The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (3 page)

“Handsome day for taking a drive, ain’t it?” the caretaker asked as he took her parcels so she could step up into the seat. He was a tall man of about thirty, with curly brown hair and a gap between his teeth that made words like
handsome
come out in a whistle. Many an unmarried woman in Gresham had set her cap for him, including Wanetta, but aside from an infatuation with Fiona three years ago, he seemed content in his bachelorhood.

“It is a fine day at that, Luke,” Julia replied, taking up the reins.

She bade him farewell after he handed her things over, and just a flick of the reins was all Rusty, the blue roan, needed to be set in motion. Julia had asked Andrew to teach her how to drive on a whim one day and found that she enjoyed it very much—especially on mornings like this one, for spring air bathed her cheeks as the trap carried her along. At the end of the vicarage lane she reined Rusty to the west for twenty yards or so, to where a half-timbered, two-story cottage sat at the corner of Church and Bartley Lanes. The cottage had once belonged to Captain and Mrs. Powell, until the former schoolmaster transferred to Shrewsbury for his position with Her Majesty’s Inspectors.

Hilda Casper, employed as Elizabeth and Jonathan’s housemaid, welcomed Julia into the parlor. She seemed even younger than her eighteen years, with a boyishly thin figure and transparent lashes and brows. For three years she had milked cows on a dairy farm before deciding housework was more to her liking. “Good morning, Mrs. Phelps,” the girl said. “Mrs. Raleigh is still upstairs. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

“Please tell her not to hurry,” Julia said. “I’ll just put this loaf in the kitchen.” As Hilda went to the stairs, Julia crossed the parlor and walked through the dining room toward the kitchen. The cottage was narrow but well built and cozy. Combining Jonathan’s wages with what Elizabeth earned for organizing and copying Mr. Ellis’s and Mr. Pitney’s archeological notes, they were able to afford a cook and housemaid and still put some savings aside for the future. Jonathan was determined not to have to ask his family back in Kensington for financial assistance. Still, in his eagerness to provide Elizabeth with as good a life as possible, he had gratefully accepted their offer to purchase the cottage and furniture as a wedding gift last June. The couple could have lived in the
Larkspur
’s vacant family quarters free of charge, but Julia could well understand their desire for a home of their own.

As Julia entered the kitchen, the cook was seated at the worktable peeling potatoes over a dishpan. “Keep your seat, Mrs. Littlejohn,” Julia told her when she made a move to push out her chair. “I’ll just leave this on the cupboard shelf. How are you keeping?”

“Right well, Mrs. Phelps,” the older woman replied with a smile. She had a squarely proportioned face under a topknot of dark brown hair that resembled one of the unpeeled potatoes. For some twelve years she had worked in the squire’s scullery, until Mrs. Bartley—formerly Mrs. Kingston—recommended her for the position with Elizabeth and Jonathan. “Won’t you be wantin’ to return the towel to the vicarage?”

“I’ll just collect it on my way home after the meeting.”

“No use in going to all that fuss. Just pull out that drawer behind you and take a clean one. Every kitchen in Gresham has the same ones anyway—threepence a bundle at
Trumbles
.”

Julia did as she was told. When she turned around again, the cook nodded toward the door she had entered. “Mrs. Raleigh’s still going with you?”

“Why, yes. As soon as she comes downstairs.”

“Oh. Well, a little sunlight is good for a body.”

Mrs. Littlejohn began peeling potatoes again, but her preoccupied expression worried Julia. Stepping closer to rest a hand on the back of a chair, she asked, “Is there something wrong with Elizabeth, Mrs. Littlejohn?”

“Well…”

“Please tell me if there is.”

The cook darted a glance up at the ceiling, as if she could see Elizabeth moving about upstairs, before saying, “Hilda heard her being sick a little while ago. And it weren’t the first time.”

“Being sick?”

She touched her lips. “Heaving up her breakfast.”

“Oh dear.” Julia glanced at the ceiling as well. “Is there any stomach powder in the house? I could dash over to
Trumbles
…”

An enigmatic smile curved the corners of the cook’s lips. “I don’t believe stomach medicine will be of any use to the missus.”

