That evening, Jacob’s knock upon the Clark cottage door was answered by Mr. Clark himself. “And so you’ve come for some more book talk, have you?”
Though there was no mockery in the elderly man’s voice, still Jacob found himself stammering his reply. “Uh…yes, sir.”
“Well, come inside, then,” he said, stepping out of the way. “Lydia’s fetching my pipe. You’ve time to compliment me on my latest project.”
Jacob was motioned to an easel set up before the fire screen. “Why, it’s the Worthy sisters.”
“Don’t see how you can tell. I ran out of daylight.”
Incredulously Jacob looked up at him, for even if one face was unfinished, any resident of Gresham could tell their identities by the lace-spinning cushions and cottage in the background. He realized then, by the glint in the man’s eyes, that he was teasing. Jacob smiled. “This is very good. But didn’t you say people were difficult to paint?”
“Aye, they still are.” He cocked a white eyebrow meaningfully. “And catching them is even more so.”
A vision of Mr. Clark chasing down one of the Worthy sisters flashed before Jacob’s eyes. “Sir?”
“Cost me a washpot, just to get those two to sit in their garden and do what they would be doing anyway. And I won’t be surprised if they up their fee when I go back to finish tomorrow.”
From the open doorway leading into the rest of the cottage called a familiar voice. “You left it in the kitchen, Papa! Mrs. Tanner says you ought to keep one in every room so we aren’t always…” Miss Clark entered the room and paused at sight of Jacob. “Oh, good evening, Mr. Pitney,” she greeted with a sheepish little smile.
“Good evening,” Jacob replied, returning her smile.
She handed her father his pipe and then offered her hand. She was clothed in a simple blue dress, and her brown hair drawn back loosely into a knot. Jacob was surprised at himself for not noticing before now that she was almost as tall as he. Or that her ears were slightly prominent. He rather admired that she didn’t try to conceal them with curls or ribbons or such.
“I wouldn’t have bellowed like a fishwife had I realized you were here, Mr. Pitney,” she apologized. “I’m afraid we’re used to shouting at each other, especially when Papa misplaces his—”
“Amos—it’s not upstairs!” another female voice called through the doorway, just before Mrs. Clark stepped into the room. Her plump cheeks pinked. “Oh, Mr. Pitney. How rude you must think us.”
“Actually, you make me feel quite at home,” Jacob confessed. “We’ve a bakery connected to our house back in Dover, and our father would often have to shout through the doorway for another hand if business was brisk. My sister and brothers and I could each mix dough and serve customers by the age of ten.”
“That’s a far step, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Clark. “From baking to archeology.”
“Amos…” cautioned his wife.
“I don’t mind.” Not only did Jacob not mind, but he found himself enjoying the exchange. “I actually spent my first year at Oxford studying to become an engineer. My mother’s brother was an engineer, and I admired that he got to travel and build bridges. But I happened upon a book titled Nineveh and Its Remains in the library one day—”
“And Nineveh won out over bridges!” Mr. Clark exclaimed. “What an interesting story, Mr. Pitney. I do so admire folks who aren’t afraid of change.”
“Amos,” Mrs. Clark said again, yet with affection in her voice as she took his arm. “We should allow Mr. Pitney and Lydia time to chat.”
The old man looked disappointed but shrugged. “Very well. I suppose I’m to find something useful to do.”
“I could use some help with untangling a skein of wool upstairs. Jeanie made a mess of it.”
“Oh joy,” he mumbled affably.
Seconds later, Jacob was seated with Miss Clark on the sofa in the back parlor. Jeanie, the yarn-tangling cat, jumped to the space between them and curled up for a nap. “You’ll have to forgive my father’s gregariousness,” Miss Clark said while turning pages of the copy of Countess Lucinda’s Journey. “He forgets that you aren’t here just to socialize with him.”
“I enjoyed the chat,” Jacob assured her. “But I’m afraid I did most of the talking.”
