The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (51 page)

“Yes?”

“This hasn’t to do with Mr. Pitney or Miss Rawlins or us. Lydia wasn’t comfortable there.”

“Mother…” Lydia interrupted.

Her mother took her hand and squeezed it.

“And why not, pray tell?” Father demanded. “Why, she and Mr. Pitney get along just famously, like two peas in—” But this time he stopped himself, saying not another word until the trap came to rest in the carriage drive of their cottage. “Daughter?” he said, his aged brow furrowed as he leaned forward to look past his wife.

“Yes, Papa.”

“You’ve grown fond of Mr. Pitney, haven’t you?”

She had kept very few things from her parents. Tears stung the corners of both eyes. “I have.”

Wellington snorted and stamped a foot, ready to be let out of the traces, but still her father sat and stared. “I’m an old fool, aren’t I? I never even realized…”

“It’s all right, Papa,” she said, mustering a reassuring smile for his sake. “He doesn’t know.”

“Mayhap you should tell him. Could be he’s smitten with this writer woman because he thinks he can do no better.”

“Papa, I’m not any better—”

“In a pig’s eye, you’re not! You know how I hate to be judgmental, but she sat there looking like she’d been weaned on vinegar.”

He would get no argument about that from Lydia, for that was exactly what had happened. But she shook her head. Society had changed considerably since she was a child. Most people considered it just as important to educate girls as boys, and now women could be secretaries and even doctors. But some things had not changed, and a woman just couldn’t go telling a man how she felt about him. Especially when that feeling was not reciprocated. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Well, why not?”

Her mother finally spoke again. “She just can’t, Amos. And don’t you go doing it for her.”

“It was so good of you to bring us home, Mr. Sanders,” Mrs. Meeks told him at her cottage door. “But you really didn’t have to. We’re used to walking everywhere.”

“It was on my way anyway,” Harold told her. And it was mostly true, for Arnold Lane was just a little detour off North Market Lane. He had not meant to stay so long, but the children had begged, and their mother offered tea and egg sandwiches. And his brothers weren’t there to pester him about getting home, for he had made them get a ride with Mercy and Seth when he decided to make the offer to Mrs. Meeks. Glancing at the barn, he asked, “How do you get milk to the factory?”

“Mr. Fletcher is kind enough to help with that. With us only having five cows, there’s room for our cans in his wagon.”

“Oh. And you milk them all yourself?”

She smiled, lightening the overworked look of her face. “There are helpful hands a-plenty here. All of the children can milk, as I’m sure you could do at an early age.”

“Now there’s a truth. When I learnt to walk, my papa shoved a bucket in my hands.”

“Did he really do that, Mr. Sanders?” A wide-eyed Trudy asked, standing at her mother’s side with her skinny arms wrapped around her waist.

“Well, mebbe not that early.” Harold winked at the girl and grinned.

About a dozen chickens scattered when he neared the wagon after bidding the family farewell. He hadn’t noticed them before, but it eased his mind that the food in his belly hadn’t caused too much of a hardship. As he sat alone in the moving wagon, Harold wondered at the odd feeling that had overtaken him at some point today. Peaceful—as if he was sitting on a cloud. All his life he had sneered at folks who helped others, like Mercy helping Mrs. Brent when the old woman was dying, but he was beginning to understand it a little better. Because if it made folks feel good to do such things, why wouldn’t they keep it up?

He was feeling so at peace with the world that by the time he reached home, he had decided that when he got his own place, he would do more for Mrs. Meeks and that brood of children. He didn’t think Miss Clark, who would be his wife then, would mind their spending a little money on a poor family. After all, she had bought spectacles for Phoebe.

Chapter 33

“Good evening, young man!” Mr. Clark greeted from his cottage doorway Monday night. “Were you able to work on the hill today?”

“Yes, thankfully,” Jacob replied, smiling as he entered the cottage. His spirits were lighter than they had been since Saturday, for finally this evening Eugenia had come down to supper in a talkative mood, even telling him about a plot she was spinning for her next novelette.

“And what did you find, pray tell?” Mr. Clark asked.

He had anticipated that question from at least one of the three Clarks and dug into his pocket. “We found a number of these in the remains of a wooden box.”

“Why, it’s a spoon!” Mr. Clark exclaimed, closing one eye and holding it away from his face. “It’s hard for me to see up close anymore. Bronze, isn’t it?”

“It is. The upper classes used silver, but we’ve found but two of those so far.”

“What did the poor use?”

“They carved them from wood, usually.”

“How fascinating.” Turning to take four paces back toward the other door, he called out, “Lydia! Oriel!”

Jacob smiled again. He could imagine his own father calling out for help from the bakery counter. Presently the two women came into the room with warm greetings for him. Mr. Clark had no sooner given them a chance to admire the spoon when he handed it back to Jacob and said, “Well, Oriel and I have chores to attend. You’d best get on with your book meeting.”

Soon Jacob was seated on the sofa with Miss Clark, the cat dozing between them, and a copy of
Venitia and the Highwayman
in her lap. “Do you think I could examine the spoon for just a moment?” she asked. “My father sort of whisked it away in there.”

“But of course.” Jacob took it from his pocket again and handed it to her. “We found several today.”

“How exciting,” she said, turning the spoon to catch the lamplight. “I can just imagine a Roman soldier sitting down to have his…whatever he ate with this. But no forks?”

