The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (75 page)

“We’ll explain later,” Julia told him. She had just enough time before the door opened again to touch her husband’s bearded cheek and say, “This is a joyous occasion, Andrew. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, the crinkles she so loved appearing at the corners of his hazel eyes. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

“I know you will.”

They both turned to greet Mrs. Shaw, who went up to the organ with sheet music under her arm and began softly playing Bach’s
Mass in B Minor
. The Reeds, Caspers, Mayhews, and Johnsons arrived next, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Trumble. Everyone seemed to have a comment over the likelihood of more snow.

“I noticed some of those nimble-strategic clouds up over the Anwyl,” Mr. Trumble told them with a knowing nod. His wife, the former Miss Hillock of the infants’ school, simply smiled serenely at Julia, the message in her eyes clear.
He’s still a good husband
.

Seth and Mercy Langford arrived with their children, Thomas and baby Amanda. Ever since the squire and Mrs. Bartley’s wedding, Mrs. Langford was asked often to sing at weddings and funerals for all denominations in the village.

The Worthy sisters were dressed in their usual Sunday black, but for the special occasion also wore spring bonnets bedecked with gay silk flowers. If they were not quite suitable for February, there was none present who would have the heart to tell them so. In fact, Julia supposed the village sentries could wear flower pots and geraniums upon their heads without causing so much as a snicker.

“Be sure to notice the lace on the bride’s veil,” Iris Worthy whispered, her arm linked with that of her sister-in-law.

“Did you spin it?” Andrew asked pleasantly.

Jewel gave him a long-suffering look before they moved away. “Would we be tellin’ ye to notice it if we didn’t, Vicar?”

Several more villagers came through the doorway, some with children and even two more babies. Mr. Jensen, along with the lodgers and servants alike, arrived from the
Larkspur
—including the most recent lodger, Mrs. Grant, a widow from Derbyshire. Also along was Mr. Kendal, the young archeologist who now occupied one of the family rooms. Since the significant find on the Anwyl, five more archeologists were stationed in Gresham—the other four procuring rooms at the
Bow and Fiddle
.

“I was afraid you would be too busy to come,” Julia said to Miss Rawlins, who had just recently signed contracts with her publisher for several more novelettes.

The writer smiled and shrugged. “I simply made myself put down my pen at the last minute. What good is it to write romances if you can’t find time to attend the most romantic event of all?”

Next Julia clasped Mrs. Dearing’s hand. “How did all of you fit in the landau?”

The woman sent a smile toward Mr. Jensen, who was speaking with Andrew. “Oh, Mr. Jensen didn’t want us to have to come in two shifts, so he hired Mr. Thatcher’s wagon for the men. Only, we all fussed over who should get to ride in it—it reminded me of the hayrides of my youth.”

“Your youth has never left you, Mrs. Dearing,” Mr. Jensen assured her, with no lessening of his usual dignity, and he shook a stunned Julia’s hand.

Fiona was next, beautiful as usual in a gown of blue velvet. They embraced and Julia whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“They sat next to each other in the wagon as well,” Fiona whispered back.

Their shared smiles were in danger of becoming laughter when Ambrose gave them a suspicious look and asked Andrew, “And what are these two plotting?”

“I would just as soon not know,” Andrew replied with a feigned shudder.

Julia was grateful for the levity, for she did not want to think melancholy thoughts about Monday, when she and Andrew would be seeing the two off at the railway station so that Ambrose could begin rehearsals for
Sardanapalus
in London. But as much as she dreaded saying good-bye, the knowledge that they would eventually return to the place they considered home always brought her comfort.

“I can’t thank you enough for suggesting we hire Miss Somerville!” Mrs. Bartley exclaimed after planting loud kisses upon Julia’s and Andrew’s cheeks. Her husband, more reserved, shook hands. “Did you know she has talked Miss Clark into beginning Thursday evening classes to teach reading to adults?”

“Subscriptions have increased by almost a third,” the squire added, pumping Andrew’s hand.

Julia and Andrew had heard those same praises about Miss Somerville from the two many times before, but as they had both had parts in bringing about such good tidings, they delighted in hearing them again.

Mrs. Bartley leaned closer to Julia and Andrew to say in a voice that could probably be heard halfway through the nave, “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re asked to conduct another wedding soon. Miss Somerville asked if Helen Johnson could take her place today so she and a certain young vicar could do some shopping in Shrewsbury. At a jewelers, no less!”

“That doesn’t mean they’re engaged, Mrs. Bartley,” Andrew protested.

Mrs. Bartley gave him a merry wink and took her husband’s arm to move on up the aisle.

“What’s wrong, Andrew?” Julia asked Andrew in a low voice.

There was hurt in his hazel eyes. “Well, I don’t mean to be petty, Julia, but since Paul asked my counsel early on, I should have thought he would have told me they were about to become engaged.”

But there was no time for her to reply, for Harold Sanders arrived with his wife of one month, the former Mrs. Meeks. Already Julia found herself forgetting that the four accompanying children weren’t his by birth, for he seemed to wear the role of fatherhood as comfortably as one wears a favorite garment. It was a joy to see the family seated together in church every Sunday.

“You’re looking radiant these days,” Julia said to Mrs. Sanders. Indeed the careworn look about her face had melted away so that attention was drawn to her smiling brown eyes.

Self-consciously, the woman touched the curled fringe above her eyebrows. “Thank you, Mrs. Phelps.”

