The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (57 page)

“You may move an inch of dirt a month at that rate, Miss Clark.”

“But I don’t want to damage anything.”

“You won’t. If being buried for centuries hasn’t hurt them, a more vigorous application of the broom won’t either. And we’ll switch to the brush when you do find something.”

“Very well.” But she found herself too intimidated by the value of what could possibly be under the earth to allow herself to continue. She held the broom hovered over the earth for a second, then looked at him again. “Will you show me?”

“Of course.”

He set his broom down on the ground, which surprised her because she had meant that he should use it to demonstrate how she should proceed. Before she could explain that to him, he had knelt down beside her and covered her hand over the broom handle with his.

“Imagine sweeping ashes from a stove,” he said, helping her guide the broom briskly to the left and right. “You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“At school.”

“Only, I like to alternate directions every so often and crisscross,” he explained as he guided her broom out away from her, and then toward her. “Would you care to guess why?”

She had to ponder that one, which was very difficult, when all she could think about was his hand over hers. “So you can detect the first sign of an artifact more easily?” she finally ventured out of lack for any other guess.

Smiling, he shook his head. “It makes patterns…see? When you have to do this several hours a day, it breaks up the monotony a bit.”

“I see,” she told him.
And this is anything but monotonous, Mr. Pitney
.

He moved to a spot about three feet away and went to work with his broom. Comfortable silence settled about them as they listened to the two older men joking and reminiscing about the good old days. A robin fluttered down to perch himself upon a section of wall still standing, angling his head to watch them curiously while spurting out his brilliant little fountain of sound. Lydia worked hard, daydreaming of uncovering the artifact which the archeologists were so intent upon finding that would prove once and for all their theory about Governor Cerealis. How nice it would be to watch Mr. Pitney’s face as she told him!

But dirt led only to more dirt. It was her father who finally found something, letting out a whoop as he did so. Mr. Pitney helped Lydia up from their pit to join the older men, and they watched as Mr. Ellis used a brush to uncover the rest. The find turned out to be a drawstring pouch, the leather blackened and as hard as flint, with the outlines of several coins entombed inside.

“I’m afraid we’ll not be able to open it up without destroying it,” Mr. Ellis explained apologetically. “We’ll have to send it to the Society and allow them to decide whether they want to keep it intact or have a look at the coins.”

“But you did an outstanding job, Mr. Clark,” Mr. Pitney assured him.

Lydia’s father gave him a delighted smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

Two hours later, after Lydia had whispered to her father that perhaps they had imposed upon Mr. Ellis’s and Mr. Pitney’s indulgence long enough, they bade the archeologists farewell.

“It was a pleasure working with you,” Mr. Ellis told them. “Mr. Pitney and I get along like peas in a pod, but the company has been good for both of us. Feel free to join us anytime.”

Mr. Pitney smiled and nodded agreement. “Yes, anytime.”

“Did you hear that, daughter?” her father asked as they walked down one of the footpaths. “He enjoyed your company.”

“Of course he enjoyed my company,” she told him. She could still feel the touch of Mr. Pitney’s hand upon hers. “Just as he enjoyed yours. We’re all sociable people.”

“Well, why not put it to good use? We could come back up here tomorrow.”

“I’ll not be chasing him, Papa.”

“Why not? Your mother chased me.”

Lydia sent him a smile. “Mother knew you wanted to be caught.”

“Well, mayhap our Mr. Pitney wants to be caught.”

“I’m sure he does. But not by me.” She could no longer ignore the bruising little pain in one foot and motioned for her father to halt. With her hand upon his shoulder to steady herself, she leaned down to dispose of a troublesome pebble from her shoe. “Next time remind me to wear boots.”

He raised white eyebrows hopefully as they continued walking. “So there’ll be a next time, then?”

“It was just a figure of speech, Papa.”

“But you heard what your mother said,” he told her with a frown. “He’s not suited to this writer-woman, and you know it. It’s just a matter of time before he knows it too.”

Lydia gave a quiet sigh of regret that she had ever let her feelings be known to her parents. Not because of any exasperation for having to try to get them to understand how the situation actually stood, but because they had allowed their hopes to be raised so high. She felt guilty for constantly dashing them against stones.

“Papa, whether or not he does know has nothing to do with me. Miss Rawlins and I aren’t the only two women in England.”

Now it was he who stopped walking, and she had no choice but to do the same.

“Papa?” He looked at her, his aged eyes frank, but mingled with such pure affection that a lump came to Lydia’s throat.

“Aye, daughter, but two of the three best women in England live in Gresham. I married one. And when our Mr. Pitney takes his blinders off, he’ll know who the other one is.”

He was just being a father, but Lydia appreciated his words nonetheless. She slipped her hand into his as they continued the path. “
Two
of the three best women?” she asked. “And who would be the third?”

“Why, the queen, of course,” he replied with a sidelong grin. “But she’s a mite too old for Mr. Pitney, so you’ve nothing to worry about on that account.”

