The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  “What if it don’t rain for hours?” he demanded of the schoolmaster’s back.

  Mr. Raleigh turned to him with a puzzled look. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Hello, Mr. Sanders,” Trudy Meeks called from the carriage.

  “Hullo yourself,” Harold replied over the schoolmaster’s shoulder.

  “How are we gonter win that tournament if we don’t practice? It’s only two days away.”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in archery, Mr. Sanders,” Mr. Raleigh said, crossing his arms.

  “Well, my brothers are on the team, ain’t they?”

  “They’re our biggest assets, actually.”

  Harold narrowed his eyes. His brothers might be full of themselves since they got educated, but nobody who wasn’t a Sanders had the right to call them names. Only by the look on Mr. Raleigh’s face, he didn’t seem to intend any spite.

  Warily Harold asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that they’re excellent marksmen.” Mr. Raleigh glanced overhead, unfolded his arms, and took a step back toward his carriage. “Look, we’ll have to discuss this later, Mr. Sanders. I’ve still to get to the other school and try to deliver these children home before the sky falls out.”

  Resignedly, Harold was about to turn to leave when Mr. Raleigh’s words found their way through his felt cap. “The other school?” he asked as the schoolmaster climbed into his carriage seat.

  Mr. Raleigh picked up the reins. “To fetch Phoebe Meeks. Miss Clark knows to keep her there if the weather is threatening.”

  “Good idea,” Harold declared and took a step closer. “But why don’t I take the Meeks? I’ve got plenty of room in the wagon.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “That way mebbe we both can get back home before the rain.”

  “May we please go with Mr. Sanders?” Lester Meeks asked his schoolmaster.

  Harold could have kissed him.

  Ten minutes later he was reining the horses to a halt in the lane outside Miss Clark’s school. “Want me to fetch her?” Mark asked from the back.

  “I’ll do it.” Harold was already handing the reins to Jack, who sat on the bench beside him. “And you’ll have to move when Miss Clark comes out.”

  “But I thought we were here for Phoebe,” Edgar said.

  By then, Harold was halfway to the porch. “Her too.” Once inside the schoolroom, however, he realized he had forgotten how unreasonable Miss Clark could be.

  “Thank you, but my father will be along shortly,” was her reply to his offer, even though she had smiled sweetly and thanked him for coming for Phoebe.

  “Don’t you wonter save him the trouble?”

  “He’s likely halfway here already. Besides, your taking me home would increase the chances of you getting caught up in it.” She actually shooed him out of her schoolroom as if he were a guinea rooster in her garden. “You had best hurry, Mr. Sanders.”

  Harold’s thoughts were as dark as the clouds overhead as he escorted Phoebe out to the wagon. Or rather walked in front of her, for he was so vexed that he took long fast strides.

  “Is Miss Clark still coming?” Lester asked, craning his neck to see past Jack’s shoulder.

  Harold flung the boy a look that silenced him. In fact, none of his passengers said another word until he reined the horses onto Arnold Lane, and then only to reply to his question about the location of the Meeks’ cottage.

  “It’s the first one, Mr. Sanders,” Mark offered while from the distance came the rumble of thunder. “I’ll show you.”

  Soon he was letting children out of the wagon in the carriage drive of a weathered cottage. There were no cattle in the pasture, but the barn door was closed, and he reckoned that the children’s mother had penned the animals inside for the approaching storm. He didn’t think he had ever met her, not even in town. It’s a shame that a woman had to tend children and this farm without a man, he thought. Dairying was hard work.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” the three children said almost at the same time after Jack and Edgar had assisted them to the ground.

  Harold merely nodded, but then because Trudy was looking at him with expectant green eyes and it wasn’t her fault that Miss Clark was so stubborn, he followed with a gruff, “You’re welcome.”

  The thunder rumbled, this time louder. “Now take yourselves on inside before you get rained on,” he ordered.

  “And there it is,” Lydia announced, crossing the front parlor to collect her father’s pipe from the criss-cross table that held his palette, assorted jars of paint, a bottle of linseed oil, and brushes and rags smudged with dried paint. Rain beat a continuous tattoo against the windowpanes, which rattled with every clap of thunder. From the easel the Worthy sisters’ likenesses stared, as if to say, We could have told you where his pipe was if you’d only asked.

  Holding the lamp closer to the finished portrait, Lydia wondered where her father would hang it once it was framed. It wasn’t enough that the sisters’ watchful eyes took in almost everything that went on in the village—now they would gaze at her from one of the cottage walls. But it could be worse, she thought as two other faces came into her mind. Immediately she chided herself for the uncharitable thought—for Mr. Towly had left her alone since the altercation at the crossroads, and Harold Sanders, except for today’s offer of a ride, had been considerate enough to ignore her for over two weeks now.

  She was heading for the stairs when a tentative knock sounded at the door—so low that for a second she panicked, thinking that Jeanie had somehow been let out into the storm. Only she then remembered seeing the cat upstairs, curled in her mother’s rocking chair. Crossing the room, she opened the door and raised her lamp. “Mr. Pitney?”

