The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I’m sorry,” Ambrose told her, stepping back a bit with a heavy heart. Over the two years of their marriage, she had almost convinced him that it wasn’t weakness which made him the way he was. What a vain fool he had been to ignore the facts. For she was right. Such a situation would be sheer torture for him. Just imagining it made the back of his neck break out into a sweat.

  But even more agonizing was the thought of her going there alone. True, she had emigrated from Ireland alone at the age of eighteen without incident, but she hadn’t been his wife then, and he hadn’t yet made it his life’s mission to protect her.

  There was no reproach in the violet eyes that sought his. “You’re my family too, Ambrose.”

  That wasn’t enough and he knew it. How much longer would her parents be alive? Would she resent him, even unwittingly, when they were gone?

  The solution that suddenly entered his mind was so simple, so reasonable, that he took her hands and smiled. “We’ll send them the money to come here.”

  “The money—”

  “All of them. Surely they could use a holiday. And what better place to have a wedding?” Warming up to the idea, he made plans. “There are plenty of beds at the Bow and Fiddle, and—”

  She took a hand from his and reached up to put a finger to his lips. “They can’t leave their crops, Ambrose. And likely wouldn’t come if they could. My folks are old and set in their ways. Besides, there is the young man’s family to consider as well. Will you have the whole of Kilkenny here?”

  He didn’t know how to respond except for an unimaginative, “Oh.”

  After lunch they sat in rocking chairs in the Larkspur’s library to read—or at least she read, from Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, while Ambrose merely stared at the same page of Disraeli’s Felix Holt until the print wavered as if underwater—when another solution occurred to him. A much more difficult one, at least for him. Dare he mention it? You have to, he told himself.

  “Fiona.”

  “Yes, Ambrose?” she said, looking up from her book.

  “What is that oldest Keegan boy’s name?”

  “You mean Tom?”

  “Yes. How old is he?”

  “Sixteen, I believe. He’s still in secondary school.”

  “Which lets out in June. And the willow-gathering season should be over by then.”

  She studied him curiously. “Are you suggesting that Tom accompany me?”

  “Surely he would be willing to earn some money and see a bit of his homeland again at the same time.” He was a strapping lad as well, who looked older than sixteen. His presence in Fiona’s company would surely discourage anyone with less than honorable intentions. And as the Keegan family had seven children in their small cottage, he would most likely not balk at being asked to share a bed with any of Fiona’s brothers or nephews.

  Ambrose couldn’t stop himself from harboring a selfish hope that she would decline the proposed arrangement. He felt shamed when relief flooded her face.

  “Oh, Ambrose, that’s a wonderful idea.” With the book still open in her lap, she pressed her palms together and rested her fingertips against her chin. “And I wouldn’t worry about your being lonely with so many of our friends here.”

  “Why, I’ll hardly know you’re gone,” he quipped in a performance worthy of any stage.

  “Ambrose.” She straightened in her chair, violet eyes appraising him frankly “I’m not so foolish as to believe that. But you can bear it for a fortnight, can’t you?”

  A fortnight? He had had in mind a week or less when he suggested the Keegan boy. But he had to remind himself that it would take about three days to get to Kilkenny, and the same amount of time to return. Two weeks without her?

  “Because if you don’t think…”

  Mustering a little smile, he replied, “I’ll miss you terribly, Fiona Clay, but it’s important that you go. I would rather suffer for two weeks now than live with guilt years later that I kept you from your family.”

  As she settled back into her chair, her eyes took on a luster again. “Thank you, Ambrose,” she said quietly.

  The love in her expression made it all worthwhile. Ambrose’s smile became more genuine. “I suppose we should be calling upon the Keegans this afternoon, shouldn’t we?”

  The sky was an inverted bowl of perfect Wedgwood blue as Noelle set out on foot for the vicarage two days later. She scarcely noticed, for her thoughts centered feverishly around Quetin, as usual. There had to be a reason he had yet to write. Perhaps Averyl had grown suspicious and was having his every move watched? She certainly had the means with which to do so.

