The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (28 page)

Behind a white picket fence sat the two-story Clark cottage, built of the same sandstone and slate as the
Larkspur
. A sixtyish woman answered the door, short and rounded, with gray hair and serene brown eyes.

“Mrs. Clark?”

“Yes,” she replied with a smile. “And who might you be, young man?”

He swept the hat from his head. “Jacob Pitney, Mrs. Clark.”

“Ah…you’re one of those archeology men.” A contemplative frown furrowed her brow. “Am I saying that correctly?”

“Actually, it’s archeologist. But either title is fine with me.”

“Yes? Well, I do like people who are easy to please. What might we do for you, Mr. Pitney?”

Suddenly the nature of his call seemed ludicrous. But it was too late to excuse himself without appearing more foolish, and he couldn’t think of any other reason to give for knocking on the door of virtual strangers. “I was wondering…ah, may I speak with Miss Clark?”

“Why, certainly.” Thankfully, she didn’t look at him as if he was odd but ushered him on in through the doorway into a parlor of overstuffed chairs set about a multicolored oval rug. Landscapes and still life portraits hung from every wall, and near an open window a bearded man stood in front of an easel holding a palate of paints. Over his shirt and trousers he wore an apron spattered with every color imaginable. There was even a tiny streak of blue in his long gray beard.

“This is Mr. Pitney, Papa,” Mrs. Clark said to the man, though it was obvious from their ages that he was her husband and not her father. “One of the…ar-che-o-lo-gists.”

She looked at Jacob for approval after sounding out the last word, and he smiled and nodded.

“Lydia is upstairs. I’ll fetch her.” She was gone before Jacob could apologize for troubling her.

“Archeologist, eh?” Mr. Clark angled a curious look at him. “Lodging at the
Larkspur
?”

“Yes, sir.” A nutmeg-colored cat came from seemingly nowhere and began rubbing its fur against Jacob’s trousers’ leg. He reached down to stroke its back, but the animal apparently thought little of this familiarity and went in the direction Mrs. Clark had gone.

“Nice house, the
Larkspur
,” Mr. Clark was saying. He held up a paintstained hand holding a brush. “I’d offer to shake hands, but…”

“That’s all right, sir.” Jacob had never been adept at small talk, so the only thing he could think of to say next was, “I didn’t know that you painted.”

“Well, being as how we just met, anything I do would be a surprise to you, now wouldn’t it?”

Feeling the warmth rising to his cheeks, Jacob stammered, “Uh…y-yes, sir.”

Mr. Clark gave him a mirthful wink. “Just funning with you, young man. Would you care to have a look?”

“I would, thank you,” Jacob replied and relaxed a little. The man stepped back from the easel as he approached. On the canvas was portrayed a wattle-and-daub cottage with a thatched roof and cheery garden. One of the several trees surrounding the cottage had yet to be filled in with leaves, and in front was a small expanse of blank canvas.

“I’ll be putting my grandmother there, washing clothes in a kettle,” Mr. Clark said, nodding toward the white space. “People are the most difficult, so I save them for last.”

“They are?”

“Why, yes. You can paint the eaves of a cottage an inch longer than it should be, and no one will be the wiser. But a chin or nose, well…”

Jacob could see his point. “Is that your grandmother’s home?”

“Aye, but I’m forced to go from memory. It was torn down some thirty years ago. The greengrocery now sits on the plot. Cyril Sway is my cousin, you see.”

“It’s remarkably good,” Jacob told him.

“Thank you.” The elderly man stepped forward and began dabbing green leaves upon the unfinished tree. “Talent’s a gift, though, so I can’t rightly take all the credit.”

“But you use your gift. Some people don’t, I expect.”

“Now you sound like the vicar.” The man grinned, though he didn’t take his eyes off the canvas. “But that’s true. I had scarce time to devote to it over the years until my son took over the foundry. Feeding the family had to come first, you know.”

“Of course.”

“Have to confess I don’t know anything about archeology. What sort of things are you finding up there?”

While watching the foliage of the tree take shape, Jacob told him about some of the artifacts he and Mr. Ellis had uncovered. Presently he heard footsteps and female voices on a staircase he could see just outside the parlor door. The two women entered the room and smiled at him.

“Mr. Pitney,” Miss Clark said, stepping forward with hand outstretched. “How nice to see you again.”