  “I realize it’s late, and it’s not our usual meeting night….” Though the porch provided shelter from the rain, he was holding an umbrella aloft, and his words spilled out in an uncharacteristic rush, as if he feared she would slam the door. “But I saw your lights were still burning, and I remember your saying that you stay up late—”

  “Do come in.”

  “Oh, I shan’t stay but a minute….”

  “I can barely hear you for the rain, Mr. Pitney.” Lydia stepped back to allow him entrance. “Please?”

  A blush, obvious even in the lamplight, rose to his cheeks as he closed his umbrella and propped it just outside the door. “I’m not usually so impulsive, Miss Clark.”

  “Life wouldn’t be as exciting if we thought out everything,” she offered affably, to show that she wasn’t annoyed by his appearance. On the contrary. She just wished she was wearing something besides her faded-but-too-comfortable-for-the-rag-bin chenille wrapper, and that she had not been so hasty about taking down her hair, for she looked like an Amazon woman with it hanging loose about her shoulders.

  “Lydia…my pipe?”

  Begging Mr. Pitney’s pardon, she stepped over to the door leading to the staircase and rest of the cottage. “In a minute, Papa!” No sense in pretending to be genteel in this household, she thought. In the course of taking the few steps back to her visitor, she realized with an aching heart what this unexpected visit had to be about. The lessons worked.

  “I couldn’t wait to tell you that the lessons were successful,” Mr. Pitney declared. “Miss Rawlins and I chatted for what seemed like hours last night about the three novelettes you and I studied. And the reason I couldn’t come here earlier is that we sat in the library after supper and continued the discussion. She even apologized for telling me that I lacked imagination.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Pitney,” Lydia told him, and in a way she was truly happy for him, for he radiated a confidence that she had not seen during his three visits. But then a sad thought occurred to her. Her services were no longer required. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch that other book.”

  Brown eyes uncomprehending, he said, “But we haven’t discussed it.”

  “I thought…”

 
Fear flooded his handsome face. “Oh, but I’ve already told Miss Rawlins I plan to read every book she’s written. I would never be able to understand them on my own. Please, Miss Cl—”

  “Very well, Mr. Pitney. I assumed I was being dismissed.”

  “Dismissed?” He shook his head adamantly. “I should never have had the nerve to speak with her again without your help. You will allow the lessons to continue, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you!”

  The relief in his voice made Lydia smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Pitney.”

  “Well, I should go now,” he said.

  Yet something in his expression seemed to say that he would be content to linger for a while. But of course he had dreamed of winning Miss Rawlins’ respect for a long time, Lydia told herself. Why shouldn’t he enjoy speaking about it?

  “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Miss Clark,” he told her, reaching back for the doorknob.

  You could take up the rest of my life, rushed into Lydia’s head. She was shocked at herself for the most unschoolmistress-like thought and hoped her expression hadn’t given her away. Just to be sure, she shifted her eyes from his face to look down at the pipe in her hand. “No apology is necessary, Mr. Pitney. But I should bring this upstairs before my father becomes apoplectic.”

  Her father unwittingly came to her assistance then by bellowing out, “Lydia!”

  With another apology for the late hour, Mr. Pitney thanked her for her part in his good news and took his leave. Lydia leaned against the closed door and listened to his footsteps on the porch. She could tell when he paused to open his umbrella, and then stepped out onto the sodden steps, making little splashing sounds as he walked down the stone path. And then there was only the sound of the rain. For a second or two, her ears strained for any sound of his turning around to come back, but reason soon prevailed.

  As she carried her father’s pipe upstairs, she thought about the hundreds of novels she had read over the years. Unrequited love had been the theme of many. Surely one should have warned her of how painful it could be.

  Having spent the whole morning in the Larkspur’s cellar among their latest artifacts, Jacob and Mr. Ellis had to change their dusty clothes for lunch. Jacob was just leaving his bedchamber when he spotted Miss Rawlins farther down the corridor near the staircase. He cleared his throat.

  “Uh, Miss Rawlins?” She turned, and her pleased expression caused his heart to make a little leap.

  “Mr. Pitney? Why aren’t you on the hill?”

  “Last night’s rain,” he reminded her, hurrying to catch up.

  “You don’t dig when the ground is wet?”

  “We can’t.” He was overjoyed that she was asking him about his work. “You see, we don’t actually dig for fear of damaging the artifacts. We brush the dirt away, a layer at a time.” Mr. Ellis had explained this at least once at the supper table, and Jacob had spent many an inclement day indoors, but he couldn’t fault Miss Rawlins for forgetting. After all, her mind was likely overburdened enough with story plots.

  They took the first downward steps side by side. “Well, where have you been all morning?” she asked.

  “In the cellar. We save days like this for cleaning the most recently found artifacts, then cataloging and packaging them for shipment.”

  “Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s a bit less tedious than digging in the dirt all day.”

  We don’t actually dig, he started to remind her, but then his heart fell. Not only did she have no interest in his profession, but she found it boring. Misery threatened to overwhelm him, but then he reminded himself that he was not his profession, no matter how dear archeology was to him. And hadn’t she listened attentively to his every word for the past two evenings?