  Or could it be that Quetin felt she would reconcile herself to Gresham more easily if he gave her some time without news from home? He was so much wiser than she. Was this silence for her welfare? She could bear that, if she could only be sure.

  Think about something else, she commanded herself, rubbing her temple hard with a gloved hand as if to aid her mind in doing so. She was actually glad she had accepted the invitation, for she feared she would go mad from worry if she didn’t find a distraction. The Phelps were pleasant company—even if he was a vicar—and besides, she couldn’t afford any more shopping trips to Shrewsbury. And as much satisfaction as rearranging Mr. Trumble’s shelves had given her, she had no inclination to rearrange the rest of his shop, as he had jokingly suggested when she asked about the mail yesterday.

  The vicarage came into her sight after she passed the town hall. Mrs. Phelps, looking youthful in a yellow gingham gown, waved to her from the garden. Noelle returned the wave and inquired about her husband’s health when she reached the gate.

  “Much improved, thank you,” Mrs. Phelps replied, holding the gate open for her. “He’ll be back in the pulpit this Sunday. However he’s not quite ready for rib roast or anything of that sort, so Mrs. Paget is preparing baked trout for lunch.”

  “I’m glad he’s better.” Noticing the scissors in Mrs. Phelps’s hand, Noelle asked if she could be of any assistance.

  “I’ve just finished, thank you.” She picked up a basket lying on the ground near a wicker chair and showed Noelle the purple English irises she had just picked. “For the table.”

  “Very lovely. You do your own gardening?”

  “Just since I married Andrew.” They strolled together toward the porch. “I started out by helping our caretaker, and gradually it became a hobby. I’ve discovered there is something immensely soothing about putting your hands in the dirt.”

  “Perhaps I should bathe with it, then,” Noelle said dryly before she could stop herself. She was startled when Mrs. Phelps laughed.

  “Forgive me, but you have such a droll way about you sometimes,” the vicar’s wife said. “It’s quite charming.”

  “No one has ever said that to me.” Not even Quetin, but then he could be downright miserly with compliments.

  “No? I’m very surprised.” Near the foot of the steps Mrs. Phelps turned to her, concern replacing the levity in her green eyes. “You’re still homesick, aren’t you?”

  Noelle answered with a casual shrug but had to glance away for a second.

  “You poor dear. Forgive me for offering unsolicited advice, but why don’t you go back to London? Not that we don’t enjoy having you in Gresham, but if it’s only making matters worse…”

  Tears stung Noelle’s eyes—not so much from homesickness as from the compassion in the other woman’s voice. She blinked them away and thought, If you knew the truth about me, you wouldn’t even have me in your home. “I can’t go back yet. But I do appreciate your concern.”

  The sound of an approaching horse gave her an opportunity to change the subject. Turning toward the lane, she said, “I believe someone’s coming this way.”

  “That would be Paul Treves,” Mrs. Phelps told her. “He’s vicar of Lockwood, the neighboring village. You won’t mind his joining us for lunch, will you?”

  There was no mistaking the faint tension in the older woman’s voic
e. Sighing inwardly, Noelle supposed it was inevitable that someone would try to initiate a romance between her and one of the locals. A lonely young widow would be too much of a temptation for Mrs. Phelps’s compassionate nature. So instead of expressing resentment at this intrusion into her affairs as she might have just weeks ago, she shook her head and commented casually, “We’ve met.”

  Mrs. Phelps blinked at her. “Indeed? You and Vicar Treves?”

  “We shared a train compartment when I came from London.”

  “Why, that’s remarkable. I had no idea.”

  At least Noelle supposed he was the same man, though she seemed to recall his name being Treen. A carriage came into view, and she recognized the face.

  “Andrew has been a mentor to him this past year,” Mrs. Phelps said, lifting a hand to wave. “And we’ve been intending to invite him over for some time now….”

  “I’m sure I’ll enjoy renewing my acquaintance with him,” Noelle assured her.