“They weren’t used until the eleventh century. And only rarely then. Those early ones had only two prongs, by the way.”

“But how did people manage before forks? Not all foods can be eaten with a spoon.”

Jacob smiled, held up his hands, and wiggled his fingers.

“I should have guessed,” Miss Clark said, returning his smile. Her expression then altered, as if she were weighing a question.

“Is there something else you’d like to know?” Jacob asked her. He could talk about antiquities for hours on end. It was only fear of becoming a bore combined with his natural timidity that restrained him.

She hesitated. “We’re having our last week of school, Mr. Pitney. My students would enjoy seeing this. Do you think…?”

“But of course. Take it with you tomorrow, if you like. I know Mr. Ellis would concur. We’re delighted to show off our finds.” Frowning, he added, “We shipped our most recent batch this morning, or I would offer some other items as well.”

“There is always next year, if the offer still stands,” she told him with a hopeful expression.

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you. I can’t think of a more interesting way to supplement a history lesson.”

“Your students enjoy history?”

“I’ve some very motivated students, but most would rather be outside playing a game of rounders, I fear.”

“How do you keep them dedicated to their studies?”

“By making the subject matter relate to their own lives as much as possible. And yet also attempting to expand their horizons so that they’ll develop a thirst for new ideas and experiences.”

“You must be a very good teacher,” Jacob said. Anyone whose eyes lit up like hers just did had to have a passion for her profession, he thought.

“Thank you, Mr. Pitney.” She smiled again as she set the spoon down on the sofa arm. “I do give it my best. As you do.” As if suddenly remembering the reason he was there, she picked up the book from her lap. “But we’re wasting your time, aren’t we?”

Jacob hadn’t thought so, but he had to remind himself that he was there to study novelettes and not waste Miss Clark’s time. So he turned his attention to the passages she had marked with slips of paper. And when they had ferreted out any potential symbolism, he cleared his throat and gathered up the courage to make another request.

“Would you consider teaching me poetry, Miss Clark?”

“Poetry?” she repeated, tilting her head as if she hadn’t heard correctly.

He cleared his throat again. “Romantic poetry is what I’m chiefly interested in.”

A corner of her mouth twitched, yet it seemed as if a shadow had passed across her face. “
Chiefly
interested in, Mr. Pitney? Along with what other kind?”

“I beg your pardon?” But then the meaning of her question dawned upon him. “Well, no other kind, actually. So it would be only romantic poetry.” He had trouble looking into her green eyes for some reason, so he stared at the cover of
Venitia and the Highwayman
and counted the ticks of the chimneypiece clock.

“I’ll not be able to help you with that, Mr. Pitney,” she said at length, folding her hands upon the closed novelette.

Perhaps she had mistakenly assumed he would not offer compensation, he told himself. “I would pay you extra, of course.”

She gave him a little smile but shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” Jacob assured her, although he didn’t, for he had the uneasy impression that her declining had more to do with disapproval than disinterest. But surely a person who taught poetry in a classroom wouldn’t disapprove of anyone wishing to learn it. He wished he had the nerve to ask her if he had somehow offended her.
Just ask
, he urged himself.
She won’t be angry
. Indeed, he was beginning to consider Miss Clark a good friend, and couldn’t one friend be frank with another?

But years of timidity were not easily shaken, so he nodded and said he should be leaving. He held out a hand to assist her to her feet, and she accompanied him through the cottage. “Good night, Miss Clark,” he said at the door. Remembering the copy of
Madeleine’s Quest
, he dipped his hand into a coat pocket. “Oh, and here’s the next one. You still wish to continue, don’t you?”

“Of course, Mr. Pitney.”

She looked as if she wished to say something else, or was he just imagining it? He shifted his weight upon his feet. “Thank you. Well, good night, Miss Clark.”

“Good night, Mr. Pitney.”

Jacob had only gone three steps across the porch when he stopped abruptly.
You have to know
, he told himself, turning.

She answered his knock almost immediately. “Did you forget something, Mr. Pitney?”

“What is wrong with my studying poetry, Miss Clark?”

With no expression that he could fathom, she stared at him for a second or two, then took a step backward. “Do come inside, please.”

The door closed behind Jacob. “Correct me if I’m mistaken,” he said in a humble tone. “But I have the distinct impression you disapprove.”

“May I ask why you wish to study poetry?”

“Why, yes.” He could feel warmth in his cheeks, even though she was already aware of why he studied the novelettes so carefully. “Eugenia…Miss Rawlins…mentioned that men who quote poetry…”

“I see,” she said, sparing him from having to explain further.

“What do you see, Miss Clark?”

With quiet frankness she replied, “I see a man having to jump through hoops like a circus pony to gain the favor of a woman who can’t appreciate him for the decent, kind person he is. And that is why I’ll have nothing to do with your poetry quest, Mr. Pitney. It’s bad enough that I’m party to studying the novelettes.”

Jacob’s jaw dropped. “But, Miss Clark, why is it so wrong to try to please the person you—” He meant to say
love
because that was what he felt for Eugenia in his heart. But his tongue would not cooperate, so he finished with, “care for?”

“It just is, if you have to become a completely different person to do so, Mr. Pitney. And now I’m quite fatigued, so I must bid you good-night.”

In less than a minute he was crossing the porch again, both hands in his trouser pockets. The sun had been completely swallowed up by the Anwyl, and he was glad for it, for any passersby would surely notice his flaming cheeks.