The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark

by Lawana Blackwell

  Noelle shuddered. “God help me, never.”

  “Very well, then. We’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “Thank you!” Noelle gushed. It took all her self-control to keep from bursting into tears of relief.

  Finally the woman smiled. “The squire and I are most impressed with your work, Miss Somerville. We would hate to lose you.”

  “My loss would be greater, Mrs. Bartley,” Noelle assured her.

  Chapter 45

  “If you ask me, Mrs. Tanner’s roast grouse is far superior,” Lydia’s father said as Wellington and Nelson pulled the wagon up Pride Hill toward the railway station after lunch at the Lion Inn. There was no room for Lydia on the seat with her parents, so she sat directly behind them on her trunk, which, thankfully, Noah had come over to help load.

  “Well, don’t go telling her that,” Mother warned. “Or the next time you provoke her, she’ll be down here asking to hire on.”

  “Provoke her? When have I ever—?”

  Lydia smiled at their banter, but her heart was not merry. This wasn’t a good idea, she told herself again. Saint Margaret’s and Glasgow were her old life. While she would enjoy renewing some of her former acquaintances, exchanging letters would have sufficed. She now feared that absenting herself from any sight of Mr. Pitney would have the opposite effect than the one for which she hoped. Instead of forgetting him, what if she spent the whole seven weeks pathetically brooding over him? You waited too long to fall in love, she told herself. You have a schoolgirl’s heart in a thirty-four-year-old body.

  She was so lost in thought that she didn’t realize they had arrived at the railway station until the wagon came to a halt on the side of the street. There was a bustle of activity about them as porters unloaded trunks from carriages and wagons and people hurried toward the station for the train presently loading. With a sigh, she stood. Her train was not even due to arrive until half-past one, an hour away. But she still needed to hurry to find a porter before her father got impatient and took a notion to carry the trunk to the platform himself. She became aware then of approaching hoofbeats.

  “Someone’s about to miss his train,” her father pointed out, lighting his pipe.

  Her mother sent a worried look up the street, in spite of the fact that the rider was more than likely a total stranger. “I do hope he makes it.”

  The horse, a rust-colored hunter, only slowed its pace a little to weave around vehicles in the busy street. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat as the rider’s face became achingly familiar. “It’s Mr. Pitney.”

  “Mr. Pitney?” her parents said in unison.

  “Why, it is!” her father exclaimed, rising in the seat. “But what—?”

  “Miss Rawlins must be returning from a trip.” Come to think of it, Lydia had noticed Mr. Pitney walking home from church alone on Sunday past, but she had just assumed the writer was ill. She prepared to inform the archeologist as he reined the sweating animal to a halt just inches from the wagon bed that she had not seen Miss Rawlins. But he spoke before she could do so.

  “Miss Clark—please don’t go to Glasgow!”

  Lydia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He seemed almost maniacal, his dark eyes wild and his hair tousled about his head. The horse, not settled down from its run, stamped and snorted so that Mr. Pitney had to keep the reins taut to keep the animal close to the wagon.

  “We found Cerealis’s artifact, and you were the first person I wanted to tell. It looks as if we’ll be assigned to Gresham for years to come, and I…”

  It was only then that he appeared to notice her parents, who were turned to face him, for he automatically reached up as if to tip a hat that was probably lying on the side of the road somewhere.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pitney,” Lydia’s mother said.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Clark,” he said as the old bashfulness overtook his expression. Nonetheless he looked at Lydia again. “And I can’t bear the thought of you not being here, Miss Clark.”

  But I’m only going away for a visit, Lydia started to explain. Her father spoke before she could open her mouth.

  “What exactly are you saying, Mr. Pitney? That you want her to come back so you can take some more of those reading lessons from her and impress that writer woman?”

  “No, sir!” Mr. Pitney exclaimed with a shake of his head. The motion caused the restless horse to rear a bit, so he swung down from the saddle and, with the reins in one hand, approached the wagon on foot. His dark eyes looked earnestly up at Lydia. “I would like you to come back because…”

  “Yes, Mr. Pitney?” Lydia said when he hesitated.