  Only the vicar wasn’t alone, but accompanied by an odd-looking young fellow with a pale face and disheveled brown hair, who headed immediately for the paddock beside the stable when the carriage stopped. Vicar Treves, strikingly Nordic-looking in spite of his black suit, came through the gate wearing an expression of pleasant surprise. “Why, Mrs. Somerville. How good to see you.”

  “Good morning, Vicar Treves.”

  “How are you finding Gresham?” he asked as he shook the hand she had offered.

  “Green and pleasant, as you said.” Or at least she thought he had said something to that effect.

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” He then turned to Mrs. Phelps and shook the hand she offered as well. “And, Mrs. Phelps. Thank you for inviting me. How is the vicar?”

  “So much better, thank you. I left him in his study just a little while ago, jotting down some sermon notes.”

  “I take that to mean he’ll be preaching tomorrow?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep him away.”

  “I understand,” Vicar Treves said, smiling. He glanced over his shoulder to where his young companion appeared to be feeding something to Vicar Phelps’s horse. “I pray you don’t mind my bringing along Israel Coggins. It occurred to me this morning that you and the children have never heard him play, and the vicar enjoys it so.”

  “How thoughtful,” Mrs. Phelps replied. “Andrew speaks so highly of his talent. I’ll just ask Dora to set another place. Surely he’ll want to be with you.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you. As you can see, he’s terribly shy. I’m afraid he’ll panic if I’m out of his sight for too long.” That settled, Vicar Treves excused himself and went to the gate to wave him over.

  “Who is he?” Noelle whispered to the woman beside her.

  “Vicar Treves’ caretaker. I believe his mother is the cook.”

  And he’s to sit at the table with us? Noelle thought, then remembered that Mrs. Phelps owned the Larkspur, where a paying lodger could be asked to leave for not being considerate of the servants. She supposed it was all well and good to extend Christian charity to those less fortunate, but she would be relieved to return to London, where the class lines were comfortingly rigid.

  “Thank you for waiting,” Vicar Treves said, returning with the boy at his side.

  At least Noelle assumed he was a boy, judging by the guilelessness in his face. But had she to pinpoint his age, she would have guessed anywhere from sixteen to thirty. Fastened to a cord that hung across his body from the opposite shoulder was a stringed instrument of some sort. She gave him a polite nod when he doffed his cap but did not offer her hand. If the Phelps wanted to be democratic, that was their business.

  Mrs. Phelps not only offered a hand, but a compliment as well. “Bishop Edwards visited us Thursday, Mr. Coggins, and praised your music highly.”

  Ignoring her hand, the boy stared at the ground and mumbled, “Thank you. Bishop is a nice man. His horse is named Mordecai.”

  He’s feeble-minded, Noelle realized. Surely Mrs. Phelps would change her mind about seating him at the table. It was one thing to show kindness to someone less fortunate, but another to subject one’s guests to him. What if he drooled, or slurped his soup? Just the thought was enough to ruin Noelle’s appetite.

  But Mrs. Phelps clearly had not considered that, for she simply smiled and said, “Shall we go inside?”

  Vicar Phelps was descending the staircase just as they passed through the vestibule. He greeted them warmly and assured them he was in no more pain. Israel, he clapped upon the back. “Why, the Bishop and I were talking about you just two days ago, and I had a longing to hear you again.”

  “I gave Rusty an apple,” Israel replied. He still stared down at his feet but smiled this time. “He liked it.”

  The vicar chuckled. “I’m sure he did.”

  “If you’ll go on into the parlor,” Mrs. Phelps invited, raising the basket upon her arm, “I’ll put these in water and fetch the children.”

  “I’ve already told them to wash up,” her husband said, then explained to his guests, “The older three are working on some map projects for school, and Grace is advising.”

  Noelle glanced at the staircase in wonder, recalling the many times she and her siblings had donned starched ruffles and lace for the purpose of being presented to guests in the parlor, only to be consigned to the nursery five minutes later for their meal. Heaven forbid that guests should be exposed to the not-so-polished table etiquette of children, with the constant threat of spilled milk or crumbs upon one’s bodice.

