The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

Berating herself for her usual fallacy of not leaving well enough alone, Noelle waved a hand. “Oh, one of those Dickens stories. Look, isn’t that another Gresham child at the target?”

  Chapter 32

  The distraction worked. This time Noelle decided not to tempt good fortune. Pressing hands about her, she murmured farewells and stepped down from the porch. She had woven her way around at least two dozen knots of spectators when she looked to her left and discovered she was passing directly behind Vicar Treves. By his stance she could tell he was totally absorbed by the match, which was fine with her because she had socialized enough for one day.

  She was turning her eyes to the front when a flash of movement startled her, just before she collided with something. She let out a gasp, lurched sideways, then found herself sitting on the damp cobbled stones, rubbing a throbbing chin and clamping the other hand over the skirt covering her left knee. Before her stood a brown-haired girl of about fifteen, surprisingly petite for the impact her skull had made upon Noelle’s chin.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the girl cried. “I didn’t see you!”

  Vicar Treves came to kneel beside her. “Are you hurt, Mrs. Somerville?”

  Having not yet collected her wits, Noelle could only gape at him.

  “Is she all right?” asked one of the several people standing and staring.

  “The girl ran right into her,” said another.

  “Shall we fetch the doctor?” someone offered after another round of cheering had abated. “I saw him but a minute ago.”

  “I think I’m all right,” Noelle finally said. Allowing Vicar Treves to take her arm, she attempted to ease up to her feet, but winced at the pain that shot through her knee and sat back down.

  “Will someone please find Doctor Rhodes?” the vicar asked. Two young men nodded and moved away. Noelle looked up again and realized the girl with whom she had collided stood as if frozen in place.

  “Is she hurt badly?” the girl asked with lips trembling. She blinked her eyes often as if she was weak-sighted.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing that Doctor Rhodes can’t mend,” Vicar Treves told her. “How about yourself? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, miss. I was looking for my mother.”

  “I wasn’t paying attention either,” Noelle felt obliged to admit. She felt ashamed that her most immediate impulse upon hitting the cobblestones had been to scold the lass, who looked as if she would crumble at the first harsh word. “And I’ll be fine.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.” She even mustered a strained smile. “Why don’t you run along now?”

  “Thank you, miss,” the girl said in a relieved voice before turning to sprint away.

  “That was terribly kind of you,” Vicar Treves told her, his blue eyes sympathetic.

  “Is my chin bruised?” Noelle asked.

  “Just a little red. You didn’t bang it against one of the rocks, did you?”

  “Her head. What are they feeding children these days? They’re certainly sturdy.” She wiggled her knee a fraction of an inch. “I believe I can walk now.”

  “Please wait. You could do yourself more damage. The doctor should be here shortly.”

  “Will you be all right, dearie?” an elderly woman wearing a stuffed redbird on her hat leaned down to ask.

  “Yes, thank you,” Noelle replied. To Vicar Treves she said, “It’s just embarrassing, sitting in the lane like this.”

  “Only the people in the immediate vicinity are even aware. And I’m down here with you.”

  “And I appreciate it,” Noelle said sincerely.

  They were soon joined by a gray-haired man with wiry muttonchop whiskers. “Good morning, madam,” he said, crouching down to look Noelle in the eyes. “I’m Doctor Rhodes.”

  “Noelle Somerville.” Noelle could only hope he was a bona fide doctor and not a barber or blacksmith or something of the sort. “It’s my knee.”

  “I see.” He raised a broad hand. “Can you tell how many fingers I’m holding up?”

  “Three. I didn’t hit my head, doctor.”

  “It’s very fortunate that you didn’t. Where do you live, Mrs. Somerville?”

  “The Larkspur.”

  “Indeed? We’re practically neighbors.” Doctor Rhodes turned to Vicar Treves, who had moved back a bit to allow him room. “You’re a strapping lad, Vicar. Can you carry Mrs. Somerville to my trap? It’s a fair distance past the refreshment booths, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, of course.” Vicar Treves looked at Noelle, his expression uncertain. “With your permission…”

  She had no choice but to grant it, and so after gathering her skirt close, she was swooped up into his arms. Her lips tightened as pain caught her again.

