parents knew about the lessons. Too many people for his comfort, but he had no control over that. If Miss Rawlins ever found out, she would despise him so much that he could forget any hopes of courting her.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Pitney?” It was Mrs. Clay who asked, her usually serene face wearing a concerned expression. “Perhaps you would care to sit and chat?”

  She knows, Jacob thought in a panic. But that wasn’t possible. He was just allowing his nerves to overrule his common sense. He cleared his throat and smiled. “I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be going inside now.”

  He would have to leave through the front, which he prayed wouldn’t attract too much attention. Fortunately, the hall was almost empty for a change. “I believe I’ll take a walk,” Jacob mentioned casually on his way past the two facing sofas from which Mr. Jensen and the Durwins were chatting.

  Mrs. Durwin looked up from her needlework. “This late, Mr. Pitney?”

  “It’s only a quarter past eight,” he told her, then noticing the defensiveness of his voice, added in a more pleasant tone, “The evening breezes are so refreshing, aren’t they?”

  “I was always taught that night air was poison for the lungs,” Mr. Jensen remarked. “I never saw a firefly until after I went into service.

  Mother forbade us to go outside after six o’clock.”

  “Surely you’re aware now that that’s not true,” said Mr. Durwin.

  “Yes, but I confess I still find myself taking shallow breaths if I happen to be outside very late. And I cannot bring myself to sleep with an open window.”

  I should have gone out the back, Jacob thought, waiting with strained patience but unable to leave because the conversation, in a way, still included him.

  “My mother believed hot water caused rheumatism,” Mrs. Durwin said, smiling. “So our baths were as tepid as possible without actually causing icicles to hang from our noses.”

  This brought chuckles from the two men. Had Jacob the time he would have been happy to tell them how the Romans heated their baths, but he was in a hurry. Resolved that it was now or never, he gave the threesome a farewell wave as he walked over to the door, took hold of the knob, and was finally on his way.

  It took but a few minutes of brisk walking to reach his destination. Mrs. Clark greeted him at the door. “Lydia is in the back parlor,” she said, taking his hat. “And did you find some nice things on the hill today?”

  “Nothing but dirt, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh dear,” she sighed. “Your whole day wasted.”

  “Not necessarily,” he said with a smile. “You have to move the dirt to find the treasures.”

  She liked that and laughed. “That’s the way to look at it, Mr. Pitney.” She led him through the house to the back parlor, where Miss Clark was sitting on the sofa with what appeared to be a school text, and her father sat in the overstuffed chair reading from a newspaper. The old man grinned up at him.<
br />
  “Evening to you, Mr. Pitney!” He acted as if he were greeting an old friend and not someone who had been to his cottage only once before. “And how’s the digging? Find any swords or skulls?”

  “Only dirt today, Papa,” said his wife. “Come and I’ll help you clean your paintbrushes.”

  “Since when do you care about my brushes?” the man grumbled while easing himself up from his chair. Clearly he would have liked to have stayed and chatted. When they were gone, Miss Clark smiled and put her book aside. He could see now that a cat was curled up in her lap.

  “She’s asleep,” Miss Clark said in response to his gaze. The schoolmistress wore a gray gown, with narrow blue stripes set about an inch apart, and wore her hair in a loose knot. “Jeanie is twelve years old and rheumatic, so I would rather not disturb her. Would you mind getting Miss Rawlins’ book from the top shelf? It’s off to itself on your right.”

  “Of course.” Jacob went to the bookcase on the wall behind her father’s chair and found The Sandringhams of Longdendale right away. About a dozen narrow strips of paper stuck between pages fanned out at the top. He turned to hand the novelette to her, but she shook her head.

  “You’ll need to see the pages too. Perhaps you had best set it here between us.”

  The sofa was an ugly mustard color and, like the two chairs, did not match anything else in the room. But it made up for its lack of aesthetic beauty with comfort, for its cushions were thick and soft.

  “Where did she get the name Jeanie?” Jacob asked, seating himself.

  Miss Clark scratched gently between the cat’s ears. The animal made a slight movement at this attention but did not open her eyes. “From the song ‘Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.’ My father orders sheet music for his trombone and took a liking to it.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.”

  Taking the novelette from his hands, she set it between them on the sofa and opened it to the first marker. “Don’t say that in my father’s hearing unless you’re prepared for a concert.”

  Jacob chuckled, easily able to imagine Mr. Clark performing with no timidity whatsoever. He found that he rather liked the Clark family, so at ease with themselves and visitors. “A concert would be nice, I should think.”

  Smiling, she turned her attention back to Miss Rawlins’ story. “Now in this first chapter, did you understand the significance of the death of the future Lord Sandringham’s governess?”

  Jake thought for a minute and then shrugged. “I’m afraid I didn’t. The governess is never mentioned in the story again.”

  “That’s true. But because the boy’s parents traveled a good deal, he was very attached to her. It was like losing a mother.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “So how would that affect his adult years, do you think?”

  Brow furrowing, Jacob replied, “Would that be the reason he was afraid to ask for Miss Webb’s hand?”

  “I believe so,” Miss Clark replied. “But please understand that while we can discuss our interpretation of things that happen in the story, we can never know precisely what Miss Rawlins’ intentions were.”

  “We can’t?”

  “No one can read minds, Mr. Pitney.”

  He let out a sigh. “Whatever happened to reading for the enjoyment of it? I dig in dirt every day for things hidden. Why must I dig through pages for meanings that may or may not be there?”

