“Aw, I don’t mind,” Harold said.
“But I’m trying to teach her to be a lady. It’s naught against you, Mr. Sanders. You understand, don’t you?”
He didn’t. “A lady? But she’s just a girl.”
“We mold the clay before it’s set, Mr. Sanders.”
That he did understand, and he was a little surprised at himself for doing so. If Trudy, who likely threw herself at him because she didn’t have a father, didn’t learn to stop while she was young, who knew what trouble it could get her into later? “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “That makes sense to me.”
“But I’m glad she’s fond of you,” Mrs. Meeks said, smiling again. “At least she knows kindness.”
“Hello, Mr. Sanders,” the girl said from her mother’s side.
His cheeks warm from Mrs. Meeks’ unexpected compliment, Harold reached out to pat the top of the girl’s ribboned brown hair. “Hullo, Trudy.”
From the corner of his eye he could see Miss Clark and her parents, which made him remember exactly why he was there. “I brought the wagon today. Can I offer you a ride home?”
“Why, that’s good of you. But we don’t mind walking.”
“But I pass right by your lane,” he insisted with another glance in the Clarks’ direction. “Seems a shame to waste a whole wagon and team on just me.”
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
When he assured her that he didn’t, Mrs. Meeks sent Trudy to round up the other children. Soon the four had settled into the bed of the wagon. Harold helped Mrs. Meeks up to the driver’s bench to sit beside him.
“Will you make them run, Mr. Sanders?” Lester asked from behind as Harold picked up the reins.
Harold sent an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Can’t do that. Too hard on the horses.”
“Don’t they ever run?” asked Mark.
“Out in the pasture. Now, settle down back there so’s you don’t go fallin’ out.”
“Yes, settle down, children,” Mrs. Meeks said, then turned to Harold with a trace of worry in her expression. “Perhaps I should sit back there with them?”
Harold could see Miss Clark and her parents making their way across the green. He smiled at the woman beside him and shook his head. “We’ll go slow. They’ll be fine.”
“Now, who in thunderation would be driving on the green?” Amos Clark muttered, taking Lydia and her mother by their elbows as he looked over his shoulder.
Lydia peered back as well. Harold Sanders sat in the seat of his father’s wagon, looking proud as a housecat with Mrs. Meeks seated beside him. Lydia and her parents returned their waves as the wagon passed alongside them, then those of the Meeks’ children from the wagon bed. When all the waving was finished, they resumed walking, and Lydia’s father grinned at her.
“Ignoring you didn’t work out according to plan, so now I suppose he figures to make you jealous.”
“Perhaps he is really fond of her,” Lydia said hopefully, watching the wagon turn from the green onto Market Lane to head north. “He’s been very good to her children.”
“That would be a remarkably swift change of heart, dear,” her mother pointed out. “I suspect the same as your father.”
“So are you jealous, daughter?” her father asked in a droll voice.
With a little mock sigh, Lydia replied, “I’ll survive, I expect.” She glanced to her right in the distance, where Mr. Pitney and Miss Rawlins strolled along the willows arm in arm. Terribly jealous! May God forgive me. Even though the jealousy gnawing at her insides was sinful and destructive to her own peace of mind, she could not make it go away. And reminding herself that she had never had Mr. Pitney’s affection in the first place did not lessen the pain.
How ironic that she practically lived for Monday evenings, during which she helped him win the affections of another woman. Perhaps they’ll name their first daughter after you, she told herself bitterly. She glanced to her right again and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. This has to stop or you’ll drive yourself mad.
“It’s a shame you missed such a lovely service, dear,” Mrs. Durwin said to Noelle at the lunch table after Mr. Jensen had delivered the prayer and plates were filled with servings of shoulder of lamb with soubise sauce, celery a la creme, and stuffed tomatoes.
“Thank you,” Noelle told her.
“Are you better now?” asked Mr. Ellis.
