Circus ponies have no choice, Jacob told himself to take the sting out of the memory. He, on the other hand, had already won Eugenia’s affection and could stop studying so hard any time he wanted to. But why should he, when it made her so happy? Wasn’t making the other person happy the meaning of love?
Sharing a church pew with the Durwins, Miss Rawlins, and Mr. Pitney—all who treated her as graciously as always—Noelle fully expected to hear a sermon on forgiveness. Perhaps Jesus’ parable from Saint Matthew, where a king forgives a large debt of a servant, who in turn will not forgive someone lower than himself a small debt. She was ashamed of her presumption as the sermon progressed, for she should have known that Vicar Phelps would not use his pulpit in a calculating way and aim admonitions at selective members of his congregation.
The theme of the sermon was, in fact, continuing in the faith even during times of hardship. As his first example, the vicar cited Joseph’s steadfast loyalty to God when sold by his brothers, falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife, and thrown into prison. He moved on to the widow who fed the prophet Elijah, but Noelle’s thoughts returned to Joseph. She knew the story well. Surely while spending those first menial years in slavery, torn away from his home and a father who doted upon him, he was human enough to have dreamed at least once of extracting revenge upon his brothers. Or later, while in prison. I certainly would have!
Would the story have had a different ending if Joseph had allowed bitterness to take root and fester in his heart? Would Potiphar have promoted him to rule over his house had he been a sullen, hate-filled slave? And surely the chief jailer wouldn’t have turned the responsibility of the entire prison over to a prisoner who could only rant about the injustice of his sentence.
It was ironic that, as a girl, one of her favorite passages of Scripture was when Joseph granted forgiveness to the brothers who had so abused him. She recalled what the vicar had said just two days ago. The hatred you’re carrying is a live coal in your heart—far more damaging to yourself than to them.
With a quiet sigh she closed her eyes as the sermon moved on to Mordecai’s deliverance from the evil Haman. She had felt the scorch of that live coal, yet it still burned within her. Father, is your back still turned? Will you distance yourself from me until I forgive Quetin and the others? She felt the sting of salt tears. But Joseph was able to forgive because he always had you with him. Yes, it was she who had been the first to turn away, she freely admitted. But she was trying to make up for it. She had written her family and refused to allow herself to daydream about Mr. Clay. How can I even begin to forgive without your help?
It seemed then that the voice she had deafened herself to for so long spoke in her heart. Help is yours for the asking, My child. But you must take that first step before I can give it.
When she wanted to protest that it was unfair, a picture came inexplicably to her mind of a boat on rough seas. Two men were huddled together at the mast wearing expressions of terror, yet one man clung to the edge, looking out into the distance. It wasn’t until he stepped out of the boat that Peter was able to walk on water, the voice seemed to say.
“Will you take lunch with us, Mr. Sanders?” Mrs. Meeks asked after Harold had assisted her from the wagon in front of her cottage. This time Harold was eager to accept, for he was in a fine fettle, and not just because Miss Clark had again looked at him as he drove the wagon down the green. He had a secret, one that had kept him grinning almost the whole time he waited outside Saint Jude’s.
But polite people went through certain motions, he was learning by watching his sister, and so he first replied, “But you haven’t got to feed me just because I gave you a ride.”
“We would enjoy your company, Mr. Sanders,” she told him.
“Well…if you’re sure—”
“Mr. Sanders, will you catch me?” Lester asked, perched atop one of the wheels. The others had already scrambled down to the ground.
“Lester, Mr. Sanders doesn’t want to be pounced upon,” his mother scolded.
“I don’t mind.” Harold turned, took two steps backward, and held out his arms. Hesitating only briefly, as if considering changing his mind, the seven-year-old sailed out into the air and into Harold’s arms.
“That was fun!” Lester exclaimed as he was lowered to the ground. “May we again?” he asked, while Trudy and the others looked hopeful.
“No, children,” their mother said firmly.
