The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (10 page)

Does that mean they’ll never be together?
But with five chapters remaining,
something
had to happen. A yawn seized him, and then another. No matter what lay in store for Rachelle de Beaufort and General Massena, he had a responsibility to the British Archaeological Association and to Mr. Ellis to keep his mind sharp. He closed the book, resisting the temptation to peek ahead at the last page to see how the story would be resolved.

Chapter 6

The sun was just peeking above the treetops of Gipsy Woods the next day when Lydia Clark stepped out of her parents’ door with satchel in hand. Wisps of remaining fog reflected the early light, giving an ethereal glow to cottage gardens and causing shafts of trees flanking the lane to appear like the columns of an ancient ruin. It was her favorite time of day, which was why she chose to prolong the experience by walking to school. And the exercise was a tonic for her after having contracted pleurisy almost two years ago.

Even though she was now in good health and feeling back to full strength, her past bout with the illness had served to make her parents overly protective, even at her age. At the least hint of inclement weather, her father insisted upon delivering and fetching her in his trap. She couldn’t fault him for that, for she supposed she had given them both quite a fright.

She turned the corner to walk eastward down Church Lane. To her right the Worthy sisters’ garden was vacant, but light shone from their kitchen window, and she knew they would be at their posts as soon as the sun rose a little higher. Ahead of her on Market Lane several red-and-white cheese wagons were rumbling southward with their morning deliveries to the Shrewsbury railway station. And to her left, the crunching of gravel announced the archeologists on their way to the Anwyl.

“Good morning, Miss Clark!” Mr. Ellis, the older of the two, greeted with a tipping of his hat. The same was echoed by Mr. Pitney, who had to switch the leather sack—which presumably carried their lunches and whatever else an archeologist would need—to his other shoulder so that he could pay the same courtesy.

“Good morning, Mr. Ellis…Mr. Pitney,” Lydia returned with a smile and nod. It was as much conversation as they ever exchanged, though sometimes comments were made concerning the weather. Always from Mr. Ellis, for Mr. Pitney seemed quite bashful.

Mr. Raleigh was just opening the door of the grammar school as she passed. When he turned to look at her, his face wore the grin of a boy harboring a wonderful secret. “Delightful morning, isn’t it?” he hailed.

“Yes, delightful.” Lydia had consulted with him several times over school matters and appreciated his dedication to education. His students who went on to secondary school were more than ready for advanced studies. “Are your children excited about the tournament?”

The archery tournament, to be held on the twenty-fifth of May, had grown considerably in just the three years since its inception. Now four grammar school teams would be competing—Gresham, Prescott, Clive, and Lockwood. Affecting a grimace, the young schoolmaster replied, “Too much so, Miss Clark! With that
and
summer just around the corner, I’m finding it most difficult to keep their noses pressed to the books.”

He reminded her then that afternoon practice would begin in another week. “You may wish to remind those with siblings on the team. We’re going to keep it down to an hour, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.”

“I’ll remind them,” she promised, as if he hadn’t made the same request last week. Clearly his mind was occupied with something else, but at least it had to be something pleasant, judging by the grin that had taken over his face again. Lydia wondered if Elizabeth Raleigh could possibly be expecting a child. She hoped so, for two people who so enjoyed children should have some of their own.

The morning progressed well. After prayer and scripture readings were completed, she continued the poetry lesson, then introduced prime numbers to her first-year students without causing too much angst. During the lunch break the students hurried through their sandwiches so that they could divide into teams to play “rounders,” a game similar to American baseball. It moved along much faster than cricket, which was important when less than an hour was left to them. They placed bases made of sacking in the field next to the schoolhouse and used a cricket ball with a bat Tom Keegan had fashioned out of ash wood.

