The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (48 page)

“Aw, it weren’t nothing,” he told her while working loose a rock in the lane with the toe of his boot. He wasn’t used to folks, especially women, saying nice things about him.

“Mr. Sanders played blindman’s buff with us at the castle,” Trudy told her mother.

Now Harold could feel his cheeks grow hot. “They made me,” he explained right away, wishing he had stayed up by the rope.

But Mrs. Meeks laughed—not like she was making fun of him, but like she appreciated the predicament he had found himself in. “They talked of little else for a whole week,” she told him.

Unsure of how to reply and eager to forget all about playing blindman’s buff, he looked about him and asked, “Where’s Phoebe?”

“She’s watching from Mr. Mayhew’s wagon with some of her classmates.”

“Humph,” Lester snorted. “Not if she takes off her spectacles.”

“She takes them off all the time,” Trudy added, nodding. “Even when we remind her not to.”

“Now, you’re not to be carrying tales against your sister,” their mother scolded mildly. “She’s got to have time to get used to the idea.” With an apologetic look at Harold, she said, “Forgive us for keeping you, Mr. Sanders. It was good to meet you, finally.”

“The same here,” Harold told them. With a farewell wave he turned to resume his walk to the bakery stand.
Nice folks
, he thought, happening to glance back over his shoulder. He stopped and turned.

Now, how are they supposed to see?
he asked himself, for they had made no moves to push their way for the rope. Instead they craned their necks, Mrs. Meeks even hefting Trudy up in her arms. He thought about the meat pies being sold behind him, sighed, and walked back to where the family was standing.

“Mrs. Meeks?” he said just as cheers were going up all around him for the finishing third standard students. She did not hear him, so he reached up a hand to tap her shoulder, then reconsidered. Mrs. Meeks was one of those decent women Dale had mentioned, and he didn’t think a fellow was supposed to touch a decent woman without her permission. He tapped Trudy’s shoulder instead. From her mother’s arms the girl looked back at him, smiled, then whispered something in her mother’s ear.

“You can see better from my wagon,” Harold almost shouted when the woman turned.

“I beg your pardon?”

He motioned behind him. “My wagon.”

“It’s very nice, Mr. Sanders,” she said with a friendly, albeit puzzled, nod.

“No, you can—” Realizing the cheering had quieted down for the moment, he lowered his voice. “My brothers say you can see the whole thing just fine from our wagon.”

Now Mrs. Meeks nodded understanding. “We wouldn’t be imposing?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, taking Trudy from her arms. “But we’d best hurry if you want to see Mark.”

The meat pies were likely cold by now anyway, he told himself.

Chapter 31

Damp were the grasses and blooms of the
Larkspur
’s garden, and droplets of water beaded the leaves of the shrubberies and trees. Still, Jacob and Miss Rawlins were comfortably situated in a willow bench, thanks to Mr. Herrick’s kindly draping it with a thick carriage blanket before leaving for the tournament.

“And here is my favorite passage of all,” Miss Rawlins was saying above the cheers drifting over from Bartley Lane. She looked lovely in a pink gown with tiny white dots and a narrow-brimmed straw hat over her short hair. Jacob was glad he had dressed up in his Sunday tweed and a new royal-blue cravat, for he wouldn’t want her to be ashamed to be seen with him.

Lowering her gaze to her manuscript again, she read:

Valentina Fabroni’s tiny nostrils flared with fury, her sapphire blue eyes clawing across the handsome officer’s face like talons. “Just because you’ve driven out the Austrians, Count Lobue, doesn’t mean you can march back up here to Pontremoli and expect me to fall at your feet like the rest of Italy! If the mountains couldn’t tame me in eight years, what makes you assume you can in two weeks?”

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, watching him with anticipation in her gray eyes behind the spectacles.

It’s very nice
, were the first words to form themselves in Jacob’s mind, but he knew better than to speak them. And he certainly knew better than to tell her that the passage sounded vaguely familiar. If only Miss Clark were here, she would help him to find a satisfactory and honest answer.
But she’s not, so you have to think
, he told himself.

“I like the eyes raking across his face like talons,” he ventured cautiously. “It’s very good…imagery.”

“Thank you. It makes one think of a fierce bird, doesn’t it?”

“Like a hawk. Or an owl.”

“I prefer the hawk image. Owls are not as romantic.”

“They’re not?”

Miss Rawlins shook her head but gave him an understanding look. “It takes an artist’s eye to discern such things, Jacob. Certain animals lend themselves more suitably to romantic prose than others. For example, you can imagine a dashing hero riding a thoroughbred horse, but never a donkey.”

“I see,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Even though the two are related—just as are the hawk and owl.”

“I’m impressed with how quickly you learn,” she said, smiling.

He felt the blush steal across his cheeks and wondered if it were possible to die of happiness. “Thank you for saying that, Eugenia.”

“You’re welcome, Jacob. And the same applies to human characters. I’m sure you’ve realized from my stories that certain types of people are more romantic than others.”

“Attractive people are more romantic,” came to his lips at once, for which of her heroes and heroines had not been so?

“Of course.” Placing her manuscript in her lap for the first time since they seated themselves an hour ago, she peered at him seriously through her spectacles and explained, “But it goes beyond mere attractiveness, Jacob. The heroine must be young and beautiful, of course, but she should also be titled, or at least related to someone of the peerage. If she lives in poverty, as Kermillie does, it must always be because the family fortune was somehow lost or stolen in the past.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “There are some things I can’t explain. A writer just knows them instinctively.”