  “Yes, Mr. Pitney?” her mother echoed.

  Resolve replaced the timidity in his expression. “Because I can think of no greater joy than coming home to a cottage every day with you waiting for me, Miss Clark.”

  Suddenly Lydia felt the need to sit back down. Her mind simply needed time to register everything that had occurred within the past two minutes, so all she could think of to say was, “You found the artifact?”

  Looking down to fuss with his coat pocket, he said. “Thank God it didn’t bounce out on the way here.”

  “I didn’t realize you could ride, Mr. Pitney,” Lydia’s mother told him.

  He looked up to send her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t either, Mrs. Clark.”

  And then he held out what appeared to be a dagger. He withdrew it from the aged sheath so that Lydia could see the inscription on the blade. “To Governor Cerealis from Vespasian,” he explained.

  Fearful that she would somehow damage the artifact, even when centuries in the ground had not done so, she took it carefully from his hands. “Incredible,” she breathed, turning to show her parents.

  “Incredible,” her mother echoed.

  Her father cocked his head at Mr. Pitney. “You know, after we find that horse some water, we could tie him to the back so you can ride in the wagon with us.” He gave Lydia a hint of a smile. “That is, if our daughter is willin’ to return.”

  “Will you, Lydia?” Mr. Pitney asked.

  It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her given name, and it warmed her heart. But she had to know one thing. “What about Miss Rawlins?”

  “Yes, what about Miss Rawlins?” her mother repeated.

  “I wish her well,” he replied frankly. His hands closed over the top slat of the wagon’s side. “But I was a fool to think that I loved her. And it’s you who has found a place in my heart. Please say you’ll marry me, Lydia Clark. We’ve both been alone for too long.”

  “We have,” she agreed, her heart about to burst as she fought tears. “And I will…Jacob.”

  There was a rustling sound in front. Her father began helping her mother from the wagon seat. “Should be a water trough nearabouts,” he explained. “We’ll look about for a little while.”

  “May I sit with you?” Jacob asked when they were gone.

  “Of course,” Lydia replied.

  He tied the horse’s reins to the back, put a foot in a wheel spoke, and swung himself easily into the wagon. A little of his old shyness seemed to come over him as he approached Lydia, but she smiled and moved aside on the trunk.

  “It seems there should be a cat napping between us,” he said as he sat next to her.

  She smiled and handed him the dagger. “I’m very happy for you.”

  Holding it across both palms, he said, “Just think, Lydia…when Vespasian awarded this to Cerealis, little did he know he would be aiding a romance centuries later.” He looked again at her and raised an eyebrow. “We do have a romance, haven’t we?”

  She nodded. “It appears so.”

  “Do you find me romantic, Lydia? Even if I don’t care for poetry?”

  “I think you’re incredibly romantic, Jacob.”

  “Not as romantic as you are. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

  She opened her mouth to protest that he didn’t have to say su
ch things, that he had already won her heart, but then the devotion in his brown eyes told her that he did indeed behold some beauty in her that she had missed all these years. The tears that had threatened earlier filled her eyes.

  “Have I said something wrong?” he asked with brows furrowed.

  She sniffed and shook her head. “But I don’t seem to have a handkerchief.”

  With a chuckle he dug into his waistcoat pocket. “Isn’t this how we got started?”

  When she had composed herself, Jacob put away the dagger and held her hand. Lydia appreciated that he was too bashful to kiss her in front of the travelers and porters and people with other business at the station who occasionally sent curious stares their way. She didn’t want her first kiss to be a public spectacle. Her parents returned, and after all three horses were watered, Lydia sat with him holding her hand all the way back to Gresham.

  He helped her father carry the trunk back into the cottage, this time setting it in the upstairs corridor. As they were betrothed—or at least Lydia thought that was what had transpired in front of the station—it wasn’t fitting that he should go inside her room. And then he said apologetically that he would have to hurry back to work.