Lydia settled into a chair well out of harm’s way and divided her attention between the game and a novel from the lending library, Trollope’s
Barchester Towers
. Eleanor Harding was just arriving at the Stanhopes’ when Lydia looked up from the page and watched Phoebe Meeks being handed the bat. The girl swung once, twice, and then by some miracle on the third pitch, the dull crack of wood rang out in the spring air. By an even greater miracle, the ground ball eluded both pitcher and third baseman, George Coggins and Aleda Hollis, who apparently both assumed the other would go after it.

“Run, Phoebe!” her teammates cried, excitable Bessie Worthy leaping up and down. After a split second of dazed inaction, Phoebe started running with skirts flowing behind her. George had left his post to fetch the ball after all, confusing Phoebe, who aimed herself in the direction of second base. She ignored the frantic admonitions from her teammates as she ran across the pitcher’s mound. It was only when George tagged her with the ball just inches away from the base that Phoebe discovered her error and burst into tears.

While children of both teams sent perplexed looks to one another, Lydia hurried from her chair and toward the field. Only Billy Casper jeered, but she silenced him with a look. “There, there now,” she comforted the girl, gathering her into her arms.

“I got confused in all the excitement,” Phoebe blubbered.

“Of course you did.” Lydia led her back toward the schoolhouse, and when they had crossed the baseline, she turned her head to tell the others that they could resume their game. “She’ll be fine,” she added. She brought the girl into the schoolroom, sat her on a bench at the science table, and wiped her face with a dampened handkerchief.

“Won’t it be nice when you won’t have to worry about seeing anymore?” she said gently when the tears were finally abated, for Phoebe had told her this morning that her mother had agreed to have her eyes examined as soon as possible.

The girl stared down at the floor as if she wished it would open up and swallow her.

“Phoebe?”

“I lied to you, Miss Clark. I’m sorry.”

“Lied?”

Her bottom lip quivering, she confessed, “My mother said I would have to wait, since it’s almost summer anyway.”

“But you can’t see now.”

Finally Phoebe raised her head to regard Lydia with a pair of frank green eyes. “She says we haven’t the money now, Miss Clark.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed for the girl, Lydia thought,
Why didn’t I consider they might have financial troubles?
She was aware that Phoebe’s father had died from a fever four years ago, leaving a wife and four children. But she had paid visits to the family’s small dairy farm and assumed it produced a fair income. Phoebe’s clothing was as nice as any of her schoolmates’, and she wore shoes even in the warm months.

Lydia’s ignorance was to be expected, for she had inherited her parents’ repugnance for talebearing.
“Noble minds dwell upon ideals, and small minds upon rumors,”
she had heard her father state more than once. And so most villagers had learned to take their seeds of gossip to more fertile ground.

“May I walk home with you?” she asked after sending up a quick prayer for wisdom. It was out of courtesy that she asked, for she had the authority to accompany the girl if she pleased. “I would like to speak with your mother.”

Worry and shame mingled in the girl’s expression. “Will you tell her I lied?”

“I don’t suppose that’s necessary, Phoebe, since you admitted it. You’ve always been truthful before.”

“Thank you, Miss Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” Folding her arms, Lydia added, “Just bear in mind that integrity is worth more than anything money can buy, and you don’t want to go throwing it away out of pride.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phoebe murmured.

When the school day was over, Lydia gathered papers into her satchel to mark while Phoebe cleaned the blackboard and Tom Keegan swept the porch. As they left the schoolhouse, Lydia found herself wishing she had taken her father’s trap this morning, for the Meeks lived across the Bryce.

Exercise is as good for the soul as it is for the body
, she reminded herself.

Phoebe wasn’t her most talkative student, so Lydia did not attempt to prod her into conversation as the two walked in silence. The parade more than doubled when the girl beckoned to her brothers and sister, who were standing in a queue of children near the grammar school’s merry-go-round. The group also became noisier, for Mark, Trudy, and Lester were not as reticent as their older sister, especially when they crossed Church Lane and caught sight of two men giving chase to a litter of squealing piglets escaped from a pen behind one of the cottages bordering the green. The knot of women at the pump had ceased their gossiping to watch, and some schoolboys abandoned their cricket match to join in the chase with shouting and laughter.

