The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (15 page)

He didn’t imagine the sigh that came from her rose-colored lips. “But how did it make you
feel
, Mr. Pitney?”

How did it make me feel?
Clearing his throat, he replied, “Uh…good?”

She stared at him as if he had belched. “And that’s all you came away with after reading it? You felt
good
?”

Jacob could feel his cheeks getting warm. “Rachelle and General Massena ended up marrying. Shouldn’t I feel good about that?”

“But did you understand any of the symbolism?”

“Symbolism?”

“The bowl of chrysanthemums at the table…the sudden hailstorm on the night Rachelle wrote in her diary…the rip in the scullery maid’s apron…” She lifted a slender hand in a helpless gesture, then allowed it to drop to her side. “I could go on and on, Mr. Pitney. Didn’t you see anything below the surface?”

“Well, of course.” Though an indulgent mid-April sun sent down only mild rays, he was beginning to sweat beneath his tweed coat. He tried to think fast, for he could sense her opinion of him diminishing every second that he delayed his reply. Finally an answer popped into his head and came to his rescue. “I learned that one shouldn’t pay attention to other people at dinner parties, if one is in love with someone else. But then Rachelle de Beaufort was at fault too, because she didn’t give the general an opportunity to explain.”

“And
that
is what you consider symbolic, Mr. Pitney?”

“Well, yes.” He ran a finger along the inside of his collar. “Shouldn’t a person know how to behave properly at dinner parties?”

“Oh, unequivocally. Proper etiquette at the dinner table is the foundation of our empire.”

Was she being sarcastic? Jacob had dug a hole so deep with his answers that he decided silence was now his safest defense. Apparently she did not mind, for she did not speak to him again until he held the
Larkspur
’s door open for her.

“Thank you for the company, Mr. Pitney,” she said politely before retiring to her room. She did not come down for lunch, which wasn’t unusual when she was finishing a manuscript. Miss Rawlins had donated copies of her two dozen or so novelettes to the inn’s library, so Jacob picked up a copy of
Jewel of the Empire
and took it up to his room. He resolved he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He would study this story as thoroughly as if it were an archeology text and be prepared the next time with the right answers.

And the next time, she would look at him with awe—not as if he had egg in the corner of his mouth.

The following Sunday, Vicar Phelps delivered a stirring message on the memorial of twelve stones on the banks of the Jordan. Still, Lydia could barely keep her eyes focused on the minister.
You’ve the self-discipline of a gnat!
she lectured herself.

She would not think of showing up at school too groggy to perform her duties competently, yet she had come to church in that condition, as if God didn’t matter as much as her occupation. Yesterday Mrs. Summers had informed her that Thomas Hardy’s
Under the Greenwood Tree
had just arrived by post at the lending library, and Lydia could be the first to borrow it. She had not intended to stay up all night reading, but one chapter led to another, and then another, until she became aware of the downstairs clock chiming four in the morning.

She found herself almost nodding off while standing during the closing prayer, which was mercifully brief. All she could think about during the hymn, “Now Thank We All Our God,” was the comfort of her bed and the softness of her pillow.

Outside the church, she and her parents were approached by her brother, Noah, and his wife, Beatrice. They always sat in the second row with Beatrice’s mother, Mrs. Temple, who was hard of hearing and needed to be close to the pulpit. Noah and Beatrice’s marriage had been childless for eighteen years, and then, like Hannah, Beatrice gave birth to a son they appropriately named Samuel. A daugher, Mary, followed a year later. So in their early forties, the couple had two children not even old enough for grammar school. And they delighted in this new stage of their lives.

“Mother is asking us all to lunch,” Beatrice said. She was a handsome woman, with jet black hair still showing no signs of gray. “Will you come?”

Lydia’s parents readily agreed. Sundays were Mrs. Tanner’s day off, so they usually had their noonday meal at the
Bow and Fiddle
. But Lydia begged off. “I just want to sleep all afternoon,” she told them apologetically. Fortunately she had an understanding family. Her brother, one of the few people in Gresham who towered over her in height, even squeezed her shoulder. “Stayed up all night reading again, did we?”

“What do you mean…
again
?” Lydia demanded with an affectionate smile. “I haven’t done that since I was a girl.”

“Not counting last night?”

She covered a yawn. “Not counting last night.”

Bidding them farewell, she started across the green alone. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and the air smelled heavy with rain. She reached Market Lane and was just passing in front of the
Larkspur
when she noticed the wagon coming from Church Lane and pausing in the crossroads ahead. Mr. Towly sat at the reins, clad in a black suit that looked newly tailored. But even a suit of golden armor wouldn’t have impressed Lydia.

“Good day to you, Miss Clark!” the man boomed. Apparently not used to courtesies, he forgot to remove his hat this time. He could have removed it a hundred times, and still, Lydia wouldn’t have been impressed.

“Good day, Mr. Towly,” she mumbled as she continued her walk along the low stone wall of the
Larkspur
’s garden. The crossroads were getting nearer, as was her opportunity to turn to the right and head for home.

“I was wonderin’ if you wanted to have some lunch at the
Bow and Fiddle
—as long as you don’t spend more than half-a-crown.”