  It did happen, didn’t it? Lydia asked herself as she accompanied him downstairs. Her parents had bade Jacob good-day and declared their intentions to catch up with some reading. At the door, he turned to smile at her and reached into his coat pocket.

  “I was supposed to bring this to the Larkspur, but I really must get back up the hill. Would you mind keeping this for me until this evening?”

  “This evening, Jacob?” she asked, returning his smile as she took the dagger from his hand. Yes, it did happen.

  “Why, yes. We should make plans…set a date, shouldn’t we?” Faint worry came into his brown eyes. “You do recall agreeing to marry me, don’t you?”

  “I do. Why don’t you come in time for supper?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Taking the dagger from her hand, he set it down on the entrance table. He then stepped closer to take her elbows lightly with both hands. Lydia closed her eyes and raised her chin slightly. The kiss was sweet and tender, but with a hint of the passion she suspected had always been hidden under his unassuming exterior. When he was gone, Lydia turned and leaned back against the wall until the spell of light-headedness could pass. Jeanie padded into the room from the back, meowing curiously.

  “Thank you for having the decency to wait,” Lydia murmured as she scooped the cat up into her arms. Closing her eyes, she said under her breath, And thank you for answering my prayer, Father.

  From upstairs a voice boomed. “Ly-di-a! Is Mr. Pitney gone?”

  She opened her eyes and smirked at the cat. “He is, Papa!”

  “Have you seen my—”

  “Yes, Papa!” She returned to the entrance table, where the pipe lay next to Governor Cerealis’ dagger. And thank you for men who leave things lying about in the wrong places.

  Mr. Ellis looked relieved to see Jacob. “I was beginning to worry you’d taken a tumble downhill,” he said. “Like poor Jack in the nursery rhymes.”

  “Forgive me.” Jacob was truly contrite, despite the fact that he had worn a smile all the way up the hill. “I didn’t intend to be gone so long.”

  “It occurred to me after you sprinted out of here that Miss Rawlins has been away all week. Has she returned, then?”

  Miss Rawlins? Jacob seemed to recall seeing her somewhere. Or was that last week? “I’m not sure,” was his reply.

  Scratching his graying beard, the senior associate looked puzzled. “But wasn’t she the reason you left?”

  Jacob shook his head. “I went to see Miss Clark. Only she was in Shrewsbury, so I had to go there.”

  “You mean the schoolmistress?”

  “Yes. I’ve asked her to marry me.”

  Mr. Ellis’s eyes blinked with incredulity. “Pardon my saying so, Mr. Pitney, but it’s not like you to act so rashly. Shouldn’t you have waited a bit to be sure?”

  “I’m already sure,” Jacob assured him, his smile returning. “And I’ve waited for her all my life.”

  On Sunday morning, for the first time in his life, Harold Sanders talked to God. He did so while riding Bob toward Saint Jude’s. There was no sense in bringing the wagon, as he knew better than to offer Mrs. Meeks and the children a ride home. But he hoped Mrs. Meeks wouldn’t take offense at his attending church—and actually going inside this time.

  And that was where God came in. “Since you’re supposed to know everything, you know I’m only doin’ this in the hopes that she’ll think more kindly toward me,” he said softly so that if any unchurched folk were in their gardens, they wouldn’t think he had gone mad. Because he spoke aloud and his eyes weren’t closed, he didn’t know if he should consider himself actually praying.

  “It’s not that I got anything against you—even if you did take my mother. And bein’ around good folk like Mrs. Meeks and Miss Clark and Mercy and Seth makes me think that I’d like to be a believer one day too.”

  But it wasn’t right to become one just to win the heart of a woman. Even Mercy had told him that. And he did want to win Mrs. Meeks’ heart in the worst way. Even more than he wanted a big farm of his own. If she would have him, he would work his back off to make her little farm provide a decent living for her and the children. Tears stung his eyes just thinking about it.

