The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (12 page)

“Very well, thank you,” she replied. “They’ve adjusted to combining the families with remarkable ease.”

“Of course it helped that they were already friends before the marriage,” Andrew added.

“And the newlyweds?” asked Fiona.

Julia wished they were free to share the news about Elizabeth, but she had to respect her stepdaughter’s desire for secrecy until the pregnancy was further along. “Very happy. And Jonathan loves his teaching position. I doubt they’ll ever leave Gresham.”

Andrew smiled at Mr. Clay. “And now that we’ve brought you up to date with the vicarage clan, I’d really like to hear what you’ve learned, Ambrose. You know I’m always looking for insights to enhance my sermons.”

“Tell them, Ambrose,” Fiona urged, touching his elbow.

“It seems you’re outvoted,” Julia added. “I’d like to hear it too.”

Smiling, the actor shrugged. “If you’re quite sure. But I’m trusting you not to allow me to become a bore.” He sat back in the bench and steepled his fingers upon a crossed knee. “Have you ever been to the Cotswolds?”

Julia and Fiona shook their heads. Andrew replied that he believed he had as a boy on a rare family holiday to visit relatives.

“Well, the roads are quite hilly.” Ambrose moved a hand sideways in an undulating motion. “The horses have a time of it. And Fiona has helped me to realize that life is like those roads. And not just my life, although my condition makes mine a little more hilly than most.”

“In other words, we each have our hills and valleys,” said Andrew.

“Exactly. But in my young adulthood, I spent the hilltop days cramming as much activity into them as possible, not allowing myself to think about the coming valleys. But they came anyway, accompanied by crushing disappointment. I’ve now learned to take a pause to look back, every time life becomes good again.”

“Back?”

“Over the road I’ve already traveled. My life so far, if you will. It’s simple to do so when you’re standing on a hilltop, but nearly impossible from a valley. While I can see all the low places, I can also see the elevated ones. And then I turn to look at the road ahead of me. It’s the same. And I tell myself, ‘Ambrose, this happiness won’t last. It hasn’t before. But neither will the darkness, for I can see the hills rising up for miles and miles.’ So when the low days come, and my heart is telling me I’ll never be happy again, my mind takes me back to the view I saw from the last hilltop.”

He shrugged again, a little self-consciously. “It helps. Tremendously, in fact.”

“I can see how,” Andrew said. “
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning
. We seem to remind ourselves of that passage only while in the dark of night, don’t we? But that is also when it’s hard to see the joy that’s ahead through the tears.” He leaned forward a bit, warming to the subject. “What you’ve done, Ambrose and Fiona, is pile up stones.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The clattering of wheels and hooves that had sounded unobtrusively in the distance grew loud enough to prevent him from answering without shouting. Three red-and-white cheese factory wagons, drawn by pairs of dray horses, were returning from their afternoon deliveries to the Shrewsbury railway station. When he could be heard again, Andrew said as if the interruption had never occurred, “After the Israelites crossed the Jordan on dry land, they piled up twelve stones on the riverbank as a memorial, a reminder for future generations of how God had led them through the wilderness to the Promised Land. When you’re standing in a high place, as you are now, you pile up stones. And you can look back and see them from the next low place.”

Ambrose slapped a knee with his hand and smiled. “And
I
see a sermon on this in the near future.”

“Missus Phelps?”

Everyone looked to the right, where Sarah stood holding a tray about three feet away. Julia wondered how she could have approached so soundlessly until she remembered the cheese wagons. With a smile she said, “Good afternoon, Sarah.”

“Good afternoon, missus.” The maid advanced to place the tray on the seat beside Julia. “Mr. Jensen saw you through the window and thought you’d be wantin’ some refreshment. He also asks if you’ve time to speak with him before you leave.”

Julia assured her that she would be inside as soon as their tea was finished, then took charge of pouring cups and handing out the small dishes of ginger biscuits. The day she married Andrew, the
Larkspur
became his as well as hers. Because he had such extensive duties to parish and family and no experience with running a lodging house, he had gratefully accepted Julia’s offer to take care of any matters that should arise. Those were few and far between, with Mr. Jensen so capable a manager.

Some twenty minutes later Julia excused herself and stepped inside the hall. Mrs. Dearing, white braid trailing gracefully down her back, turned to smile from the bench of the pianoforte.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dearing.”

“And good afternoon to you, Mrs. Phelps. Is the good vicar not with you?”

“He’s in the garden with the Clays. I just stepped in to see Mr. Jensen.” She looked around at the empty sofas and chairs. “Where is everyone?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Durwin are visiting with the Sykes, Mrs. Latrell is upstairs, and Miss Rawlins is working on her latest manuscript.” Mr. Ellis and Mr. Pitney, of course, would be atop the Anwyl. “I’ve noticed that everyone seems to have reasons to absent themselves from the hall every day just about the time I’m due to practice.”

Suppressing a smile because it was likely true, Julia walked over to stand beside the piano. A book of scale exercises was propped upon the ledge. “Now, Mrs. Dearing. Aleda tells me you’re progressing very well.” Aleda still gave the woman lessons on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.

“A gracious young lady, that daughter of yours.” The levity in her tone was a sure sign that Mrs. Dearing took no offense at the emptiness of the room. “But had I the mastery of Clara Schumann, repetitive scales could still become tedious to the ears. So you had best go find Mr. Jensen before you become a captive audience.”

The notes of the f-major scale followed Julia down the corridor to Mr. Jensen’s office. Knowing that he was expecting her, she gave a light knock and eased open the door. The former butler immediately started getting to his feet, but she waved him back into his seat, closed the door, and slipped into the chair in front of his desk.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Phelps,” Mr. Jensen said.