  She was even more bemused when, after the children had joined them in the parlor, it was pointed out by one of the girls that Philip wore a spot of green paint upon one earlobe. Everyone simply laughed—even Israel Coggins—as the boy grinned and excused himself to tidy up. The formality that so pervaded the vicarage beside Saint Marylebow was absent, replaced by a camaraderie that was difficult to fathom. Had she not watched Vicar Phelps in the pulpit she would have questioned his dedication to the ministry, for wasn’t sobriety a requirement for a man of the cloth?

  In the dining room, she was given the seat across from Vicar Treves. She wondered if he also suspected that Mrs. Phelps had ulterior motives for inviting them both on the same occasion. He was certainly handsome and mannerly enough, but even if her heart were not already fixated upon Quetin, she had no interest in becoming romantically involved with a minister. Childhood memories were still too fresh. It was commendable that people like the Phelps were more relaxed than her parents had been, but the thought of living in a vicarage again—being at the beck and call of a congregation—was too horrendous to consider.

  From the corner of her eye she watched Vicar Treves tuck Israel’s napkin into his collar after the boy’s attempt to do so had failed. He was quietly solicitous, acting as if he did this sort of thing every day. And a disconcerting thought occurred to Noelle. Here she had been mentally listing reasons why she could never consider a future with a man of the cloth, when it was highly likely that someone like Vicar Treves had his own list of women he wouldn’t consider. And prominent on that list would be someone who was a kept mistress.

  Not that it matters to me, she told herself, turning her attention to the meal placed before them.

  Chapter 27

  “If he were any fresher, he would be winking at you,” Andrew said in response to Mrs. Somerville’s compliment on the tastiness of the trout. “Laurel and Philip caught a nice string of fish this morning.”

  “Laurel?” Vicar Treves asked, giving the girl a smile. “I thought our Mrs. Miller was the only woman who fished.”

  “Mrs. Miller?” asked Andrew.

  “My churchwarden’s mother. She says she has fished almost every Saturday morning, weather permitting, of her seventy years.”

  “She has a dog named Copper,” Israel offered. “She says it’s because he’s red. But she hasn’t a horse.”

  “I only go fishing now and then,” Laurel confessed. “Most of
the time I would rather read.”

  “We’re all fond of reading,” Aleda told the young vicar. “Once when Mother brought home An Old Fashioned Girl from a bookseller in Shrewsbury, Laurel and I were so desperate to get to it that we wound up reading it together.”

  “However did you manage that?” Mrs. Somerville asked.

  “Well, first we tried to sit side by side and look at the same pages, but that didn’t work very well. So we took turns reading aloud to each other.”

  “It must have been a good story.”

  “Oh, it was wonderful,” Laurel exclaimed. “We’ve each read it again since then.”

  “Speaking of Shrewsbury…” Julia turned to Vicar Treves in an effort to prod him into a conversation with the woman across from him. “I never would have gotten Andrew home last week if Mrs. Somerville hadn’t been there.”

  It worked, for the man looked across at Mrs. Somerville and smiled. “Indeed?”

  “I’m afraid we ruined her outing,” Andrew said apologetically while mashing butter into his boiled potatoes with his fork. “Chloroform destroys a man’s dignity, trust me.”

  Julia sent him a look that meant, Let them talk to each other, but he simply gave her a maddeningly blank smile and went on mauling his potatoes.

  “My day wasn’t ruined at all,” Mrs. Somerville protested. “In fact, it turned into an adventure.”

  “Like Alice’s?” Grace asked her.

  “Alice?”

  “She means Alice in Through the Looking Glass,” Aleda explained with a hint of long-suffering in her tone. “That was just fantasy, Grace.”

  “I know that,” Grace defended. “I meant that Mrs. Somerville had an adventure, just like Alice did.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t read the story,” Mrs. Somerville replied. Giving the nine-year-old a wry little smile, she asked, “Has it anything to do with dental surgery?”

  “No, ma’am,” Grace said over chuckles from everyone else at the table—everyone but Julia.