“Instinct,” Jacob echoed thoughtfully. Though he admired Miss Rawlins’ immense talent, he was glad he had decided upon archeology as his life’s work and not writing, for he would have never figured out the rules on his own.

“The man is always older,” Miss Rawlins went on, “and if he is to be romantic, he must be tall. That’s practically set in stone.”

“But wasn’t Napoleon short?” Jacob asked before thinking, then winced. “Forgive me. I just assumed he was thought of as a romantic figure—but I’m sure I’m mistaken.”

“Don’t apologize, Jacob. It’s good that you have a questioning mind. Someone such as Napoleon would be an exception because of his military and political power. If I ever write about a short hero, he will have to be extremely powerful to make up for his lack of height.”

She gave him a frank smile. “But to be truthful, Jacob, I can never see myself doing that. Why write about a hero for whom you have to compensate? A tall man is simply more romantic.”

Being well above average in height himself, Jacob was overjoyed to hear those words stated so adamantly. He straightened his shoulders and sat a little taller. “Yes, of course.”

“Especially if he has dark eyes.”

His heart leapt in his chest just as another cheer came from Bartley Lane, for surely she had noticed that he had brown eyes, and hadn’t his sister, Gloria, always told him that he should have been a girl, with his dark eyelashes?

“He should also have a mysterious, quiet way about him,” Miss Rawlins continued.

That was a bit discouraging, for Jacob reckoned there was nothing mysterious about himself. But he had always been on the quiet side.

And as he had three of the romantic qualities—tall, dark-eyed, and quiet—wouldn’t they make up for the lack of mystery? He wished he had the nerve to ask without revealing it was himself about whom he was concerned.

Suddenly a way presented itself to him. Jacob cleared his throat. “If the man—in one of your stories, of course—isn’t particularly mysterious, but is tall and quiet with dark eyes, may he still be considered romantic?”

“Hmm.” Pursing her lips, she stared out at something in the distance. “I’ve never written about a hero who wasn’t mysterious. But as would be the case of great power compensating for Napoleon’s short stature, I suppose some other quality could be substituted for a lack of mystery.”

Almost afraid to breathe, Jacob asked, “Such as…?”

“A poetic soul, I should think.”

“Poetic soul?”

“If such a hero were well-versed in poetry, I should think he would be extremely romantic.” After more seconds of thoughtful silence, in which she pressed a fingertip against her chin, she mused aloud, “I wonder why it has never occurred to me to do that? I should definitely give my next hero the soul of a poet. Women just adore men who can quote poetry.”

“My, my,” Jacob said weakly.

She turned her face toward him again, and it seemed her gray eyes could see into his poetry-deficient mind. “Forgive me, Jacob,” she said, sighing. “This will never do.”

“It won’t? But—” In a panic, he strained to recall a poem he had memorized in grammar school.
How did that go? Water, water everywhere, and all the boards did
—

“You passed up the archery tournament to listen to my manuscript, and here I am going on and on about characterization. You must be bored silly.”

“Never,” he assured her while relief poured through him like a tonic. “I enjoy listening to you talk about writing as well as hearing you read.”

“How very kind of you to say.” She smiled, lifting her manuscript again.

Jacob let out a quiet, long breath. But he couldn’t afford to relax totally. Just because he was granted a reprieve did not mean the subject wouldn’t come up again.

“
The tears in Valentina’s sapphire blue eyes were gone, as if evaporated by a rushing wind
,” Miss Rawlins read.

Jacob smiled at the drama she infused into her voice, making the scene come alive. He would simply have to memorize some poetry, in addition to studying the novelettes. He could do that. She was worth all the trouble, for he had never met anyone like her. He even dared to imagine the two of them in later years, sitting in front of their own cottage while she read her latest stories to him.

“
But the vow her father had made before she was even born weighed upon her, choking her…”

He just had to find out which particular poems would impress her. Certainly nothing related to shrinking boards and albatrosses. He let out another relieved breath. Maybe he didn’t know where to look, but he knew whom to ask.

Standing in back of the wagon belonging to Mr. Lawson, his churchwarden, Paul Treves clapped his hands and sent out a long whistle as eleven-year-old Bobby West lowered the bow and turned from the target. The boy had scored only thirteen points with his six arrows, but archery was new to Lockwood, and the team had come more for the practice of competing than with hopes of winning. “Just give us another year or two,” he told Mr. Lawson.

“Aye, another year or two,” the churchwarden agreed.

“Vicar Treves?”

Paul looked down at Holly Wingate, who smiled up at him from under a lace-edged parasol, though the sun had hidden behind clouds all morning. “Good morning, Miss Wingate,” he greeted above the cheers for a girl from Clive who had just stepped up to the target. “Are you enjoying the tournament?”

“I’m afraid I’m having trouble seeing it,” she replied with a helpless little smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”

Sending a sideways glance to Mr. Lawson, Paul received a raised eyebrow in return, while Israel Coggins continued to stare past him, mesmerized by the competition. Indeed, the boy had cheered for every child who had raised a bow so far, no matter which team.

Paul looked down again at the woman standing in the lane. A girl, really, though many in Lockwood married even younger than Miss Wingate’s seventeen years. She was lovely to look at, with shiny auburn hair and a fair complexion. And it was clear that she wouldn’t mind his courting her, from the way she smiled at him through lowered lashes every time she offered her hand at the church door. He supposed he should start thinking about courting again if he were ever to have the wife and home he longed for. Most men were settled with families by age twenty-four.