The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (22 page)

“Guilty,” he replied, still smiling.

“Why, I saw you in
The Barrister
.”

“Yes? How delightful. I’d like to hear your impression of it.” He sent a guilty glance around the room. “But as I tend to wax verbose when discussing theatre, perhaps we shouldn’t allow the food to get cold.”

Why is he here?
Noelle wondered.

Meanwhile, the male lodgers who had stood for Mrs. Clay began assisting the women from their chairs. Mr. Periwinkle pulled out Noelle’s chair after helping his wife to her feet. But still no one made a move toward the sideboard. “Mr. Durwin, would you lead us in prayer this evening?” Mr. Jensen asked.

Noelle bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. Of course her family had prayed before meals when she lived at home, but it had been so long ago that she had almost forgotten that people did this.

“Our Heavenly Father,” the man next to her began, just as Noelle was beginning to wonder if he had heard Mr. Jensen’s request.

“We thank Thee for this food and ask that you bless the hands that prepared it. May it nourish our bodies, providing strength to do Thy will. Forgive us where we’ve failed Thee, and we give thanks that Mrs. Somerville’s journey was a safe one. In the name of Jesus Christ our Savior, amen.”

“Amen,” was echoed softly by the others at the table, and then the men allowed the women to queue up first at the sideboard. As the newest lodger, Noelle was urged to take the lead. Her protests were to no avail.

“Now, enjoy being pampered while you can, dear,” the soft-eyed woman said with a pat to her shoulder.

Durwin
, Noelle thought, recalling that Mr. Jensen had addressed her husband by such when asking him to pray. Not that it mattered.

“We fairly trample over each other most other times.”

“As if you would trample anyone, Mrs. Durwin.”

This was said by the Irish woman, Mr. Clay’s wife. Noelle found herself a little envious of the camaraderie of these people. There was no evidence of the one-upmanship that permeated her own friendships. Even the two maids were asked about their families as they helped to serve plates. After taking servings of medallions of beef with wild mushrooms and vegetables, Noelle went back to her chair, which Mr. Ellis stepped away from the queue to pull out for her.

When the meal was finished, topped off with an almond-andcaramel tart, Noelle was invited by one and then another to join them in the hall. As weary as she was, she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to show a little cordiality. And besides, it would take her mind off Quetin for a while.

“Here, come sit with us,” the braided woman invited, taking her arm and leading her to a place on a sofa between her and the bespectacled woman. On the facing sofa sat the periwinkle-gatherers and Mrs. Clay, while the men settled into the chairs close by. The giant had quietly slipped away.

“Mrs. Somerville was telling us about her late husband’s untimely demise two years ago,” the braided woman said quietly to the Clays. “Before you came to supper.” She turned to Noelle. “Still, it must comfort you that he gave his life so courageously.”

“Oh, it does,” Noelle assured her, eyes wide with sincerity.

“He saved the queen’s life.” Mrs. Periwinkle’s eyes were as wide as Noelle’s as she related the whole story to the Clays.

“How terribly tragic that he had to lose his own,” Mrs. Clay said in the soft brogue while her husband nodded somberly from the chair beside the sofa.

Noelle noticed how they managed to hold hands upon the upholstered arm between them. A twinge of envy pricked at her. Though Quetin had been good to her, he never displayed affection in public like that, even with a simple gesture such as holding hands. Noelle found herself resenting the delicate beauty of the woman across from her.
No doubt she’s been pampered and doted upon her whole life
.

“Did he receive a medal, Mrs. Somerville?” Mr. Jensen was asking. “Posthumously, I mean?”

Noelle nodded, ignoring an annoying little warning voice that told her she was taking her story too far. “A beautiful gold one in the shape of a star. I sleep with it under my pillow.”

“May we see it, do you think?” Miss Rawlins asked from Noelle’s left, with admiration in her voice. “Forgive me for saying so, but Major Somerville is the embodiment of the courage and dashing that I attempt to portray in my heroes. I compose novelettes, you see, and would love to base one on the events of your husband’s life.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I left the medal in my father’s safe in London. I feared I would lose it somehow while traveling.”

“I wonder why the incident never made the newspapers,” Mr. Clay commented. His expression gave no sign of his having misgivings about her story. “Surely this would have been front-page news all over England.”

“Why, in every newspaper in the world!” Mr. Durwin corrected.

That reptile Mr. Radley couldn’t leave well enough alone
, Noelle fumed. He
had
to go and present her as a widow, and now she was forced to invent a past that was beginning to sound overbaked even to her own ears, never mind that Miss Rawlins was staring at her with awe.

What does it matter? You’ll be leaving as soon as Quetin finds another place
. “It was kept quiet by request of the Queen,” she replied finally. “Her majesty didn’t want it made known that security could be breached so easily.”

“Well, I would hope precautions were taken so that it doesn’t happen again,” Mr. Ellis declared.

Noelle nodded. “The guard was doubled that very same day, in fact.”

Mr. Durwin made a tsking sound. “The man must have been out of his mind.”

“Or a political zealot,” Mr. Jensen offered.

“He was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood,” Noelle said. She had heard Quetin mention the terrorists once or twice and could not resist the covert little stab at Mrs. Clay, sitting there so doted upon by the man who any woman in London would give anything to have holding her hand. But she was also careful to send the woman a meaningful look that said,
But, of course, I don’t judge you by your nationality
.