  “Have you been writing all morning?” he asked.

  A smile lit her face, and he was proud that he had caused it.

  “Valentina of the Apennines,” she replied. “And as fast as my poor fingers could bear. After mulling all week over how to reconcile Valentina and Count Lobue after their misunderstanding, inspiration struck this morning.”

  They paused at the foot of the staircase across from the dining room, and she was so caught up in her plot that she absently rested a hand upon his sleeve. He wished he had the courage to put his hand over hers.

  “You see,” Miss Rawlins went on, “Valentina’s cousin, Mercede, has been a minor character so far, but it occurred to me that she could be the instrument to reconcile the two. And you’ll never guess how she does it.”

  Jacob smiled at the excitement in her eyes. “How?”

  “She’ll forge a letter to each, pretending it’s from the other. They’ll say basically the same thing, begging for forgiveness and requesting a meeting in Signor Patrizio’s conservatory.”

  “Yes, very good.” Jacob nodded. “Just as Aimee did in Rachelle of Chaminox. It worked splendidly that time, so why shouldn’t it again?”

  The smile left her face just as her hand left his sleeve. “It’s not exactly the same, Mr. Pitney.”

  “Oh. I see.” But he didn’t see, and his mind raced to figure out why.

  “In Rachelle of Chaminox, Aimee didn’t forge letters to Rachelle and General Massena. She sent her lady’s maid to deliver the messages in person. And they were to meet at a gazebo, not a conservatory. Really, Mr. Pitney, a child could have seen the difference.”

  Humbled, he followed her into the dining room, where the others had assembled and were involved in conversation. Even Mrs. Somerville was present after having spent two days in her room with a headache.

  “It’s good to see you at the table, Mrs. Somerville,” Mrs. Dearing said after everyone had filled a plate from the two sideboards. “I hope this means you’ve recovered.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied with a smile that seemed forced to Jacob. In fact, she looked as bleak as he felt.

  “Were the herbal teas beneficial at all?” Mr. Durwin asked her.

  Mrs. Somerville nodded. “It was very thoughtful of you to send them up.”

  She was fussed over by other lodgers with advice for warding off any future headaches, from Mr. Jensen’s deep breathing exercises to Mrs. Clay’s avoidance of highly seasoned foods. Jacob would have suggested his mother’s sworn remedy, a daily dose of cod liver oil, but he feared he would somehow say the wrong thing again.

  It seemed that the only women, besides his mother and sister, with whom he could share his innermost thoughts were Miss Clark and Mrs. Dearing. He winced inside at the memory of his most recent conversation with Miss Rawlins. Perhaps misunderstandings were usual and even to be expected in all courtships. There was inevitably at least one misunderstanding between the hero and heroine of every one of Miss Rawlins’ stories he had read so far, and she was much wiser to the ways of the world than was he.

  That reassured him a little. And when the meal was over, he was quick to seek her out in the corridor before she could disappear into her chamber again. “I must beg your forgiveness,” he said earnestly. “I spoke before thinking.”

  She looked up at him with a serious expression, yet her words were kind. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Pitney. You wandered in creative darkness for years, so we can’t expect enlightenment to come all at once.”

  Knees weak from relief, he fairly gushed, “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” Incredibly, she smiled. “And you would pay me a courtesy by addressing me as Eugenia, if you wish.”

  His heart skipped a beat. “I may?”

  “Yes, you may…Jacob.”

  Chapter 30

  By late Friday morning, enough of the shock had worn off to allow Noelle to draft a reply to Mr. Radley’s letter. Only she would have sooner cut off a finger than correspond with the odious toad, so she decided to respond to Quetin directly. Or rather, indirectly through Valerie Bradburn, the closest person to a true friend that Noelle had in the world. Surely she would find a way to ge
t it to him without Averyl Paxton’s knowledge.

  Dearest Quetin,

  Whatever I have done to incur your disfavor, I beg of you the opportunity to make amends.

  Her words took much effort and were frustratingly formal. She would have rather poured out her angst and told him of the sleepless nights and how her heart felt like a gaping wound in her chest. But Quetin would take one glance at such a letter and toss it away.

  Sending me here to Gresham was a wise action, I can now see. My character has matured over the past four weeks. I have learned not to complain so much and to appreciate all the things I have.

  The latter part wasn’t quite true, for she still had some concern about her belongings. Especially tormenting was the thought of Meara Desmond bedecked in her jewelry. But mentioning that would cause him to think she was more concerned about the financial loss than the loss of his affection, which was certainly not the case.

  If you would just allow me one more opportunity to see you, I am certain you would agree that I have become a much more agreeable companion.

  “Keep it brief,” she murmured, forcing herself to close the letter with a simple Very truly yours and sign her name. Of all times, she couldn’t afford to try his patience now.

  She penned a letter to Valerie next. This time she poured out her heart, having to stop to wipe her eyes and blow her nose several times. On the way to take the envelope—addressed to Valerie—to the letter box, she came across the Durwins and Clays in the hall. The men sat on opposite sides of the draughts table, and the women were chatting while walking toward the front door. All faces turned in her direction when Mr. Durwin spoke.