The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  The candlelight threw her shadow grotesquely against the wall as she padded down the corridor. Save the ticking of clocks in the library, and then the hall, the house was as quiet as only stone walls could be. How she envied the others their sleep! To lie one’s head upon a pillow and simply fade into sweet dreams—when was the last time she had done so?

  Halfway across the hall she paused. The courtyard would be better. She had no idea how long she would wish to sit outside, and in the back there was no chance of cheese wagons rumbling by before sunrise and disturbing her thoughts. That was reason enough to turn and head in the opposite direction, she told herself, and not because she would be able to see Mr. Clay’s apartment. Why in the world would that matter, when he was likely as sound asleep as the rest of Gresham?

  The courtyard door was locked, but it was a simple matter of switching the candle holder to her left hand and raising the latch. As soon as Noelle had closed the heavy door quietly behind her, she turned and breathed in the night air. It smelled of impending rain and was indeed fresh upon her cheeks. She almost wished she could bring her pillow and bedclothes outside, for surely she could be lulled to sleep by these gentle breezes.

  She walked softly over the flagged stones to sit on one of the benches. A breeze had snatched the flame from her candle, but with the stars visible through the branches of the oak tree, she had no need for it and set the holder down. That was when she noticed the light coming from a window of Mr. Clay’s apartment over the stables. Whether candle or lamp, she could not tell because of the curtains. So he can’t sleep either. Was he thinking of his wife? Or of her?

  If only she could talk with him! She would explain how even though she planned to be at the squire’s luncheon, she had not set out to become a fallen woman in the beginning. It was simply that once she had stepped across a certain line, there was no going back. For some reason it was important that he understand.

  She leaned back and stared at the stars for a while, feeling very small and insignificant. She wondered several minutes later why the light still burned in the window. Had the actor fallen asleep while reading? If so, it was certainly dangerous to keep a lamp burning like that. How could he fault her for showing up at his door with his well-being in mind? And if he took it upon himself to join her outside, perhaps he would rationalize away her guilt as Quetin had so skillfully done, and she would no longer despise herself.

  She climbed the staircase on the side of the stables slowly and gave three light knocks upon his door. The door was opened shortly, and he stood there wearing a dressing gown in the glow of a lamp on a table several feet behind him. “Mrs. Somerville?”

  “Your light, Mr. Clay,” she explained in an apologetic voice. “I was afraid you had fallen asleep.”

  “Oh…that’s very kind of you. But I was awake.” Glancing out into the night behind her, and then at the wrapper she wore, he asked, “But why are you out here?”

  “The same reason you are,” she shrugged. “Can’t sleep.”

  In the shadow the lamp made of his face she could see a sad smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “For both of us.”

  His sympathy seemed so genuine, and he was treating her with such respect—not like a loose woman—that Noelle found herself saying, “I wonder if you would care to join me in the courtyard, Mr. Clay? The stars are quite beautiful.”

  After sending an automatic glance skyward, he shook his head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Somerville. Why don’t you go on inside? You shouldn’t be outside alone this time of night.”

  Impulsively Noelle said, “If you’re concerned about causing any rumors, there’s no one else awake.”

  “Causing rumors? Why, no.” The door moved a little as he took a half-step backward. “Again, thank you for seeing about my light, Mrs. Somerville. You really should go on inside now.”

  The formality that had overtaken his voice startled Noelle. And she knew she would be robbed of even more sleep if she didn’t end this confusion once and for all. “Mr. Clay, before I leave I would just like to know if you still plan to be there on Saturday.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She took a deep breath. “If you’ve changed your mind, I would appreciate being told. I can’t bear much more of this uncertainty.”

  “Uncertainty about what?”

  He’s just pretending not to remember. But why? “Didn’t you arrange to…meet me at the squire’s?”

  Mr. Clay stared at her for a couple of long, uncomfortable seconds before replying, “You are obviously mistaken, Mrs. Somerville. And I must bid you good night.”