Harold nodded agreement. “You’re all too big for the likes of me. But after lunch I’ll unhitch Bob and lead you around, if you ain’t afraid of riding bareback.”
He was almost embarrassed by how happy this made the children, who chattered like rooks and clapped their hands.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Sanders,” their mother said with her soft brown eyes shining a little in the sunlight.
“Aw, it’s nothin’,” he replied, ducking his head. But then Harold remembered his delightful secret. Turning to Mark, he said, “Climb back up in there. I’ve something for all of you.”
“There’s a sack in here, Mr. Sanders,” Mark announced after being directed to open the lid of the supply box behind the wagon seat.
Harold chuckled to himself and hitched his arms over the slats on the side. “Well, hand it over.”
With a grunt the boy did his bidding. “It’s heavy.”
Of course it was, Harold thought happily as he took the drawstring sack from the boy. All of their eyes grew wide as he hefted from it a ham as big as a gourd.
“Mr. Sanders,” Mrs. Meeks breathed, her hand up to her collar. “We can’t be takin’ food from your family.”
“It ain’t from my family. I bought it with my own money.”
“But it’s too expensive.”
“I got a right fair price,” he assured her with a grateful thought toward his brother, who had the good sense to court a woman who worked on a pig farm.
Lydia’s brother, Noah, along with his family and Beatrice’s mother, Mrs. Temple, came for lunch after church. They later visited in the front parlor until the children and Lydia’s father grew cranky for need of naps. After the cottage was quiet again, save the click of her mother’s knitting needles from the sofa and soft snores drifting from the ceiling, Lydia sat in a chair with William Morris’s The Earthly Paradise.
She could not absorb herself in the words, however, because her mind continued to dredge up a picture, just as a child wiggles a stubbed toe in his shoe in spite of the pain. Mr. Pitney and Miss Rawlins had walked home from church together several yards in front of her family. The two held hands, and when Mr. Pitney turned to send them a smile and wave, he appeared happier than she had ever seen him.
She closed her book, prompting her mother to lower her knitting to her lap.
“Not a good story, daughter?”
“I’m just not in the mood for reading.”
“I could always teach you to knit.”
Lydia smiled because the offer was made in jest. It was a family joke that Lydia’s domestic tendencies were somehow misplaced when she was created. And her stock answer was, “Perhaps tomorrow, thank you.” Setting her book aside, she rose and stretched both arms out in front of her. “I believe I’ll take a walk to clear my head.”
“Would you like me to go with you?”
Bending down to kiss her forehead, Lydia replied, “No, thank you.”
Her intent had not been to hike the Anwyl when she stepped through the cottage doorway. But a half hour later she was walking one of its footpaths. The quarried red sandstone, which had been used to build many of Gresham’s cottages, was cool, and the dirt path had dried enough not to be dangerous. Still, Lydia kirtled her dress about her knees so she could see her footsteps. She had no worries about her solitude being invaded, for the dampness would discourage any picnics, and the archeologists did not work on Sunday even when the hill was dry.
Her lungs filled with air smelling of damp earth and the myriad of tenacious flowers in the tall grasses along
the path—the ubiquitous milkwort, bluebells and buttercups, forget-me-nots, mountain pansy, and blossoming pink clover. Tranquillity surrounded her, and yet try as she may, she could not bring peace to her mind. Upon reaching the evacuation site, she stared down into the depression where Mr. Pitney had shown her how to look for artifacts. There was evidence of more recent work, more gaps in the earth where something had likely been discovered. She wondered if he had found his missing link. Surely he would tell her if he had, but perhaps not, now that she was no longer his tutor.
“Father, please help me to stop feeling this way,” she murmured, and then realized the unfairness of her request. While God could work miracles, He did not wipe thoughts from a person’s mind. Free will was a gift since the Garden of Eden. How could she expect God to extinguish the love in her heart for Mr. Pitney when her mind would not stop thinking about him? And how could she stop thinking about him when she still saw him at Saint Jude’s every Sunday? When she could not step out of doors without seeing the Anwyl, knowing he was up there at work?