  “Your knee?” he asked, brows drawn together.

  “It’s not so bad if I hold it steady.” Like a child she was carried, her left arm hooked around his neck as he followed the doctor. Practically everyone they passed turned to stare, but there was nothing she could do about that. “Am I too heavy?” she asked when his breathing began to sound a little labored.

  “Not at all,” he replied in a huff of breath, then gave her a quick smile. “I could carry two of you twice as far.”

  She had to smile at that notion. “I’m sorry you’re missing the match.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll hear all the details this afternoon.”

  “There are other people here from…”

  “Lockwood,” he supplied. “Of course.”

  “You’re not worried about their disapproving?”

  “Of what?

  “You know…”

  He shook his head, paused to hoist her up higher, and resumed walking. “I’ll grant you rumors will fly that I’ve gotten myself engaged. But as long as I’m conducting myself morally, I don’t worry excessively anymore over my parishioners’ approval or disapproval.”

  This surprised her, because she had seen traces of self-consciousness in him. And wasn’t the approval of the congregation the primary concern of all men of the cloth? “Why not?”

  “Because I would go mad if I tried to appease every whim and wish. Vicar Phelps helped me see that. So I strive to please God…and sleep the better for it.”

  He was a stronger man than she had assumed on their first two meetings, Noelle thought, and not just physically. She envied his uncomplicated philosophy. If only her life could be that simple. But she had strayed so far from what was acceptable to God that the way back seemed hopelessly insurmountable. She had learned enough scripture as a child to know that repentance was the first step. How could she venture forth when in her heart of hearts she knew that if Quetin were to send for her, she would go?

  Just ahead Doctor Rhodes was climbing into a trap hitched to a piebald horse in the lane outside the Raleighs’ home. “Just put her here beside me,” he ordered, taking up the reins.

  “Shouldn’t I come along as well?” Vicar Treves asked as Noelle was hefted gently into the seat.

  “You’ll just be underfoot, Vicar,” the doctor replied. “Mrs. Rhodes and the servants are at home. I just came to the tournament to be on hand in case someone caught an arrow the wrong way. We’ll see that Mrs. Somerville is delivered safely to the Larkspur.”

  He snapped the reins, and the trap lurched into motion, sending shooting pains up Noelle’s knee. But when they had traveled some forty feet, she realized she had not thanked Vicar Treves. She twisted in the seat to look behind her, certain that he would be hurrying back to the tournament. But he still stood there, staring. When she lifted a hand to wave, he waved back.

  “Now, that was a lark, wasn’t it?” Amos Clark enthused as Wellington pulled the trap at a snail’s pace up Church Lane after Gresham’s archers were declared victors of the tournament for the first time. On either side people were returning to carriages and wagons or cottages.

  “Yes, a lark,” Lydia’s mother agreed.

  Lydia waved at the Keegan family members
walking along the lane in front of the grammar schoolhouse. “And winning was the frosting on the cake.”

  “The plum in the pudding,” Papa said. “Your turn, Oriel.”

  After a thoughtful second, her mother tentatively offered, “The cheese in the rarebit?”

  “Aye, that’s a good one. But all this talk of food is making me hungry.”

  “Mrs. Tanner left a soup on back of the stove, dear.” She turned to Lydia. “Why hasn’t your school an archery team, dear?”

  “I expect we will sometime,” Lydia told her. “Especially as more and more of Mr. Raleigh’s graduates come our way. But with so few villages having secondary schools, competition may have to wait a bit longer.”

  “Well, I’m looking on starting a team for old men,” Papa declared. “There are more than enough of us around.”

  Lydia smiled. “Wouldn’t you actually have to learn archery first?”

  “A minor complication,” he replied, waving a hand. “But I could if I were to put a mind to it. I learned to paint, didn’t I?”

  “That you did, Amos,” Mother agreed.

  “Ah, but then I wouldn’t have time to paint and read and swap jokes at the smithy’s, would I?” he mused as they stopped at the crossroads to yield for a cheese wagon lumbering up Market Lane.