  Soon she was facing a closed door. Shame welling up within her as tears welled up in her eyes, she descended the staircase and walked out around the north wing of the Larkspur until she met Market Lane. Patches of starry sky between the overhanging branches provided just enough illumination to paint the cobbled stones a ghostly gray as she continued down the lane. The sound and smell of moving water met her ears long before she reached the Bryce. She stood on the bridge and stared down into the dark river, wishing she were much higher up so that she could jump and put an end to the pain. As it was, she would just wash up into someone’s pasture down river, wet and cold and even more wretched.

  She lowered herself to the cool stones and huddled in a little ball. If the cheese wagons began moving this early, they could run over her and good riddance. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping from her jaw to the bodice of her wrapper. She had to wipe her nose with her sleeve several times. Her throat was one raw ache. Still worse was the terrible, frightening feeling of having laughed in the face of God too many times. How could He bear to look at her? Was His back turned to her now?

  “I’m so sorry,” she blubbered over and over between the moans that racked her body. “Please don’t leave me alone!”

  Rain was softly pelting his windowpanes when Ambrose became aware of the pounding on the door. His most immediate impulse was annoyance, but then he thought that surely Mrs. Somerville wouldn’t be foolish enough to return. Swinging his legs from under the covers, he padded barefoot into the parlor and became aware that he was still wearing his wrinkled dressing gown over his nightshirt.

  “Yes?” he said at the door.

  “Mr. Clay?”

  He recognized the voice and opened the door an inch. Georgette stood there underneath a dripping umbrella. “Yes, Georgette?”

  “Mrs. Beemish asks if you’ll be wanting lunch brought up, Mr. Clay.”

  “You mean I slept through breakfast?”

  “Lunch too. We wasn’t sure if you were having it out somewhere or not.”

  He blinked to clear away the cobwebs in his mind and couldn’t recall being invited anywhere for lunch today. Which was good, because he would have been late. And as he hadn’t shown up for supper last night, he was suddenly ravenous.

  “Is there anything left?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I bring you up a tray?”

  He started to agree and then shook his head. No sense in putting an extra burden on everyone else, especially in the rain, just because he wasn’t functioning very well. “Have the servants had their lunch yet?”

  “We’re just about to.”

  “Then I’ll be down shortly, if you’ll ask Mrs. Herrick to set another plate in the kitchen.”

  “In the kitchen, sir?”

  Ambrose smiled, in spite of the cloud that still hovered over him. “You don’t think I’m going to sit in the dining room alone, do you? And please do tell everyone to start without me if I’m not down yet.”

  When she was gone, he shrugged out of his nightclothes and bathed and dressed quickly. He would have to wait until tonight to shave. As he stepped out onto the rain-dimpled landing with his umbrella, he recalled how Mrs. Somerville had looked standing there in the darkness just hours ago. You shouldn’t have played draughts with her, he told himself, for a vague uneasiness had come over him during their second game on Monday past. There was something about the way she lo
oked across at him, her eyes wide with interest while he talked on and on about the theatre.

  Fiona was the love of his life, but Mrs. Somerville was beautiful too—and not in Ireland. The attention had been flattering. So much so, that when he realized how the atmosphere of the room had changed, he made the excuse to stop after the second game. He had even encouraged her to attend the Bartleys’ luncheon, just to make it obvious that he had no romantic interest in her. He tried to recall his exact words and couldn’t. Had she assumed he was arranging an assignation between them?

  How can I face her? he thought. She had been terribly wrong to turn up at his door, but being almost twice her age, he had to share the guilt. It was unwise to engage in even an innocent activity with an attractive woman other than his wife. Especially with no one else in the hall. Having spent most of his life among actors, he was well aware that most illicit affairs began innocently enough, with shared banter and laughter. How could he have forgotten?

  The kitchen was warm, filled with the savory aromas of cottage pie, sausages, pickled beets, and pease pudding. His protests went unheeded by Mr. Herrick, as he was given the chair at the head of the table where the caretaker usually sat on a high stool.