Chapter 36

Early Thursday morning, Ambrose stood at the Shrewsbury’s busy platform holding both of Fiona’s hands, trying not to think about how much he would miss her. The Keegans were involved in their own farewells a few feet away. Not only was sixteen-year-old Tom accompanying her, but also Mrs. Keegan, who would be traveling on with her son to visit family in Dublin once Fiona was deposited safely in Kilkenny with hers. Figuring there was safety in numbers, Ambrose had been so happy to hear of it that he insisted on financing Mrs. Keegan’s trip as well.

“You’ll be careful?” he asked Fiona. It was an unnecessary request, for his wife had her feet planted more firmly on the ground than did he, but he needed her assurance anyway.

“Very careful,” Fiona promised, her violet eyes a mixture of excitement and sadness. “And you’ll not hide yourself away the whole fortnight?”

He winked. “My social calendar is already filling. In fact, I’ll be lunching with the squire and Mrs. Bartley tomorrow, and the Phelps the next day.”

That made her smile. “I’ll write to you,” she promised, the
you
being almost drowned out by the locomotive’s shrill whistle.

“You’ll be back before your letter would have time to reach me. Just concentrate on spending time with your family.”

So you won’t have to do this again for a long time
, was the thought that guiltily crossed his mind.

What to do?
Noelle asked herself in her chair on Friday afternoon. For three days she had alternated her time between chair and bed, her crocheting abandoned and her knee providing excuse to have meals—which she merely picked at—brought to her on a tray. But Mrs. Beemish and the servants were beginning to look at her with concern in their eyes, and she could not fault them for that, for she lived in her nightgown and wrinkled wrapper. She had not even the energy to clean her teeth or brush her hair. Why trouble herself? She was twenty-one years old, and her future had been snuffed out like one of Quetin’s cigar stubs.

The worst part was having no one in whom she could confide her fear and anguish. There was no crime in grieving over a lost love, but she had woven around herself the illusion of the grieving widow. Her lies were so precariously dependent upon each other that she could not afford to have even one taken up and examined more closely, for the others would come tumbling down like a house of cards.

A knock at the door interrupted her self-pity. “Yes?” she called out.

“It’s Mr. Clay, Mrs. Somerville. May I speak with you?”

Mr. Clay?
Pushing herself to her feet, she padded in her felt slippers over to the door and leaned against it. “Mr. Clay? What is it?”

“I was just at lunch at the manor house, and the Bartleys asked me to give you this invitation personally.”

“Who are the Bartleys?”

“The squire and his wife, Mrs. Somerville. Haven’t you met them?”

Vaguely she recalled meeting an elderly couple on the green her first Sunday in Gresham. “I remember them now.” Accepting social obligations was the last thing she cared to do. But it was good to have a distraction from wallowing in her loneliness, so she wanted to keep him talking for as long as possible. “An invitation to what, Mr. Clay?”

“To lunch.”

“But they hardly know me.”

“They wish to remedy that, Mrs. Somerville.”

She could think of nothing less appealing than spending the afternoon with virtual strangers—and elderly ones at that. “I don’t think I’ll be able—”

“I would strongly advise you to accept.”

“Why?”

She could hear his sigh even through the door. “I’m not at liberty to go on about it, but they’re arranging for you to meet someone there.”

“Meet someone? Who?”

“That’s all I can tell you. But I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Will you and Mrs. Clay be there?”

“My wife is in Ireland, Mrs. Somerville. Weren’t you aware?”

Noelle remembered some talk about that at the dinner table before her self-imposed confinement to her room. “Yes, forgive me. I quite forgot.”

“Shall I leave it here by the door?” he asked with impatience creeping into his voice.

For the fraction of a second she had the impulse to fly to her dressing table and repair her appearance. But running her tongue over her chalky, neglected teeth, and feeling the heaviness of her oily hair upon her scalp, she knew she would need half a day to make herself look like a human being again. “Yes, please,” she replied.

“Very well. Good day, Mrs. Somerville.”

“Good day.”

She listened to his footsteps against the flagged stoned of the corridor, then eased open the door, bent down, and snatched up the envelope. It was of fine linen vellum, which was not surprising, considering its source. The seal was fresh and easy to break. She took out the single sheet of paper, unfolded it, and read the slightly unsteady script.

Dear Mrs. Somerville,

You are cordially invited to a luncheon to be held in the garden of the Manor House on Saturday, June fifteenth. We will send a driver and carriage for you at half-past twelve upon the date aforementioned.

Very truly yours,
Squire and Mrs. Thurwood
Bartley

Noelle read it again, puzzled at the commanding tone. There were no instructions for responding with either acceptance or refusal. Granted, a squire was an important person, but to the best of her knowledge, serfdom had been done away with years ago.

But two reasons kept her from consigning the invitation to the ash bin. The first was a faint voice of reason. Unless Quetin had a change of heart, which was becoming more and more unlikely as time passed, Gresham was to be home for an indefinite amount of time. There was simply no other place for her to go. Why incur the displeasure of Gresham’s most prominent citizens?

Curiosity was the second. Why would people she had met only once, and briefly at that, go to the trouble of arranging for her to
meet someone
? She knew instinctively this person would be a male. Who was he?

Returning to her chair, she leaned her head against the high back.
Mr. Clay was just there
. The actor had become much more sociable to her during the past couple of weeks. And why had he not gone with his wife to Ireland? Could there possibly be trouble in paradise?