“Will they ever catch them, Miss Clark?” asked seven-year-old Lester, clearly wishing to give chase himself. He was a hardy-looking boy with at least three cowlicks swirling his blond hair. Trudy, his twin, resembled Phoebe more than him with her brown hair and slight build.

“I would imagine so, Lester,” Lydia replied.

“Maybe someone told them where bacon comes from,” ten-yearold Mark suggested in a droll voice. He had brown hair like both sisters, but with Lester’s sturdier build.

“And sausages and ham,” offered Trudy.

Lester shook his blond head. “Pigs can’t understand words, can they, Miss Clark?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“May I carry your satchel, Miss Clark?” Mark asked, switching his lunch pail to his left hand.

“Thank you.” Lydia handed it over.

“What do you carry in there, Miss Clark?” asked Trudy.

“Papers to mark.”

“What sort of papers?” asked Lester.

“Geography and arithmetic today.” Lydia sent Phoebe an understanding smile. No wonder the girl wasn’t talkative, with so many competing for attention. Finally she and the children reached the Meeks farm, the first on Arnold Lane. The one-story cottage was made of weathered stone with a thatched roof, as were most farm cottages north of the river. To the east were the milking and hay barns, and to the west a hedged pasture from which a half dozen cattle cropped grass or raised placid heads to stare. In front of the cottage grew a large and tidy vegetable garden. Lydia had not noticed the lack of flowers, save wild violets sprinkled in the yard, on her two previous visits with the family. She realized now that if finances were tight, growing food would have priority over decoration. The children ushered Lydia into a front parlor filled with worn furniture.

“She’s likely in the kitchen,” Mark said, motioning for her to continue through the cottage. But Lydia shook her head.

“I’ll wait here. She’s not expecting me.”

“Children?” came a voice through the doorway, and Mrs. Meeks entered the room wearing an apron over a faded blue calico gown. Younger than Lydia by a couple of years, she was as petite as Lydia was tall and would have been beautiful had not the weight of the burdens she carried settled into the lines of her face. She gave a nervous pat to her chignon, from which strands of light brown hair had worked themselves loose. “Why, Miss Clark…”

“I pray you’ll forgive me for showing up uninvited like this.”

“You’re welcome here anytime.” Turning to the children, she said, “Go outside and play.” When they had reluctantly obeyed, she offered Lydia a chair and apologized for being out of tea. “But I’ve got some cocoa powder and fresh milk.”

“No, thank you,” Lydia told her, settling on a chair covered with peach-colored cloth frayed at the arms. “I’ve come to speak with you about Phoebe. Have you a minute?”

Mrs. Meeks took a seat at the end of a threadbare horsehair sofa and folded her work-worn hands. “Is this about the spectacles, Miss Clark?”

“It is, Mrs. Meeks.” Concerned that she would think she had come here to censure her, Lydia hurried on. “I’d like to ask your permission to purchase them for her myself. As you know, I’ve no children to spend my wages on, and I live with my parents, so my expenses are minimal. Please allow me to do this.”

Her offer was met with silence, as Mrs. Meeks simply stared straight ahead. Lydia waited, deciding it best not to pressure her. When the woman finally spoke, Lydia heard the strain in her voice.

“It’s just so hard to keep takin’ and having naught to give back. What with parish assistance helping pay our rent, and the Women’s Charity Society buyin’ the children’s school clothing and shoes.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“You didn’t?” Mrs. Meeks looked surprised and just a little disbelieving.

“My family is the last to hear what’s going on in Gresham.” Lydia gave her a tentative little smile. “It’s actually a blessing most of the time.”

The woman actually smiled back, lightening the careworn expression of her face. “I see.” But then a sigh escaped her lips. “It ain’t that I don’t appreciate the help, Miss Clark. I thank the good Lord for the folks who’ve been so decent to us. But I weren’t raised that way, and I don’t want the children thinking it’s proper to go about with their hands held out all of the time.”