“I don’t recall your doing that, Mr. Pitney. And I can assure you that my parents enjoyed every minute of it.” She ran a finger down a page and stopped. “Now, I suppose we should start with the scar on Count Basil’s forehead. The shape of it means something, don’t you think?”
“Why, I believe so. Come to think of it, it was mentioned often.”
And never without the descriptive hook-shaped preceding it. Jacob had even wondered at one point if Miss Rawlins believed her readers unable to remember such a simple detail from one page to another—and then felt guilty for such a disloyal thought.
“But I haven’t a clue what it could mean,” he confessed. “Have you?”
“Not yet. But it’ll come.”
“How?”
Miss Clark looked at him again with the same glint of humor in her eyes that he had seen in her father’s earlier. “As you mentioned once before, Mr. Pitney. We dig.”
After fifteen minutes of exploring possibilities, Lydia helped Mr. Pitney ascertain that the hook-shaped scar surely symbolized the way Count Ferdinando’s life would change from misfortune to fortune, culminating with his marriage to Lucinda—who finally discovered her love for him when he rescued her from the Ghibellines. Had the scar turned downward instead, it would likely mean something else.
The rest of the novelette was much easier to decipher. Still, Mr. Pitney took a small notebook and pencil from his breast coat pocket after a while. “I use it while I work,” he explained in an apologetic tone. “With so many books to learn, I’m afraid I’ll get them confused.”
I hope she appreciates all your effort, Lydia thought. Though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer, she could not stop herself from asking. “Was Miss Rawlins impressed with your insight of the first two stories?”
“Well…” Absently he rolled a pencil against his knee with the palm of his hand. “I haven’t drawn her into a conversation about them yet.”
“You haven’t?”
“I suppose I’ve been afraid I’ll forget everything we’ve discussed and look like a greater fool.”
“Never! A man who can find stories from things pulled out of the ground?”
He gave her a grateful, if surprised, look. “Thank you for saying that.”
“Well, it’s so.” She knew she must sound terribly forward, but if it was forward to tell the truth, then she would just have to accept that. But to take the compliment any further would be downright flirtatious, and so she veered the subject into another direction by asking how the excavation was progressing.
“Very well,” he said, animation flooding his expression. “We uncovered something recently that could have significant meaning.”
“What did you find?”
He told her about a bracelet that could possibly have belonged to the daughter of Roman Governor Cerealis. “He left Britain in A.D. 74, so it would naturally predate that time.”
“What makes you suspect it might have been his daughter’s?”
“The workmanship was extraordinarily fine, which would make it beyond the wages of the average Roman legionnaire. And most importantly, the name Vernita was engraved inside.” Leaning forward intently, he explained, “You see, it has always been assumed that Cerealis had little interest in expanding Roman territory in Britain. The only fortification he is known to have built is at York. If we can find enough evidence that he initiated a push to the west, it would be quite a revelation. No doubt the Archeological Association would extend our work here indefinitely.”
“So you must wonder constantly if this will be the day you find more proof.”
“It makes brushing dirt away a little more exciting,” he agreed, then frowned. “I wish we hadn’t been
so hasty about shipping the bracelet to London so I could show it to you.”
That he would care to have her see his work brought a small ache to Lydia’s chest. If Mr. Pitney was this thoughtful to someone with whom he shared only a business arrangement, what must it be like to be the object of his affection? Afraid that her face was wearing her thoughts, she scooped up the cat just to have something to do. “When you find your other proof, I would enjoy seeing it.”
“Absolutely, Miss Clark.” With a glance toward the clock, which read half-past nine, he got to his feet. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize the time.”
Lydia carefully put the cat to the side and rose. “That’s not considered late at this house, Mr. Pitney.”
He gave her another grateful look as they walked through the cottage together. “Perhaps you would care to watch us work one day when school is out? People come up there every now and then.”
“That would be interesting,” Lydia told him noncommittally, but smiling. When he was gone, she carried Veronique and the Highwayman, her next assignment, upstairs to her room to read for a little while before turning out the lamp. As harsh as her thoughts had been toward Miss Rawlins, Lydia realized she was in the writer’s debt. If Miss Rawlins wasn’t making it so difficult for Mr. Pitney to initiate a courtship, he would have no reason to call here on Monday nights. And Mondays were becoming more and more special to Lydia.