  What he was asking of God was to give him a sign if it was also wrong to attend church for the same reason. “Just give me a sneezing fit or a headache when I get to the door if you don’t want me to go through it,” he prayed, then added, “Please, sir.” He wouldn’t be any good to Mrs. Meeks and her children in the future if he was struck with some terrible ailment as punishment for going inside.

  He tethered Bob to a post outside the town hall. Vicar Phelps stood in the doorway of Saint Jude’s, greeting folks as they arrived. Harold straightened the collar of his tweed coat. His steps slowed as he drew closer to the door. No inclination to sneeze yet, nor did his head feel poorly.

  “Mr. Sanders? Is that you?”

  With a nod to the vicar, Harold walked over to where he stood. He smiled weakly as his hand was seized.

  “I’ve been told that you’ve been attending, but I’ve never been able to see you for some reason,” Vicar Phelps said, smiling.

  Harold lowered his eyes. God had not shown any sign that he shouldn’t go inside, but surely it was terribly wrong to do so with a lie resting on his shoulders. “I never went in,” he mumbled.

  “Is that so?” the vicar said. But then he smiled again. “Well, that makes me even move grateful to see you here today.”

  “Thank you.” And having had enough chat at the church door for one day, Harold nodded politely, withdrew his hand that the vicar had forgotten to let go of, and walked on inside. Only two people, a man and woman, occupied the very last pew on his left, and they smiled and moved down so that he would have a place to sit.

  It seemed the church was nearly filled. While a woman he did not recognize played the piano softly, and Mr. Fletcher the violin, most people sat in respectful silence. In a loftlike section facing everyone else, men, women, and even some older children were rustling pages of books. A few minutes later a hush fell over the whole church as Vicar Phelps walked toward the front. People rose to their feet, and Harold did the same. The people in the loft stood with those same books open in their hands and began singing something that started with the words, “Holy, holy, holy.” It was a fine song, Harold thought, as goosepricks tingled his arms.

  After Vicar Phelps prayed, the whole congregation took up hymnals and sang “O Word of God Incarnate.” He finally felt at ease enough to glance around at the people about him. Across the aisle and three rows up, Miss Clark stood with her mother and papa and the younger of the archeology men from the Larkspur. Now he understood why she hadn’t wanted to court him. But it didn’t matter anymore, and he was even glad she woul
dn’t be lonely. Loneliness was a terrible thing.

  The corner of his left eye caught some motion, and he looked directly in front of him. At first he recognized no familiar backs of heads or bonnets. But through a gap between worshipers, he spotted a grinning Lester Meeks waving at him from about five rows ahead. His mother leaned over to touch his shoulder, and the boy whispered something to her. With a puzzled face she turned and scanned the row of faces before her eyes met Harold’s. He was afraid she would show some sign of anger, but she smiled warmly.

  Thank you, God, Harold prayed before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to.

  Chapter 46

  On a Wednesday morning one month later, Paul Treves knocked on the vicarage door behind Saint Jude’s. Vicar Phelps himself answered within seconds and greeted him with a smiling, “Good morning!”

  Paul returned the greeting, noticing the vicar’s black suit and hat in his hand. “Do forgive me. Were you about to make calls?”

  “None that won’t keep.” His older friend stepped back from the door and hung his hat on the stand. “Come in, Paul. I’ll be glad for the company. Shall I ask Dora to bring us some tea?”

  “I had two cups before riding over. It’s certainly quiet in here,” Paul remarked as they walked into the parlor. Right away he added, “Not that it’s ever too noisy, mind you.”

  “Oh, but Julia would disagree at times. Philip is spending a fortnight in Birmingham with Gabriel Patterson, a friend he met back in boarding school. And Julia and the girls are in Shrewsbury, shopping for a carriage.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The older man laughed. “A baby carriage. Did I not tell you that Elizabeth is expecting?”

  “No, sir,” Paul replied. He was a little astonished and quite relieved that the news did not cause him any sorrow. Indeed, he felt happy for the Raleighs. “I remember how good she was with little Molly and David. She’ll make a wonderful mother.”

  “That’s good of you to say, Paul.”