It took Julia a second before the meaning of the cook’s observation sunk in. Pulling out the chair, she sank into it.
Is it possible?
Even though Elizabeth was a woman of twenty-two, it was so easy to forget that she wasn’t still the insecure girl she had first met weeping in the vicarage garden three years ago. “Are you positive?”

“Fairly. She’s gotten sick a couple of other mornings lately.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

Mrs. Littlejohn shook her head. “I didn’t know if it was my place to, Mrs. Phelps. Seems that if she wanted me and Hilda to know, she would have told us.”

“I wonder if she knows it herself?” Julia wondered out loud.
She didn’t have a mother for so long.
And the subject of childbearing wasn’t considered appropriate conversation for polite society, so she could understand how Elizabeth could be in the dark about it.
You should have prepared her better
, she chided herself. Beyond a private talk on the eve of Elizabeth’s wedding, when she answered her stepdaughter’s timidly stated questions as forthrightly as possible, she had not thought of the months beyond the honeymoon. She thanked Mrs. Littlejohn for confiding in her, rose from the table, and returned to the parlor. Elizabeth was just coming down the staircase.

“Julia! Thank you for waiting,” she said, a smile dimpling both cheeks. She looked quite becoming, her slender frame draped in a silk gown of blue and sage green. From under her Maltese lace morning cap the wheat-colored hair fell upon her neck in looped braids, and her fringe had been given the attention of a curling iron. She did not address Julia as Mother, as did Laurel—not from any lack of affection but simply because she was twenty years old when Julia married her father. “We aren’t late, are we?”

“Not at all.” Julia motioned toward the kitchen with the folded towel in her hand. “Mrs. Paget sent some fig bread.”

“Jonathan will be glad. Please thank her for us.”

When she reached the bottom of the steps, Elizabeth gave her a quick embrace.
It can’t be so!
Julia thought as they drew apart, then reminded herself,
You were eighteen when Philip was born
. Noticing faint shadows under her stepdaughter’s eyes, she asked, “How are you feeling, Elizabeth?”

The dimpled smile wavered. “I’m not quite sure, Julia. I’ve had spells of queasiness for the past few mornings. I haven’t mentioned it to Jonathan because he has so much on his mind with the archery tournament coming up. And just when I start thinking about seeing Doctor Rhodes, the nausea passes. I’ve barely slept the past two nights for worrying about it.”

“Let me see.” Julia pressed a hand against the young woman’s forehead and cheek. “No fever.”

“See? If it wasn’t for the morning spells, I would feel fine.”

“Hmm. Why don’t we sit for a minute or two?”

“Sit?” Elizabeth glanced at the long case walnut clock against the wall, a wedding gift from Andrew and Julia. “But it’s almost half past. You shouldn’t be late.”

“Mrs. Bartley is very capable of beginning without me,” Julia said, gently taking her arm. “She’s the real leader of the society anyway.”

When they had settled on the Chesterfield sofa, Elizabeth eyed her curiously. “Are you all right, Julia?”

“Oh, I’m quite well, thank you.” But she was finding it most difficult to keep a serious expression upon her face. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Elizabeth?”

“Questions? No, of course not.”

Elizabeth’s subsequent replies, delivered with flushed cheeks, removed all doubt. And the joy of it made Julia seize her stepdaughter’s hand.

“Silly me…I should have expected this!”

“What is it, Julia?” Elizabeth asked with a worried crease between her brows.

“You haven’t any idea?”

After a puzzled silence, her mouth gaped slightly. “You mean the nausea is normal when…”

“Not in every case, but more often than not.”

“Oh, Julia!” Elizabeth exclaimed and caught her up into another embrace. “I can scarcely believe it! How wonderful!”

When they drew apart, the sight of tears in her stepdaughter’s brown eyes made Julia’s water as well. She wiped them with a corner of the towel and offered the other end to Elizabeth as she prayed silently,
Father, you’re so good!
To be a wife and mother was what Elizabeth had wanted most for her life, and now both prayers would be answered.