  “You shouldn’t have waited,” he scolded, spooning pease pudding onto his plate after Mr. Herrick had prayed over the meal.

  “Ah, but we didn’t mind, Mr. Clay,” Mrs. Herrick declared with a merry smile. “But we’ve all decided you’ll have to pay penance.”

  The spoon held over his plate, Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Penance, Mrs. Herrick? I didn’t think that was part of your Baptist doctrine.”

  “Aye, but it’s the doctrine of the kitchen. We voted that you should have to sing for your supper.”

  “Lunch, you mean,” a grinning Mildred reminded her above the chorus of agreement from parlormaids, chambermaids, and kitchen maids.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m just not up to singing,” Ambrose replied, shaking his head. “And as we’re all aware that good Christian people like yourselves won’t allow me go hungry anyway…”

  “A poem then?” chambermaid Ruth suggested.

  “Please?” asked Georgette.

  “And none o’ that Shakespeare,” Gertie, the scullery maid, told him with wrinkled nose. “He don’t talk like regular folk, and I canno’ understand half the words.”

  Again the others pleaded. Finally Ambrose held up both hands in surrender. “Very well,” he said, sighing inwardly. Can’t a man be despondent in peace? “A short one.”

  They gave him considerate silence as he inventoried the nonsense verses stored in his mind over the years, which were likely crowding out all common sense. When an appropriate one presented itself, he said, “I learned this one as a child, about stolen pie.”

  As Charles his sisters sat between,

  An Apple Pie was brought;

  Slyly to get a piece unseen,

  The little fellow thought.

  Smiling faces flanked both sides of the table, making him grateful he had turned down the offer of a tray and solitude. He winked at a delighted Gertie and managed to give the next stanza a little more animation.

  A piece from off Sophia’s plate

  Into his mouth he flung;

  But, ah! Repentance came too late,

  It burn’d his little tongue!

  They coaxed him on through three more poems, so by the time he had entertained such an appreciative audience and filled his stomach, his spirits were lighter than when he had gotten out of bed. While his condition was not so simple as could be cured with jests and laughter, the scripture was indeed true that a merry heart was good medicine.

  In fact, he almost convinced himself to forget about Mrs. Somerville’s early morning visit. She was likely embarrassed and would steer clear of his path from now on. No, that won’t do, he told himself right away. They lived in the same lodging house and took meals at the same table. It was no good pretending it hadn’t happened. And he suspected strongly that his earlier impressions that she had ill feelings toward Fiona were accurate. But speaking with Mrs. Somerville privately—about anything—was out of the question. He needed the counsel of his closest friends, next to Fiona. Please let them be home, he prayed.

  Chapter 39

  “This is a very grave situation, Ambrose,” Andrew told the actor from one of the wooden chairs he had moved to the front of his desk. At Julia’s suggestion, the three held their conference in Andrew’s study, for the children understood that the closed door—combined with a caller—meant no disturbing unless an emergency presented itself.

  “Grave indeed,” Julia nodded. But she was unable to surrender her disbelief completely. Not that Ambrose’s word wasn’t solid gold, but he had admitted staying up until the wee hours. Could he have fallen asleep and imagined the whole thing?

  She recalled the young woman who sat with her in the dentist’s parlor, reassuring her that Andrew would be all right. And had she uncomplainingly endured his weight on her shoulder during the long bumpy ride home. With an apologetic look at their friend, she said, “Forgive me, Ambrose. But could you have mistaken her intent? I myself would knock on a man’s door that time of night if I thought there was danger of fire.”

  He ran his hand through his dark hair. “At first I believed she was just concerned for my safety.” With a look of discomfort, he added, “And you might as well know I paid her some attention Monday afternoon. Innocently I thought, but I had no business doing so. So the fault isn’t entirely hers.”

  “But you didn’t show up at her door in nightclothes,” Andrew told him.