  “That’s something to consider, dear.”

  “But it’s still an interesting sport, you have to admit. Hmm…look who’s taken a day off for a change,” he said and suddenly reined Wellington to the right instead of continuing across the lane.

  “Where are you going, Amos?” Lydia’s mother asked, but the words had no sooner left her mouth when they were stopped in front of the Larkspur.

  “Hello, Mr. Pitney,” Papa called, already tying the reins around the whip socket.

  Lydia leaned forward to look past her parents and was struck by dread. Mr. Pitney was indeed in the garden, handsome in his Sunday tweed and a blue cravat. And he wasn’t alone. “Papa!” she whispered fiercely, but he was already halfway out of the trap.

  “It’s too late, dear,” Mother whispered, her brown eyes sympathetic. “But we’ll try to get him away as soon as possible.”

  “Couldn’t I just slip out and walk home?”

  “Not without seeming rude, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you coming or not?” her father asked while holding the garden gate. Turning again to Mr. Pitney, who had taken a few steps away from a blanket-draped bench in which Miss Rawlins was seated, he enthused, “You should have been there at the tournament, Mr. Pitney. We edged past Prescott with eleven points to spare.”

  “Yes?” The archeologist actually looked pleased. “Good day, Mrs. Clark…Miss Clark,” he said as they walked past her grinning father, whom Lydia could have gladly strangled. “You’ve met Miss Rawlins, I presume?”

  “Not personally,” Papa supplied.

  The writer set aside some papers from her lap and rose to her feet. “I’m charmed,” she said, smiling and offering a hand first to Lydia’s mother as introductions were made. But the gray eyes behind the spectacles showed clear signs of annoyance. “We would offer you a seat,” she said apologetically. “But the other benches are too damp for comfort.”

  “We could sit inside,” Mr. Pitney suggested.

  “The soup?” Lydia murmured at her father’s side. “Remember you’re hungry?”

  Coming to her aid, Mother added, “And they’ll be having their lunch here soon as well.”

  Papa looked disappointed. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “But not for at least a half hour,” Mr. Pitney assured him. “Do come inside, won’t you?”

  “Yes, do come inside,” Miss Rawlins echoed with considerably less enthusiasm.

  “Only if you’ll promise to chase us out when it’s time for us to leave,” Lydia’s father replied.

  The archeologist chuckled. “I’ll leave that to Mrs. Herrick, sir.”

  Two minutes later they were settled upon facing sofas in the hall. Along with Mr. Pitney and Miss Rawlins sat Mrs. Dearing, whom Lydia had met at the lending library. The elderly woman had offered to leave the hall but was assured by all that her presence would be most welcome. Too discomfited to stare across at Mr. Pitney and Miss Rawlins, Lydia allowed her eyes to wander as much as possible. As a girl she had accompanied her parents two or three times to visit Mr. Ethan Banning, the Larkspur’s former owner. Nothing seemed to have changed, from the cavernous fireplace to the multicolored carpets on the floor and the pianoforte against one wall.

  “They conducted themselves like proper young gentlemen…and gentlewomen,” Papa was saying. “All four teams. Archery is such a civilized sport, isn’t it?”

  “Only it didn’t start out as a sport,” Mr. Pitney tactfully reminded him. “And it’s still used in intertribal fighting in Africa and South America, and even some places in the Far East.”

  “When did we stop using bows and arrows, Mr. Pitney?” Mrs. Dearing asked. “For fighting, I mean.”

  “Why, Mrs. Dearing, who have you been fighting?” Lydia’s father demanded with raised eyebrows, though he hardly knew her.

  I’m adopted, Lydia thought.

  But Mrs. Dearing laughed. “By we, I mean England, Mr. Clark. I suspect you know that anyway. Do tell us, Mr. Pitney.”

  It was touching to Lydia how Mr. Pitney’s face glowed, like that of a well-rehearsed soloist about to perform. “In 1588, Mrs. Dearing. Ten thousand English troops, experimentally equipped with firearms, defeated the Spanish Armada. The Spanish still relied heavily upon archers, you see.”