“You have to do something,” Lydia spoke aloud again, this time to herself. And by the time she reached the bottom of the hill, she had a plan.
But her mother and father, awake from his nap, reacted with intense disapproval. “Glasgow?” her father questioned. “Why do you want to go back there?”
“Just for a visit, until school starts here again. I can bring my texts to review and still make myself useful by helping to mark papers and such. It would be nice to see my former students.” And there would be students there. Saint Margaret’s only recessed a month for Easter and one for Christmas, yet still had a waiting list among members of the peerage with too much money and too little maternal and paternal instincts.
“You know what that damp old place did to your lungs. What if you take the pleurisy again, and that far from home? Why, you wouldn’t even be able to ride the train back.”
“But the summers were pleasant, Papa,” she reasoned.
The worry did not leave her mother’s normally serene expression. “You plan to stay there the whole summer?”
“Closer to two months, Mother. June is halfway over. And I still have to write Mrs. Mitchell and wait for her reply.” Mrs. Mitchell was the headmistress and Lydia’s mentor for the fourteen years she taught there. “You’ve nothing to worry about. If I get so much as a sniffle, I give you my word I’ll pack my things and catch the first train home.”
“That’s reassuring, daughter,” her mother said, but a question still lingered in her eyes. “But forgive me for asking. You aren’t…”
“Aren’t what, Mother?”
A hesitation, and then, “Running away, are you?”
It would have been dishonest to ask what she meant, and again, dishonest to reply that she wasn’t. So Lydia simply replied, “It’s something I have to do, Mother.”
You have to take that first step went again through Noelle’s mind as she brushed her hair in preparation for retiring for the night. How could she take it, when the very thought of Quetin and Meara made her clench her fingers so tightly that her fingernails stabbed her palms? They had hurt her, and no doubt thought her naiveté terribly amusing.
“They’re still hurting me,” she murmured as the realization struck her. They stood between her and God, robbing her of the peace of mind that she longed to know. And she was the one allowing them to do so!
She set her brush down and studied the image in the mirror. The candle on her dressing table painted her face with a yellow pallor. No innocent victim stared back at her, but a foolish woman who had knowingly involved herself with people who were ruthless with others, even their own families. So why was she so stunned when they turned on her?
And what was more important? Clinging to her hatred, nursing a grudge until it sent bile through her body and hardened her features, or pleasing God, who had mercifully given her another chance?
Pushing out from the table, she got on her knees and rested her chin upon the hands she had clasped upon the bench. Her eyes she closed tightly, and she listened to the night sounds floating in through her open windows. She imagined herself a vessel, filled to the brim with hatred so that there was no room left for joy. No more, she thought, and prayed, Father, I forgive them.
Yet there was something wrong, something unfinished, for the joy she so longed for did not flood the vessel. And painfully, she discovered that it was not yet empty. Unforgiveness for her family had been stored inside for so long that it had hardened, clinging to the sides. She bit her lip and felt the sting of tears again. She would have thought forgiving Quetin and the others the more difficult, but the family wounds, though they were older, were deeper.
You have to do this, she told herself.
Father, I forgive my family as well. She brought each face to mind. My parents, sisters, and brothers—all of them.
The effort had been as strenuous as hiking a mile, and yet now that it was done, she felt strangely relaxed. And clean. Tears that had threatened earlier flowed freely, dripping down onto the upholstered bench until she wiped them upon the sleeve of her nightgown.
Thank you, Father.
She wanted to run through the inn and wake everyone with her news, but instead she blew out her candle and climbed into bed, wearing a ludicrous smile in the dark. She fell into a peaceful sleep, without waking until morning.