She smiled at him. “Yes, much.” Though her knee had not pained her in days, it had developed imaginary twinges overnight, which prevented her from leaving with the others for worship. That was what she told everyone at breakfast, and it had generated the expected sympathy. And she was half-truthful, for she had been afflicted with twinges. Only of the conscience, or what little of it remained. She simply could not bring herself to sit in a church service, knowing how frequently Mr. Clay had been in her thoughts since he delivered that invitation.
But however wrong she knew her attraction to him to be, she could not will herself to stop thinking about him. That a man with Mr. Clay’s wealth and fame might possibly be interested in her made her feel for the first time since being ground underfoot by Quetin that she did have some value after all.
Sending a covert glance down the table, she wondered at the animated way he discussed with Mr. Jensen and Mr. Ellis the results of last week’s Derby at Epsom Downs just outside of London. If he missed his wife, he certainly didn’t show it. Why are you tormenting yourself? some cynical, almost bitter voice said in her mind. Any woman who would leave such an attractive man for any length of time deserved whatever happened in her absence.
She was seated in the empty hall the next afternoon, resuming the crocheting she had abandoned, when Mr. Clay walked in, as she had hoped he would if she was patient enough. They exchanged greetings, and then he asked if she had seen Mr. Durwin.
“Why, yes,” Noelle replied with a nod toward the front door. “He mentioned something about the barber. But Mrs. Durwin is in the garden with Mrs. Dearing, if you wish to speak with her.”
The actor glanced at the door but shook his head. “No, thank you. Mr. Durwin owes me a draughts match, but I’ll just—”
Don’t let him turn away. Noelle sat up attentively. “You know, I haven’t played draughts since I was a girl.”
“You haven’t?” he said, giving her a polite smile.
“If you enjoy winning, I would be a more suitable competitor than Mr. Durwin. I’m sure I’m terribly rusty.”
He actually chuckled. “I enjoy winning honestly, Mrs. Somerville. I’ve just now managed to get Mr. Durwin past thinking he has to hold back.”
“If I promise to try with all my might?” She held up her unfinished dresser scarf and smiled helplessly. “I’ve been crocheting until my fingers are beginning to ache.”
It appeared that he was about to decline, but then he shrugged and stepped over to assist her to her feet. “Very well, Mrs. Somerville. But I warn you, I take the game seriously. You’ll not be given leeway for your lack of experience.”
“I consider myself forewarned,” she replied as he pulled out the chair to the draughts table for her.
“Very well.” But for all his stern talk, he removed two of his wooden game pieces before the match ever began. “Just so I can live with myself,” he grumbled.
He could have removed half his pieces, and they still would have been woefully mismatched, Noelle realized within seconds. Not that she cared who was winning. But he took time to explain his strategy and to tell her why the moves she had made were not wise ones. “May we give it another try?” she asked when the first match was finished before a half hour had passed.
“Are you sure you want to suffer through that again?”
“How will I learn if I don’t practice? And no removing any pieces ahead of time either.”
“I do admire your spirit, Mrs. Somerville,” he said as he repositioned the pieces on the checkered board.
This time the match moved more slowly,
as Noelle thought out her moves and tried her best to remember the strategies he had demonstrated. He would win again, of course, but at least she could show him that she appreciated his spending time with her enough to pay attention. “How did you become skillful at this?” she asked when he had scooped up another of her game pieces.
“Backstage, when my father was an actor. And later, when I was assigned bit parts. There was nothing to do in between my brief appearances onstage, and I proved to have no skill at cards, so…”
She asked him to tell her more about his experiences in the theatre. And judging by the glint in his gray eyes, she could tell that he enjoyed relating them to her. She was a bit surprised and disappointed when he declined a third match. When he said, “I believe I’ll trot along to the barber’s and see what’s keeping Mr. Durwin,” she wondered if she had only imagined any interest in her on his part.
But as he pulled out the chair for her, he asked, “Have you considered accepting the Bartleys’ luncheon invitation?”