  “She’ll have to leave,” Julia said reluctantly. “As soon as possible.”

  Andrew nodded. “I agree.”

  His brow drawn, Ambrose said, “Surely if you would speak with her…”

  “We can’t have someone behaving that way under the Larkspur’s roof, Ambrose,” Julia reminded him. “Mrs. Somerville won’t be thrown out into the streets. There are other lodging houses in England. And she has family.”

  A soft knock sounded, and then Dora’s voice. “Vicar?”

  “Come in, Dora,” Andrew said.

  The door opened and the maid slipped inside. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Mrs. Somerville is in the vestibule in an awful state. I told her you and the missus was in here with Mr. Clay, and she begs to be allowed in.”

  The three exchanged glances. “Should I leave?” asked Ambrose.

  “I think you should stay,” Andrew told him. “That way if she contradicts your story, she’ll be forced to do so to your face.” He turned to Julia. “What do you think?”

  “The same, I’m afraid. Will you speak with her, Andrew?” While this had taken place at the Larkspur, Andrew was vicar of Gresham, and these were members of his congregation.

  “If you wish,” he replied, standing. He asked Dora to show Mrs. Somerville in, then went for another chair.

  Left alone with Ambrose, Julia watched him frown down at the fingertips he tapped together nervously upon one knee. “We have complete faith in your integrity, Ambrose,” she felt compelled to say.

  “This would never have happened if I had kept my distance, Julia. And if I hadn’t mentioned that luncheon again! I thought it would be amusing to help the Bartleys get them together.”

  Julia gave him a sad smile. “Now I understand Andrew’s feelings about matchmaking.”

  Following the maid through the cottage with a thick wool shawl wrapped around her rain-soaked poplin gown, Noelle was still embarrassed that the vicar’s son, Philip, had answered her knock at the door. At least the boy had had the presence of mind not to show alarm at her appearance, but calmly asked her to wait in the vestibule, returning two minutes later with the maid and shawl.

  The two seconds between the time the maid knocked upon a door and Vicar Phelps opened it seemed like hours. “Come in, Mrs. Somerville,” he said cordially, though his expression was somber. As she walked through the doorway, he asked if she would care for tea,
but she shook her head. Mrs. Phelps and Mr. Clay were seated in chairs in front of the desk, and two empty chairs faced them. Noelle was surprised when the actor paid her the courtesy of getting to his feet until she was seated across from Mrs. Phelps, when she had no doubt he would rather strike her.

  “Are you warm enough, Mrs. Somerville?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “We could light the stove.”

  That simple consideration caused Noelle a struggle to keep from throwing herself at their feet and sobbing out her utter wretchedness. But she had played the child for too long, surrendering to every impulse. The same inner voice that had urged her to be honest with Vicar Treves had returned to insist it was time to face the consequences of her folly like an adult.

  But the voice had not advised her of how to begin, and they were all staring at her. When several seconds of silence had lapsed, the vicar and his wife exchanged glances, then Vicar Phelps turned to her again.

  “Mr. Clay has related a disturbing incident to us, Mrs. Somerville.”

  “Yes,” Noelle replied in a thin voice.

  “You have the opportunity now to give your side of the story.”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Clay’s account was accurate.”

  With another glance at his wife, the vicar said, “But you haven’t heard his account.”

  “I went to his door and…flirted with him.” She could no longer look at the actor, or at any of the faces of the three, so she stared down at her clutched hands.

  “And that’s all you have to say?”

  “No.” Taking in a deep breath, she said, “There is more.”

  Again, silence while they waited. Finally Vicar Phelps asked gently, “What is it, Mrs. Somerville?”

  She had thought herself incapable of producing more tears, but one trickled down her cheek to dangle coldly on her jaw until she swiped at it with the back of her hand. Yet she felt an inexplicable relief at putting an end to the lie that had been her life. It was as if she had held an object tightly in her fist for years and was finally allowed to release it. “I’m not Mrs. Somerville. I was never married.”