“But of course, Mr. Jensen. How are you today?”

A smile deepened the lines of his sixty-five-year-old face. The former butler was a courtly looking man, with thinning, iron-gray hair. Even seated, his posture was as perfect as a dowager’s. “As I am every day in Gresham. Most content.”

“I understand.” It was here under the
Larkspur
’s roof that Julia had learned the true meaning of contentment herself. “And you deserve it, I might add.”

“That would be debatable, but it’s kind of you to say it.”

“I say it only because it’s true.”

How strange it still seemed to Julia to be so beholden to the person she had considered her worst enemy back in London. From the day she crossed the threshold of surgeon Philip Hollis’s home as a seventeen-year-old bride until shortly after her husband’s death three years ago, this same man had treated her with just enough politeness to keep from losing his position. It was clear that he considered her, and later the children, impositions to his well-established routine.

And so it would have seemed that Mr. Jensen would have been ecstatic to learn that his former master’s gambling debts had left Julia penniless. But incredibly, he had advised her to transform her only asset, an abandoned coaching inn, into a lodging house—and then insisted on lending her the money for refurbishing and to cover her living expenses until rents from the
Larkspur
’s lodgers could be counted upon.

Julia was well aware that God had sustained her family in those days, and she still thanked Him daily for His benevolence. Even so that knowledge did not lessen her gratitude to Mr. Jensen, for he could have hardened his heart to the Father’s suasions. God would have likely provided another way, but she was glad that had not been necessary, because the man had proved himself to be a good friend as well as a capable manager.

“Thank you for sending tea,” Julia went on, changing the subject in deference to Mr. Jensen’s embarrassment when being complimented too effusively.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Phelps.” Mr. Jensen folded his hands upon his desk and assumed a businesslike demeanor. “I will try not to keep Vicar Phelps waiting too long. This morning, Mrs. Latrell received a wire from her widowed sister in Northumberland. I gather the sister is lonely, for she has asked Mrs. Latrell to move in with her as soon as possible. The chambermaids are assisting her in packing, and Mr. Herrick will deliver her to Shrewsbury in the morning.”

“I see.” Julia was not as well acquainted with Mrs. Latrell as with the other lodgers, simply because she had married and moved out before the woman’s arrival. But she could understand how a sister would find solace in her cheerful disposition. “Of course she must go. I’ll slip upstairs and speak with her as soon as I leave you.”

“She has offered to pay next month’s lodgings for having given such short notice.”

“Do you think that is necessary?” Julia asked him. “We still have those other inquiries, haven’t we?” They were responses to the advertisements that had been posted in several English newspapers almost a year ago when Mrs. Kingston was on the verge of becoming Mrs. Bartley. Mrs. Latrell’s letter had arrived first. After it was arranged that she would take the room, Mr. Jensen had sent at least two dozen letters of regret, but surely one of those who had inquired would still be interested in the
Larkspur
.

“We have indeed, Mrs. Phelps,” Mr. Jensen replied. He picked up a sheet of stationery and leaned forward to hand it across the desk. “But I would like you to see a letter that arrived only yesterday.”

Julia set the fine vellum paper on the desk in front of her to smooth out the folds, then held it out in front of her to read the bold script:

Dear Mr. Jensen,

I am a solicitor, practicing in London. One of my clients is the Long & Currier Publishing House, which I have learned represents one of your lodgers, a Miss Eugenia Rawlins. I obtained your address from the publisher in the hopes that you would have a vacancy at present for another client of mine, a Mrs. Somerville.

Mrs. Somerville is a widow with a sterling reputation who is sadly still grieving the loss of her husband two years ago. Her family feels that a change of location and an extended stay in the country would benefit her enormously. Would you happen to have a room available?

Enclosed you will find reimbursement for a wired reply, if you would be so kind.

Very truly yours,

Osbert Radley

“How sad,” Julia said as she lowered the page. She could certainly feel empathy for a woman still so newly widowed.

“He enclosed two pounds.”

“Two pounds? And with no guarantee of a room? His client must be desperate.”

“Apparently so, judging from what was not said.”

Julia gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

“Do you not detect that there is far more to this story than meets the eye?”

Scanning the letter again, she experienced a vague uneasiness but attributed it to the notion that they would be exchanging Mrs. Latrell for a stranger. And she had learned in recent years that feelings were sometimes a poor barometer of reality. “I can understand anyone needing to get away from familiar surroundings after losing a loved one.” It had certainly done her a world of good to move to Gresham after her husband’s death—even though the circumstances were not of her choosing.

“Then we should wire Mr. Radley in the affirmative?”

Still, a faint doubt nagged at her. “It doesn’t quite seem fair, putting this one ahead of the others. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“If you will pardon my bluntness,” he replied, “the
Larkspur
is yours to do with as you wish.”

“Granted. But it’s your decision as well. After all, you have more contact with the lodgers than I have.”

She knew what Andrew would advise. Take some time to pray before making a decision. But judging from Mr. Radley’s letter, time on that end was in short supply. And it would be nice to have an immediate lodger, instead of having to wait for Mr. Jensen to send out letters and then receive replies. She prayed daily that the
Larkspur
would run smoothly. Wouldn’t such a prayer encompass this situation as well?

Mr. Jensen’s voice broke into her thoughts. “May I offer a suggestion, Mrs. Phelps?”

“Please do.”

“I could wire Mr. Radley, with the understanding that Mrs. Somerville must be interviewed before we can guarantee her the room.”

Of course that was the perfect solution—and fair, because Julia had made a policy of interviewing potential lodgers from the beginning. She nodded. “Then send your wire, Mr. Jensen.”