Telling herself that the faint disappointment she felt at the actor and even herself was just nervous jitters, Noelle lowered her lashes and pretended to be demure. “I haven’t decided yet,” she lied. “What would you advise?”
“I would strongly advise you accept, Mrs. Somerville.” He smiled knowingly. “Why, your whole future could be affected.”
It had been so long since Noelle blushed that she was surprised to feel the heat steal up into her cheeks. “Are you…?”
“Yes?”
But the door opened, and Mrs. Dearing, Mrs. Durwin, and a freshly clipped Mr. Durwin entered with baskets of garden flowers in their arms. Afraid that she would not be able to look at Mr. Clay without revealing her thoughts, Noelle went to her room, which was still downstairs because Mr. Jensen suggested another week to be certain she was completely able to take on the steps. Her crocheting was still in the hall, but she could do nothing but pace her floor anyway.
She wasn’t sure why she had even started to ask the actor if he was the mystery guest. Of course he was—he had practically said so.
See, Quetin! she thought, wishing she could say the words to his face. I don’t need you anyway. She couldn’t even remember what she had found attractive in the man, with his bulging, pale eyes and arrogant, know-it-all ways. After all her grieving and uncertainty, life was going to be good for her again.
In fact, if she could only sleep nights, and look in the mirror without a brief second’s hatred of the image staring back at her, life would be almost perfect.
“You know what occurred to me after you and your father left us last Tuesday?” Mr. Pitney said to Lydia in the back parlor after the two had ferreted out all possible symbolism in Florentina of Segovia.
“That we shouldn’t give up painting and school teaching?” Lydia suggested with a little smile in spite of the heaviness of her heart. He laughed, which added to her sadness, for she did so enjoy his company.
“I thought that you might care to bring your students up the hill one day when the new school year begins. Children come up there occasionally to watch from a distance, but we can’t often take the time to explain what we are doing. But we could easily do so with a group.”
Why do you have to be so considerate, Mr. Pitney? Lydia thought. “They would enjoy that. Thank you for suggesting it.” And perhaps by then, the very sight of you won’t tear at my heart. Because she knew what she had to do. Just give me the strength to do it, Father.
She looked at Jeanie, dozing contentedly on his knees, and thought of her father and mother, who felt they had to disappear soon after his arrival to keep from monopolizing his time. Mr. Pitney would be missed in the Clark cottage, and not just by her.
Closing the novelette, she handed it to him and said quietly, “I’m afraid this will have to be our last lesson, Mr. Pitney.”
Panic flooded his brown eyes. “But why, Miss Clark?”
“It just has to be,” was all she could explain.
“If it’s a matter of money…”
“Money has nothing to do with it, Mr. Pitney.” She was a little hurt that he would even think so. “And I’ll not accept payment for this lesson.”
His crestfallen expression almost caused her to reconsider.
“Why, Miss Clark?” he asked again.
Because I love you, she thought before replying, “You’ve become just as adept at discerning the stories as I am. You just needed some confidence in yourself.”
He shook his head. “It’s you who gives me that confidence, Miss Clark. Just the thought of attempting it without you terrifies me.”
And what kind of love makes you terrified? she wished she had the bluntness to ask. But she had already attempted to do so when she refused to teach him poetry, obviously to no avail.
Instead she told him, “You’ll do fine, Mr. Pitney. And I’ve just received some new textbooks I’ll need to read over and outline before the coming year, so my summer will be busier than I had planned.” There were actually only two new textbooks, but still, she hadn’t expected to receive them before fall and would indeed need to study them, so her answer was still truthful.
“I see. Of course.” Gently he moved Jeanie to the sofa between them, gave the animal a final stroke on the back, and stood. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.
Lydia allowed herself to be assisted to her feet. Mr. Pitney did not let go of her hand but held it and smiled, his eyes a mixture of sadness and warmth. “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Clark. I’ll try to have more confidence. But I do want to thank you for showing me how to get started. I could have never done this without you.”