Words began tumbling from Elizabeth’s lips as she nervously tapped the fingertips of her hands together. “I’ll have to tell Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda. I know they’ve heard me being sick and are probably worried. Oh, but Jonathan must hear it first! I wonder if I should meet him at school for lunch? But he has to watch the children, so it would be hard to get him away. Perhaps I should wait until he gets home. Anyway, I should think it would be hard for him to concentrate on teaching after hearing such news.”

“And Papa…” she went on after pausing for a deep breath. “I would like him to hear the news from both Jonathan and me, so please don’t tell him.” She gave Julia an apologetic look. “It’s just that I’d like to see his face when he hears it. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Julia assured her.

“Perhaps the two of you could come over this evening after I’ve told Jonathan? Oh…but what about the children? Should we tell them?”

“Your father and I will come after supper. That way you’ll give your husband time to absorb the news. And as for your sisters and brother, it might be best to wait a bit, if Mrs. Littlejohn and Hilda will agree to keep it quiet.”

“Thank you, Julia. I’m glad one of us has a clear head right now.” Elizabeth put her hands to her flushed cheeks and took in another deep breath. “I don’t think I could concentrate on anything else today. Do you think the other ladies would mind if I—”

“Stayed here?” Julia smiled. “My dear, I insist upon it. We’re going to be discussing the new pulpit—nothing terribly urgent. Go upstairs and get some more rest.”

Years of feeling responsible for setting a good example as the vicar’s daughter, however, were not easily suppressed. “But what will you tell them?”

“I’ll simply inform anyone who asks that you weren’t able to come.” Patting her shoulder, Julia said, “Today is a milestone for you, Elizabeth. Stay home and make plans for your baby.”

Chapter 2

Fiona Clay stepped back from the dressing table in the apartment over the
Larkspur
’s stables to adjust the angle of the leghorn Spanish hat over her coal black ringlets. Her cashmere gown flowed gracefully over the curves of her petite figure like water over a stone, and its shades of mauve and violet made her eyes seem the color of ripe mulberries. From her ears dangled a pair of onyx earrings set in gold, and at her throat hung a matching pendant. She was still self-conscious about going anywhere in Gresham decked in such finery, but because her husband, Ambrose, insisted upon pampering her, finery was all she owned. In London she had no qualms about wearing them, for there she was known only as the wife of actor Ambrose Clay. But there were few people in Gresham who did not remember when she was the
Larkspur
’s housekeeper.

Not that anyone had ever been less than gracious to her. But she couldn’t help but wonder if people outside her immediate circle of friends thought she was putting on airs.
And it’s your own pride that makes you even wonder!
she scolded herself silently, crossing the bedroom to the window that looked out over the carriage drive. Mr. Herrick, caretaker of the
Larkspur
, was hitching Donny and Pete to the landau to deliver her, Mrs. Durwin, and Mrs. Latrell to the meeting of the Women’s Charity Society.
Pride and self-absorption
, she sighed. For who but a prideful woman would assume others had nothing better to do than think critical thoughts about her?

She pulled on a pair of white gloves, took her velvet reticule from the foot of her bed, and walked into the parlor. Ambrose sat at a window, still in his velvet dressing gown, staring at the view opposite from the one she had surveyed. In the near distance the Anwyl rose abruptly—boasting its five hundred feet of red sandstone, green grasses, wildflowers, footpaths, and tenacious trees—crowned by the ruins of a second-century Roman fort. From the faint droop of her husband’s posture, Fiona could tell that the dark mood was still upon him. She walked closer and touched one shoulder.

“Fiona…” he said, as if startled out of a daydream. He turned to look at her, the pallor of his aristocratic face lightening just a bit. “You’re so beautiful.”

Fiona smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I don’t have to go, Ambrose,” she said in her soft Irish brogue.

“Oh, but I wish you would.” Raising his hand to cover hers upon his right shoulder, he said, “It’ll be good for you to be involved with something other than nursemaiding me.”