For all the discomfort in the Irish woman’s expression, Noelle could have declared that the would-be assassin was a leprechaun. In fact, Mrs. Clay gave Noelle a grateful little smile, as if she appreciated her feigned reluctance to spare her feelings. Was she really so naive? Didn’t she realize that by being so beautiful and beloved she would immediately incur the dislike of any other beautiful woman in her vicinity?

“Every cause seems to attract its extremists,” the braided woman was commenting from Noelle’s left. “Why, just look at Mary, Queen of Scots.”

Talk ventured in that direction, and Noelle found herself at a loss. If the queen of Scotland was burning people at the stake, shouldn’t she be stopped somehow? The world outside London was just too complicated. Her earlier fatigue returned, and she excused herself to retire for the evening.

“Will you remember the way to your room, dear?” Mrs. Durwin asked after the others bade her good-night. “I’ll be happy to accompany you upstairs.”

Noelle’s irritation at the implication that she was simple-minded evaporated as she realized the elderly woman was genuinely concerned about her. These were peculiar people who seemed to have no hidden agendas behind their words. “No, thank you,” Noelle replied, even giving her a smile. She went upstairs to find the bed sheets turned down for her and a low lamp burning on her night stand.

Perhaps I should wait before sending that wire
, she told herself after changing into a nightgown and slipping into bed. She wouldn’t want Quetin to think she was a spoiled child who couldn’t at least give the place a chance.

“Well, what did you think of Mrs. Somerville?” Ambrose asked Fiona as he stood behind her at the dressing table and brushed her hair. Fiona wasn’t sure when it had become a nightly ritual, but she liked it very much.

“I thought she was pleasant,” she replied.

“I suppose.”

“Suppose?” He had been in a good mood for the past week, so she hoped this wasn’t a sign that the despondency was returning. “You’ve some doubts about her?”

He pulled the brush gently through her hair again. “The remark about the Irish Republicans. Surely she could tell that you are Irish.”

“But if it’s the truth, why shouldn’t she say it?”

“I hope I’m mistaken, but it seemed to me she rather enjoyed giving out that tidbit of information.”

“Ambrose.” Fiona directed a reproving look at him through the mirror. “She was describing the person who murdered her husband, and only because we asked. No woman would enjoy speaking of such matters.”

“All I’m saying is that I thought I caught something in her expression that made me think she wanted to hurt you.”

“She doesn’t even know me.”

“She knows you’re more beautiful than she is.”

“But I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” he said in a tone that made it clear any further debate would be useless. The brush flowed through her hair again. “That’s enough to make her dislike you.”

“That would be so shallow,” Fiona protested. “Even if that were the case.”

“You’ve never met any shallow people in your twenty-eight years?” Before she could answer, her husband put the brush upon the table and added, “I’ll grant I very well may be wrong. But you, my ravenhaired beauty, are too noble for your own good. You assume everyone is as decent as you are, so you’re blinded by their faults.”

“You exaggerate, you know.” Fiona rose from the bench, turned, and put her arms around his shoulders. Raising an eyebrow, she said, “And I do seem to recall certain scriptures warning against judging others.”

“Touché, dearest,” Ambrose grinned as his arms went about her waist. “But I also recall one about being as wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”

“Then I won’t lend her any money until I know her better.”

“It’s not your money I’m worried about.” He brushed a kiss upon the tip of her nose. “It’s your heart.”

Kissing his clefted chin, Fiona smiled. “I’ll not be lending my heart to anybody, Ambrose Clay. It belongs entirely to you.”

Chapter 15

“I don’t like my eggs runny,” Harold Sanders complained Thursday morning to Mrs. Winters, the cook they had hired when his sister, Mercy, married and moved down the lane. Though she didn’t take meals with Harold or his father and five brothers, Mrs. Winters had no qualms about using the foot of the table for a work space, even while the family was seated to eat.
Especially
while they were eating lately, for she was determined to torment Papa until he built the little worktable she insisted she needed.

“You’ll eat ’em or do without,” Mrs. Winters replied gruffly, her broad shoulders bent over the lump of dough she was kneading. With her every motion the table rocked, and the undercooked yokes of his four eggs quivered upon Harold’s plate.

“Papa…” he whined, only to be silenced by a severe look from the head of the table. His father had determined that a worktable was a waste of time and money and had yet to yield an inch. It was a wonder that the woman had stayed this long with Papa so stubborn, but then there were likely not many families in Gresham who would put up with Mrs. Winters’ bossy ways.

“Fernie, you sluice out the milking barn,” his father said after crunching down on a piece of overcooked bacon. Mrs. Winters had prepared bacon perfectly until she got the notion for the worktable in her head. Turning to Harold, he said, “I want you and Dale to haul thet load of manure behind the haybarn over to the turnips.” The turnip patch was in the back pasture, surrounded by a wood rail fence to keep the cattle from eating until they bloated and died. Most of the vegetables would be stored to provide winter forage along with the hay.

“We’ll have to wait for the wagon,” twenty-eight-year-old Dale replied, for Oram would soon be delivering milk to the cheese factory and then driving Edgar and Jack to school.

“No need to put more wear on the wagon ’til we get another made. Use the wheelbarrow.”

After an exchange of outraged glances with Dale, Harold protested, “But it’ll take all day!”

Their father ignored the loud thump from the foot of the table, where a tight-jawed Mrs. Winters had just slapped down the mound of dough. “Not if you put your backs into it.”