Pride shone in Phoebe’s eyes from behind her spectacles. “Aunt Mercy cut her hair.”

“And she’s wearing perfume!” Little Trudy chirped.

“Papa bought it for her at
Trumbles
,” added Lester. “I was with him.”

“You don’t have to tell the whole church,” Mr. Sanders whispered, but with clear affection in his ruddy face. He gave Julia and Andrew an embarrassed grin before the family moved on to join the Langfords in one of the pews.

“Isn’t that romantic, how they found each other?” Julia whispered to Andrew.

“Yes,” her husband agreed in a preoccupied tone. “But speaking of romance, this wedding cannot happen without certain people.”

“They’ll be here,” Julia assured him. From the pews came the low hum of conversations while the organ and violin played. A baby in front, probably John, began crying for just a few seconds, and she had to restrain herself from rushing up to offer assistance to Elizabeth.

“We were afraid we would be late!” was Miss Somerville’s flushed greeting as she and Vicar Treves came next through the doorway.

“The wedding party isn’t even here,” Andrew groused to the two.

“They’ll be here,” Julia assured him again, though she was beginning to worry a little herself. She took Miss Somerville’s hand. “Did you enjoy your time in Shrewsbury?”

“Paul helped me find a lovely watch and chain for my father’s birthday. At a very decent price, too. I’ll show it to you tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Tomorrow?” Julia spoke before thinking.

Vicar Treves gave Noelle an affectionate smile, then turned to Julia and Andrew. “Would it be possible if we visited with the two of you tomorrow afternoon? We would like to ask your counsel over a certain matter.”

“But of course,” Andrew replied, putting a fatherly hand up to the young vicar’s shoulder.

“Feel better?” Julia asked when they had moved away.

Her husband smiled at her. “Much.”

Chapter 48

“Well, it’s that Miss Somerville’s fault!” Amos Clark defended to his wife and everyone else present as the wheels of Noah’s carriage moved down the cobbled stones of Church Lane. In spite of her growing concern over reaching Saint Jude’s on time, Lydia smiled to herself. Miss Somerville’s
crime
had been to show Lydia’s father a new book by Mrs. Beeton,
How to Bake and Decorate Beautiful Cakes for All Occasions
, when he had confessed he was growing bored with painting. After some modest but aesthetically successful attempts at birthday cakes, including Lydia’s three months ago, he had determined to bake the wedding cake himself.

Lydia had been worried that her future father-in-law, a skilled baker, would be offended when he wasn’t asked to do the honors, until Jacob explained to her that a cake would never have survived the train journey from Dover intact.

“Well, you could have at least allowed Mrs. Tanner to help,” Lydia’s mother said in a voice that gave evidence of an inward battle between strained nerves and her usual self-possession.

“Yes, you could have allowed me to help,” the cook echoed. There was no mistaking the injury in her voice.

“
Help?
” Lydia’s father uttered the word as if it represented some unfortunate insect squashed against the sole of his shoe. “Did Leonardo da Vinci accept help when he painted the Mona Lisa?”

“da Vinci didn’t make his daughter late for her wedding, Papa,” Noah, at the reins, reminded him. He twisted in his seat to grin at Lydia, seated between her sister-in-law, Beatrice, and four-year-old nephew, Samuel. “What will you do if it’s in the shape of a giant pipe, sister?”

Blessing Noah for the healing balm of mirth against her own strained nerves, Lydia smiled. “I could accept that, only if there was no tobacco used in the decorations.”

“Get on with you now!” her father exclaimed, grinning himself. “And I’ll have you know, it looks just like one of those fancy wedding cakes in the book. Why, Jacob’s father may want to hire me on at his bakery in Dover! You’ll see!”

But for this privilege they would have to wait until the reception, for he had assembled the baked sections at the town hall out of fear that delivery in a carriage would undo his hours of labor. And he had arrived at the cottage less than an hour ago with frosting all over his coat and even traces in his beard.

A picture entered Lydia’s mind of guests picking gray hairs from their servings of cake, but she did not allow it to linger. She did not even mind the frosty air that caused her to shiver beneath her white satin gown. Today was her wedding day, and Jacob Pitney waited at the altar. Nothing could put a damper on her joy.

Most pews were filled, and Andrew had begun to entertain the dreadful thought that the bride or the groom was having cold feet when the Clarks began coming through the doorway.

“Do forgive us for being late,” Noah Clark apologized with a meaningful look at his father.

“It was my fault,” the older man confessed, hanging his head. “No use in my blaming Miss Somerville.”

“I beg your pardon?” Andrew asked but gave him no opportunity to explain. “Is Miss Clark in the vestibule?”

“Aye, with her mother. She refuses to wear a cloak, for worry of crushing her gown. And it’s colder in there than a coal digger’s—”

“Papa! We’re in church,” Beatrice interrupted, laying a hand upon his arm, while Andrew shot Julia an amused glance.

“I was going to say
elbow
,” the old man said in a wounded tone.

“Well, we should sit now so Lydia doesn’t have to wait in there so long.”

“I assume Mr. Pitney is in there as well?” Andrew asked. How refreshing it was to find a betrothed couple not bound by silly superstition. But then, Jacob Pitney and Lydia Clark were more mature than the average bride and groom.

His thoughts were interrupted by Noah Clark’s query. “You mean he isn’t here?”