She thought about his invitation to watch the excavation. She had too much pride to take advantage of any invitation that was extended for politeness’ sake. But if he ever mentioned it again, she decided she would make that trek up the Anwyl. What did she have to lose?
I’m going to do it today, Jacob thought atop the Anwyl on Tuesday afternoon as he brushed another layer of dirt from the base of what was appearing to be a small urn. When panic quickened his pulse, he reminded himself of Miss Clark’s assurance that he wasn’t a fool. A man who can find stories from things pulled out of the ground? she had even added.
The thought fanned the feeble flame of his self-confidence so much that by the time he sat down at the Larkspur’s supper table that evening, he felt a rush of disappointment that Miss Rawlins did not appear. If she was sequestered in her chamber penning a new story, it could be hours before she came downstairs. But he was willing to wait, so after the meal he settled into a hall chair and listened to the other lodgers discuss favorite places they had visited during the courses of their lives.
It was during Mrs. Dearing’s account of the days of the California Gold Rush that Jacob’s eyelids began to flutter. The voices began to swirl pleasantly about him, just as the gravel and water swirled in the pans of the forty-niners, and he lapsed into a dream about hopeful men standing up to their knees in the American River.
He had no idea of how much time had passed when he heard Mr. Durwin’s voice nudging him back into consciousness. “Mr. Pitney?”
Jacob became aware, in that fraction of a second just before opening his eyes, that his jaw was hanging wide open. A snort escaped him as he snapped it shut. He straightened in his chair and blinked at Mr. Durwin’s sleep-blurred image.
“You were snoring, Mr. Pitney,” he whispered.
“Oh…I’m sorry.” And that was when he noticed that the chair on his immediate left was filled with the svelte form of Miss Rawlins. Though she appeared to be absorbed in the account Mr. Ellis was giving of the fortnight he had spent at Interlaken with relatives as a boy, Jacob’s vision grew clear enough to catch the faint amusement in her expression.
Heat rising to his cheeks, his immediate impulse was to flee the room. Again he had proved himself a total social misfit, so what use was there in attempting to impress her? But Jacob thought then of Miss Clark and how disappointed she would be to learn that he had lost heart again. He cleared his throat and gave a mirthless little chuckle. “I didn’t realize I was so sleepy.”
Miss Rawlins merely glanced at him long enough to give a quick nod, then turned her attention back to Mr. Ellis. Jacob sighed inwardly and assumed a listening posture that belied the racing of his mind. It wasn’t that Mr. Ellis’s travelogue of Switzerland wasn’t interesting, but he could have been giving the secret of growing gold sovereigns in clay pots, and Jacob couldn’t have forced himself to pay attention. He was totally absorbed with waiting for a break in the narrative so that he could speak with Miss Rawlins.
So when it at last came, he was ready. “I enjoyed The Sandringhams of Longdendale, Miss Rawlins,” he told her in as casual a voice as possible.
She turned to him again with her little smile. “Very kind of you to say, Mr. Pitney.”
It appeared she was about to look away again, when he forced himself to say, “A very complex character, Lord Sandringham. It’s interesting to see how the events of our childhoods set the stage for our later performances as adults.”
“Why, that’s true,” she said, staring as if he had just recited the Gesta Romanorum—in Latin. “And I attempted to portray that in the story.”
“As you did so skillfully. Just look at the influence his governess had over the choices he made, even though she had passed away when he was just a boy.”
A tentative appreciation came into the smoky gray eyes behind her spectacles. “Thank you, Mr. Pitney.”
He decided it was time for a swift coup de grace.
“The governess reminds me in a way of the magistrate in The Marquis’ Daughter. While her influence was positive, except that her death caused young Lord Sandringham an insecurity about life, the magistrate’s influence on young Nicola is extremely negative—and his death frees her to live life to the fullest.”