  “Fascinating, Mr. Pitney,” commented Lydia’s mother.

  “Yes, fascinating,” Miss Rawlins said with a wooden smile as she rose from the sofa, her papers in hand. “But I’m afraid I’ve tons of work to attend upstairs.”

  “Why don’t you wait?” Mrs. Dearing asked. “You’ll just have to stop for lunch before you get good and started.”

  “That’s all right. I seem to have little appetite at the moment.”

  She bade everyone good-day and crossed the room, the hem of her pink and white gown whispering against the carpet. Lydia observed Mr. Pitney’s face as he watched her leave. Gone was the confident glow. In fact, his face resembled Billy Casper’s the day she had come upon him in the cloakroom putting a toad in Helen Johnson’s lunch pail.

  “This has been such a pleasant visit, but we’ll be running along now,” Lydia’s mother said with a quiet forcefulness that Lydia had seen only a few times in her life. Her father, also recognizing her change of tone, did not argue. Mr. Pitney’s smile returned as good-days were exchanged, but he could not mask the worry in his brown eyes.

  “What was wrong with stopping?” Lydia’s father asked defensively as he drove the trap on down Church Lane. “Mr. Pitney was glad to see us.”

  “Because he was with Miss Rawlins,” Mother explained in that same insistent tone, while Lydia wished the whole matter could be dropped.

  “Well, I know he’s fond of her, or he wouldn’t have Lydia helping him read all those books. But surely that doesn’t mean he wants nothing to do with nobody else when—”

  “Amos,” Mother cut in.

  “Yes?”

  “This hasn’t to do with Mr. Pitney or Miss Rawlins or us. Lydia wasn’t comfortable there.”

  “Mother…” Lydia interrupted.

  Her mother took her hand and squeezed it.

  “And why not, pray tell?” Father demanded. “Why, she and Mr. Pitney get along just famously, like two peas in—” But this time he stopped himself, saying not another word until the trap came to rest in the carriage drive of their cottage. “Daughter?” he said, his aged brow furrowed as he leaned forward to look past his wife.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “You’ve grown fond of Mr. Pitney, haven’t you?”

  She had kept very few things from her parents. Tears stung the corners of both eyes. “I have.”

  Wellington snorted and stamped a foot, ready to be
let out of the traces, but still her father sat and stared. “I’m an old fool, aren’t I? I never even realized…”

  “It’s all right, Papa,” she said, mustering a reassuring smile for his sake. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Mayhap you should tell him. Could be he’s smitten with this writer woman because he thinks he can do no better.”

  “Papa, I’m not any better—”

  “In a pig’s eye, you’re not! You know how I hate to be judgmental, but she sat there looking like she’d been weaned on vinegar.”

  He would get no argument about that from Lydia, for that was exactly what had happened. But she shook her head. Society had changed considerably since she was a child. Most people considered it just as important to educate girls as boys, and now women could be secretaries and even doctors. But some things had not changed, and a woman just couldn’t go telling a man how she felt about him. Especially when that feeling was not reciprocated. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Well, why not?”

  Her mother finally spoke again. “She just can’t, Amos. And don’t you go doing it for her.”

  “It was so good of you to bring us home, Mr. Sanders,” Mrs. Meeks told him at her cottage door. “But you really didn’t have to. We’re used to walking everywhere.”

  “It was on my way anyway,” Harold told her. And it was mostly true, for Arnold Lane was just a little detour off North Market Lane. He had not meant to stay so long, but the children had begged, and their mother offered tea and egg sandwiches. And his brothers weren’t there to pester him about getting home, for he had made them get a ride with Mercy and Seth when he decided to make the offer to Mrs. Meeks. Glancing at the barn, he asked, “How do you get milk to the factory?”

  “Mr. Fletcher is kind enough to help with that. With us only having five cows, there’s room for our cans in his wagon.”

  “Oh. And you milk them all yourself?”

  She smiled, lightening the overworked look of her face. “There are helpful hands a-plenty here. All of the children can milk, as I’m sure you could do at an early age.”

  “Now there’s a truth. When I learnt to walk, my papa shoved a bucket in my hands.”