Lydia halted in her tracks. The man, horse, and wagon were only ten feet away from her now. “Mr. Towly,” she said wearily, “where are your children?”

“Why, I sent them on home.”

“And what do you plan to give
them
for lunch?”

He sat a little straighter and replied, “We’ve a cook, Miss Clark. I had to hire one when the missus passed on….” Now at the mention of his wife, he thought to remove his hat. “God rest her soul.”

And she’s likely enjoying that rest
, Lydia thought. Sighing, she looked about her. Families strolled toward cottages, but no one appeared near enough to witness their discourse.
Best get it over with now
.

“Mr. Towly,” she said.

“Yes?” he replied hopefully.

“Your children need you. They aren’t so quick to get over the loss of their mother as you obviously are. And while I’m flattered by your attention, I’m not interested.”

His stubbled jaw dropped. “Huh?”

Sighing again, Lydia said, “I presume you wish to court me, Mr. Towly. But I do not wish to be courted by you.”

“But you don’t know aught about me. If we had lunch—”

When cows write poetry
, she thought. “I prefer to keep it that way, sir. Please pay me the courtesy of leaving me alone.”

The man’s face mottled with anger. “Oh, I’ll pay you that courtesy, all right. And I don’t expect I’ll be changin’ my mind, even if you was to beg me!”

That was the best news Lydia had heard all day. “Thank you, Mr. Towly.”

Clearly taking offense at the relief in her voice, he continued in an injured tone, “But as I hear it, there ain’t any other men givin’ you the time o’ day. I was willing to overlook your homeliness, but there ain’t many as willin’ to do so.”

With that, he snapped the reins unnecessarily hard, prodding the ill-groomed horse north up Market Lane. And when the wagon moved away, a tall, broad-shouldered figure stood watching Lydia with a perplexed expression. Mr. Pitney. Tears blurred Lydia’s eyes. No matter how little she cared about Mr. Towly, the words had stung. And much more so, now that she knew they had been witnessed.

She started again for the crossroads, but Mr. Pitney moved rapidly across the lane and came to her side.

“Miss Clark?” he began in a hesitant voice, as if he was unused to confronting women who had just been insulted in the center of town. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Lydia increased her pace, but the long legs of the man beside her did the same. She sent a nod in his direction while chiding herself for not bothering with carrying a reticule, as did other women, for she was in dire need of a handkerchief. “Really.”

“You don’t look fine, if you’ll forgive me for saying.”

“Why not say it? It’s been said before.”

“No, I meant…” From the corner of her eye Lydia watched him withdraw a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tweed coat. “Please, take this.”

She had reached Church Lane and turned westward, and still he accompanied her. Practicality soon overcame Lydia’s pride, and she stopped to take the handkerchief from his hand. He was gentlemanly enough to look elsewhere as she blew her nose into it. Lydia felt grateful for that, and especially thankful that the Worthy sisters had not yet returned from church and did not spin lace on Sundays.

“Thank you,” she said as she folded the handkerchief.

He turned to look at her again. She had never really noticed how handsome he was, with his dark brown hair and eyes. Not that it mattered. She was the last person to judge a book by its cover. True, Mr. Towly’s cover had not impressed her, but she could have possibly overlooked it had the book been worth reading.

“Are you better now?” Mr. Pitney asked.

“Much better. I’m just mortified about the little scene.”

“Please don’t be. The man was rude.”

She didn’t want to think about Mr. Towly anymore. “May I return the handkerchief when I’ve had it cleaned? I don’t think you want it back in your pocket.”

He smiled, somewhat bashfully. “Of course. But there’s no hurry, mind you. My mother gives me three dozen every Christmas. She’s certain that digging about in damp ruins causes head colds—never mind that I’ve not had one in years.”

Lydia suspected that he was attempting to cheer her. And it worked, for she found herself returning his smile. “It must be very interesting work.”

A spark lit his brown eyes. “Actually, I seldom think of it as work. Is teaching like that for you?”

“From the first day, Mr. Pitney. So we’re both blessed in that regard.” She realized his dinner was waiting, so she offered her hand in farewell. “And it was very kind of you to see about me.”

“You’ll be all right, then?” he asked as they shook hands.

“Yes, thank you.”

They wished each other good-day, and Lydia turned to continue her walk home. Even when she was a schoolgirl, a frank acceptance of reality had kept her from being schoolgirl-
ish
, with a head full of romantic notions. And at the age of thirty-four, romance seemed as unattainable to her as the moon. But it was quite a while before she could drift into sleep that afternoon, for she could not stop imagining a pair of kind brown eyes.

Good—she’s here
, Jacob Pitney thought, pausing in the doorway leading into the hall that evening. Miss Rawlins, looking like an Egyptian princess in her beige gown and straight, short dark hair, sat in one of the chairs. At half-past ten, the Clays and Mr. Ellis had retired to their chambers for the night, but Mrs. Dearing and the Durwins were usually inclined to visit in the hall until later. Miss Rawlins had no set pattern for appearances—when she tired of sequestering herself in her room, she came downstairs for some companionship.