She actually blinked. Twice. “Why, Mr. Pitney. I’m flattered that you’ve devoted so much thought to my prose.”
Returning her smile, Jacob thought, And I’m grateful that you’re so bright, Miss Clark.
Chapter 29
On Wednesday, May twenty-second, exactly four weeks since Noelle’s arrival in Gresham, a letter arrived for her. Only the return address was that of Mr. Radley. A dreadful foreboding accompanied her up the staircase to the privacy of her room, where she broke the seal and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper.
Dear Miss Somerville,
Please be advised that my client, the honorable Quetin Paxton, M.P., has decided, in the best interests of his marriage, that certain ties with the past must be severed. Therefore Lord Paxton requests that you, Miss Somerville, make no further attempts to contact him.
But being that Lord Paxton is a compassionate man, he is not without concern for your situation. He is hereby offering to sponsor your lodgings in Gresham for an indefinite period of time, determined solely upon your willingness to reside there. In addition, he will send a generous monthly allowance of two pounds, the first to be sent as soon as I receive word by return post or wire that this will be agreeable.
There was more, something to the effect that Lord Paxton wished her health and happiness for the future, but the words became blurred. And they really didn’t matter, for the gist of the letter was that he no longer wanted her. Suddenly bereft of strength, Noelle lowered herself to the carpet and wrapped her arms around her knees. The sobs began in the pit of her stomach, growing so much in intensity that she had to press her mouth to one knee to keep from sharing her grief with the whole house.
As it was, a knock sounded at the door.
“What is it?” Noelle managed through a raw throat after wiping her face upon the hem of her gown.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Sarah’s voice, filled with concern, came through the other side of the door.
“I’m fine. Go away, please.”
She spent the rest of the day atop the covers of her bed, with no appetite for meals nor company. Mrs. Dearing knocked once and called out to her, and later Mrs. Beemish came to see if she was in need of anything. She ignored both. Her thoughts moved frantically from image to image, her mind a stage upon which scenes of the past three years were played—scenes where she
had angered Quetin with some foolish observation or complaint, scenes of his surely being bored to death by her prattling on and on about the latest fashions, and so many images of her holding her hand outstretched for money.
And then another scene took center stage. Herself, playing Speculation with her only three women friends. Meara Desmond, with her amber cat-eyes, so smugly solicitous of her predicament. So unruffled, even though her means of support would be coming to an end any day. What had she said? Noelle strained her mind to remember.
“At least you’ll have the other lodgers to keep you company.”
“How did she know?” Noelle rasped into her sodden pillow. She went over every detail of that night and could not recall mentioning anything about her new living arrangements before Meara made her remark.
With dreadful clarity now, she could see why she was here. Perhaps Averyl Paxton was in London, perhaps not. But Quetin, with his repugnance for altercation, had found a way to cast her aside.
Gresham woke to a hazy sky on Thursday, and by noon the first black clouds had begun creeping in from the northwest. Three o’clock seemed more like seven as Harold reined Dan and Bob onto Church Lane, but still he was surprised to find a half dozen carriages and wagons queued in front of the grammar school, and Mr. Raleigh helping children into them.
“What happened to archery practice?” he asked Jack when he and Edgar appeared with lunch pails and books under their arms.
“Just look at the sky,” Jack replied, staring as if Harold had said something ignorant, while setting his books and lunch pail into the wagon bed.
That’s the trouble with all that schooling, Harold thought. Too big for their britches. “Well, it ain’t rainin’ yet.”
Edgar, climbing up the wagon spokes, shrugged. “Mr. Raleigh didn’t want us to get caught up in it.”
Harold ground his teeth. This wasn’t good. Miss Clark wouldn’t be by for another half hour yet, and he had no excuse to lurk around the school yard. With the archery tournament in just two more days, these fine opportunities for ignoring her would come to an end. Ignoring the questions of his brothers, he jumped from the wagon seat and stalked over to Mr. Raleigh, who at this time was helping Trudy Meeks into a wagon hitched to his two horses—and already crowded with Meeks and Kerns.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 30