Chapter 41
Vicar and Mrs. Phelps had not mentioned avoiding Mr. Clay completely as a condition for Noelle’s staying at the Larkspur, but still, she thought it best to do so. Forgiveness was wonderful and incredible, but it had not halted her steps down the path of introspection. Like peeling the layers of an onion, she was finding out things about herself she had never realized.
One unsettling discovery was that she was quite shallow. It had served her well, or so she had thought, during her time with Quetin. Shallow women lived for the moment, never considering how their actions might affect others or even themselves. To do so might cause pain, and of course pain was to be avoided at all costs. And shallow women certainly did not attempt to direct their thoughts through appropriate channels, as Noelle was suddenly having to teach herself to do.
She figured the only way to do that was to avoid the actor’s company as much as possible with the exception of meals. Mercifully he did not sit and glare at her at the table but treated her with the same regard as he did the other lodgers.
He was not in the hall on Wednesday morning, but the Durwins and Mrs. Dearing were, so she took Mrs. Dearing’s offer to share her sofa. The two women had needlework in their laps, Noelle’s crocheting was in hers, and Mr. Durwin held a small leather-covered photograph album.
“My eldest son, Winslow, sent it from Calcutta,” the elderly man told her proudly from the facing sofa. “We haven’t seen my grandchildren since our wedding.”
“May I have a look?” Noelle asked.
He looked very pleased to get to his feet and hand it over to her. “The girl is Katherine and the boy, William.”
“Named after your second son,” Noelle commented absently as she admired a photograph of the two children in sailor suits.
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“I’m not sure,” she confessed. Surely she had overheard the Durwins speak of their children. It struck her that she had not forgotten anyone’s name in a long time. What had she told Quetin the last time she saw him? I never forget the name of anyone who’s important. Incredibly, without her even being aware of it, these people had become important to her. She looked up at Mr. Durwin and smiled. “They’re beautiful children.”
“Thank you. They’ll be here at Christmas, my eldest and his family. So they’ll have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” “I’m looking forward to it,” Noelle replied before remembering that she had no idea where she would be at Christmas. She was more discouraged than ever about accepting Quetin’s support, but if her family refused to take her in—which she expected would happen—how could she
possibly support herself?
“Speaking of Christmas…” Mrs. Dearing said. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have another Christmas wedding here?” She turned to Noelle. “The vicar and Mrs. Phelps were married shortly before Christmas, and the church was decorated so lovely with garlands and holly.”
“Are you thinking of remarrying, Mrs. Dearing?” asked Mr. Durwin.
“Bertram…” his wife warned softly.
Catching the glint in his eyes, Noelle realized he was teasing their friend.
Mrs. Dearing took it well. Her turquoise earrings quivered with her laugh. “Not at the present time, Mr. Durwin. I enjoyed my marriage to my sainted Harold, but I am quite content with my life as it is. I was speaking of Mr. Pitney and Miss Rawlins, and I suspect you knew that.”
The man grinned, and his wife said, “I passed the open door of the library yesterday evening and overheard him quoting poetry to her.” She raised a hand to her soft cheek. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
“It will go no further than this room, Mrs. Durwin,” Mrs. Dearing reassured her. “I think it’s charming. Tell us, dear, does Mr. Durwin quote poetry to you?”
With a shake of the head and mischievous little smile, Mrs. Durwin replied, “Alas, but I’m afraid there are no poems written about hawthorn or foxglove or Saint John’s wort.”
The laughter that erupted from all three was so infectious that Noelle found herself forgetting her worries and joining in. Why she had ever thought elderly people were dull, she couldn’t remember. She had returned the photograph album to Mr. Durwin and was crocheting and occasionally joining in the conversation when the front door opened.
“Good day to you, ladies,” Mr. Durwin said, getting to his feet, as Noelle and Mrs. Dearing turned to look.
“And good day to you, Mr. Durwin,” Mrs. Phelps answered with Grace at her side. Mother and daughter wore identical narrowbrimmed straw hats, and Mrs. Phelps’ gown and the girl’s pinafore were of the same mauve carmeline.
The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Page 43