I changed my mind! I was merely joking! she resisted the impulse to say. Returning his smile, she said, “I wish you all the best, Mr. Pitney.”
“And I you, Miss Clark.” He let go of her hand, and they walked in silence to the front of the cottage. At the door he turned to ask, “You’ll still be bringing your students up to see us work next year, won’t you?”
“I will, thank you.”
He smiled sheepishly. “But of course, you will. Here I am acting as if we’ll never see each other again, but we still live in the same village, don’t we?”
“Yes, the same village,” she replied. Just different worlds.
Chapter 38
I’m trying very hard, Fiona. Ambrose stared out his window at the darkened form of the Anwyl as the clock on his chimneypiece ticked the seconds of the night away. How he wished he could see clear across to Ireland! He was a fool to send her off without him! For he couldn’t imagine anything worse than the despondency that had tormented him for the past three days. Even having no privacy and sharing a bed with her brothers couldn’t be as miserable as this.
One more week, he told himself. Seven days. Why, she would soon be starting her journey home. A person could live through anything for seven days if he had something to look forward to at the end. One can even live without sleeping, he thought as the clock chimed the second hour of the morning.
Dear Lord Paxton,
I shall not be requiring your financial assistance, as I am keeping company with a gentleman whose name you would recognize immediately if I were to tell you. And I hope that Lady Paxton discovers what a scoundrel you are and divorces you.
Disdainfully NOT yours,
Noelle Somerville
Mrs. Ambrose Clay would be even better, Noelle thought, flipping over her pillow again in an attempt to chase the sleep that had eluded her thus far. But she couldn’t realistically expect Mr. Clay to divorce his wife, no matter that she did go off to Ireland without him.
I would settle for a nice flat in Shrewsbury for now, she thought, closing her eyes again. And then an apartment in London once the actor decided to return to the theatre. Wouldn’t she love to show up at Gatti’s on Mr. Clay’s arm! Why, Meara’s evil cat-eyes would bulge even more so than Quetin’s!
She thought of a good post-script for her imaginary letter to Quetin, which she had amended
in her thoughts until her head was beginning to ache.
Your solicitor, Mr. Radley, boasted to me that he has been stealing from you.
That wasn’t true, but it was so gratifying to imagine Quetin’s reaction. And yet the frantic, shallow activity at which she kept her mind engaged could not drown out the insistent voice that seemed to come from deep within her.
You don’t want to do this. You’re sick and tired of feeling so dirty inside.
“Yes, I do,” she muttered, raising herself enough to pound a dent into her uncooperative pillow with her fist. If Mr. Clay would show her the good times that Quetin used to and would shower her with money and distractions—if she could just live fast enough—she could drown out that voice. She had done it before, so it could be done again.
And what choice have you? Noelle asked herself. But she had cause for worry that the dreams she was spinning would not come to pass, for a change had come over Mr. Clay only hours after Monday’s draughts match. The times he had shown up for meals, he had had the animation of a bowl of fruit. Was he simply suffering one of his dark moods, or was he feeling remorse for the plot he had hatched with the Bartleys? If so, it was a simple matter of getting them to withdraw the invitation.
If only he would give her some sign of his intentions. But the few times she had seen him, he had hardly looked at her. Was this because he had lost interest, or because he didn’t want their fellow lodgers to suspect anything?
She could hear the faint Westminster chimes of the clock in the library. How can it be only three o’clock? Her thoughts were no more settled than when she had first turned down her covers. With a groan of frustration she flung them back again, felt with her toes for her slippers, and lit the candle on her night table. She took her wrapper from where it lay across the bedpost and tied it over her nightgown. No one in Gresham could possibly be awake at this hour. She would sit out in the garden and allow the cool breezes to bathe her face. Perhaps they would soothe her tormented thoughts as well.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 40