  Jeanie the cat had somehow sensed his frustration, for she raised her head to give him an appraising look before climbing off her mistress’s lap. Miss Clark lowered the animal to the carpet, then gave Jacob a sympathetic smile. “The lament of every university student, Mr. Pitney. But don’t lose heart. We can find enough here to impress Miss Rawlins.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  She spent the next forty-five minutes going over foreshadowing, symbolism, and character development with him, so when it came time to take from his pocket the half-crown they had agreed upon, he felt he had gotten quite a bargain.

  “I still feel a bit strange…taking money for reading,” she told him as they both rose to their feet.

  “You performed a worthwhile service, Miss Clark.” He pressed the coin into her hand. “But are you sure this hasn’t interfered with your teaching duties?”

  “The stories aren’t lengthy. And this is a pleasant diversion from drawing up lesson plans.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind reading another?”

  “I’ll read as many as you would care to discuss. You can drop it off in the morning if you’d like.”

  “I have it here.” With a smile Jacob withdrew The Marquis’ Daughter from his coat pocket. “As you said, they aren’t lengthy.”

  Setting the book on the arm of the sofa, she led him back through the cottage. Her green eyes had a conspiratorial glint as she turned to face him at the door. “I’m looking forward to hearing what Miss Rawlins thinks of your newfound insight.”

  So am I, Jacob thought on his way home. But even though he understood one of Miss Rawlins’ novelettes, he dared not flaunt that limited knowledge too soon. Memories of how he had made a complete idiot of himself in his earlier attempts still intimidated him. The more books you understand, the more impressed she’ll be, he told himself, imagining that grand moment when he would become a veritable fountain of knowledge, and she would look at him with awe.

  Bless you, Miss Clark, he thought.

  Chapter 24

  Lydia walked to school carefully the next morning over cobbled stones glistening from a late-night shower. Tucked in her satchel was The Marquis’ Daughter to read during her lunch break while her students played. As she passed the Larkspur’s carriage drive on her left, she saw no signs of the archeologists. Perhaps the ground is too wet, she thought. She wondered if Mr. Pitney had had the chance to chat with Miss Rawlins about The Sandringhams of Longdendale yesterday evening. She hoped the writer appreciated it. How many other men would take such pains to win a woman’s heart?

  You had a man pretend to walk to Shrewsbury to get your attention, she reminded herself. And into her head popped a shocking thought. If only it would have been Mr. Pitney instead of Harold Sanders.

  “Enough of such foolishness,” Lydia murmured, hastening her steps to leave the Larkspur’s vicinity, lest Mr. Pitney come around the wing and see her thoughts written upon her face.

  At the schoolhouse, she glanced immediately at her desk upon opening the door—as was becoming a habit. She was grateful to see it was just as she had left it yesterday. Perhaps having to ride in the back of the wagon and being asked to tend children had put a damper on Harold Sanders’ enthusiasm after all.

  The students began arriving three-quarters of an hour later. Phoebe’s eyeglasses did not cause the stir Lydia had feared, simply because the girl wasn’t wearing them. By midmorning she felt compelled to usher the girl into the cloakroom.

  “Where are your eyeglasses?” she asked in a low voice so the others wouldn’t decide that eavesdropping was more interesting than the arithmetic word problems in their texts.

  “In my lunch pail, Miss Clark,” the girl replied. Quickly she added, “Thank you for buying them for me.”

  “You’ve already thanked me, Phoebe, and you’re welcome. But I want to know why you’re not wearing them.”

  “You haven’t written anything on the blackboard yet.”

  “Has someone teased you about them?”

  “No, Miss Clark.”

  Of course not. She would actually have to wear them first. Lydia sighed. “Phoebe, patterning your life around others’ opinions is nothing more than slavery.”

  Now confusion came to the short-sighted eyes. “Ma’am?”

  Sending up a quick prayer for wisdom and patience, she explained, “There are eleven other students in this classroom. Each one of them has family, chores, schoolwork, sports, music lessons, and so on. The amount of time that any of them would spend thinking about your eyeglasse
s is minuscule. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied after a thoughtful hesitation.

  “Then why spend most of the day uncomfortable, just for the sake of what someone may think of you in those few seconds?” She gave her a moment to mull this over, then asked, “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Grateful that her point had been made so easily, Lydia smiled. “Now, go on back to your desk and finish your assignment. With your eyeglasses on, please.”

  The girl did as instructed, but tucked them away in her lunch box again during the noon break. Passing where Lydia sat on the porch steps with Miss Rawlins’ novelette, she explained, “I don’t want anything to happen to them.”

  Oh yes, you do. She didn’t reprimand the girl, for one of her father’s favorite homilies about leading a horse to water came to mind. Just before dismissing her students that afternoon, she reminded them of an upcoming assignment. “May twentieth is less than two weeks away, and I’m looking forward to seeing your maps.”

  The bas-relief maps of the British Isles were assigned shortly after the Easter recess. Her ears caught the sound of a low groan—decidedly male—but she pretended not to hear it and even smiled inwardly. How she had made nearly perfect marks during her schooling years never ceased to amaze her, for she had spent so much time reading novels that she was forever playing catch-up with other assignments.

  It was Philip and Aleda Hollis’s turns to help tidy up the classroom. “What will you do with these this summer, Miss Clark?” Aleda asked as she sprinkled meal over the goldfish bowl.

  At her desk, Lydia looked up from fastening the catch to her satchel. “I had planned to take them home. But Mrs. Bartley has offered her pond.”

  “For the summer?”

  “I’m afraid it would have to be for life. They would soon outgrow their bowl after living in a pond.” She got to her feet and walked over to where the girl stood. Gently tapping the side of the bowl, she said, “I can’t help but think they would enjoy having a lot more space.”