“Thank you,” Jacob replied as they shook hands. Now that Miss Clark stood close, he realized her right cheek was scarred with a pattern, as from the texture of a bedspread. “I’ve awakened you from a nap?” he asked and then felt his face flame again, for a gentleman wasn’t supposed to point out physical flaws to a lady, even temporary ones, and he was almost certain that napping was also an inappropriate subject.

But she smiled and touched her cheek. “Does it show? I was just resting my eyes, so you didn’t wake me.”

Her mother spoke up. “Mrs. Tanner—she’s our cook—made some wonderful cinnamon scones this morning, Mr. Pitney. Would you care for some, with tea?”

“No, thank you,” Jacob told her. Such warm hospitality to a stranger who had knocked upon their door uninvited was unexpected and gratifying. He was reminded of his own family in Dover.

“Then why don’t you two visit in the back parlor?”

“Uh…fine,” he replied to Miss Clark’s questioning look. He followed her through the house to a smaller room that was more a library than a second parlor, for the shelves against three walls were practically groaning with books.
I’ve come to the right place
, Jacob thought. He waited until she had seated herself on an overstuffed green sofa before taking a seat in a nearby chair.

“You must be wondering why I’m here,” he told her.

She was seated with the prim posture that Jacob imagined was required of every English schoolmistress—carriage erect and hands folded in her lap. Yet a mischievous little smile curved her lips.

“You aren’t here to console me again over Mr. Towly’s removed affections, are you?”

Jacob returned her smile, the shared humor calming his nerves somewhat.

“Not that, I promise. You’re acquainted with Mrs. Dearing, aren’t you?”

“From the
Larkspur
.” Miss Clark nodded. “We’ve enjoyed several book discussions at the library.”

“She suggested that you might…” Jacob became aware that he was drumming his fingers on a chair arm as the nervousness returned full force. This was just a potential business transaction, as Mrs. Dearing had explained it. So why couldn’t he simply say what was on his mind?

“Might what, Mr. Pitney?”

Just say it
. He cleared his throat. “I wonder if you would help me to understand some books—for pay, of course. I do realize that your school duties take up most of your time, so if you have to decline I’ll take no offense.”

“I make time to read no matter how busy I am, Mr. Pitney. But I’m afraid I would be lost in an archeology text.”

“Oh, not that. These are stories or novelettes, as they’re called. Have you heard of Miss Rawlins? She writes under the name Robert St. Claire.”

“I’ve seen her at church. She also lives at the
Larkspur
, yes?”

“Yes.” He noticed that he was drumming his fingers again and moved his hands to his knees. “It’s her books I would like to have explained to me.”

“I see,” she said with a nod.

Mercifully she spared him further embarrassment by refraining to ask his reason. He had a feeling she had already figured it out anyway.

A slight wariness crept into her expression. “Forgive me for saying this, Mr. Pitney, but I would want no part of any deception.”

“Deception?”

“Again, forgive me, but you’re not asking me to tell you the plots so you can pretend you’ve read the books, are you?”

“Oh no,” he hastened to reassure her. “I would read them first, then pass them on to you. I’ve already finished two, so I could deliver those to you first, if you were agreeable.”

“And what is it that you didn’t understand about those two?”

Jacob raised a hand and let it fall back to his knee. “Everything, apparently. The symbolism in particular. I’m quite dense when it comes to all of that.”

She smiled. “I never realized density was a prerequisite for becoming an archeologist.”

It took him a second to realize that she had given him a compliment. Returning her smile with a grateful one of his own, he said, “I suppose a female author would be better understood by women.”

“In which case I qualify. Would you want to meet weekly to discuss the stories?”

Jacob raised his eyebrows hopefully. “You’ll do it?”

“It sounds intriguing.”

“Thank you.” Remembering that he had yet to discuss compensation, he asked, “Would one pound per book be satisfactory?”

“Didn’t you say these were novelettes?”

“Yes.”

“Half-a-crown would be more than enough. As I said, I make time to read anyway.”

Jacob asked if she was sure, and she replied that she was quite sure. He was about to thank her and stop imposing upon her time, when one more thought occurred to him. “Uh…about our meetings…?”

“Yes, Mr. Pitney?”

“Is it possible we could hold them in the evenings?” Now he became aware that he was drumming his fingers upon his knees. He considered sitting upon his hands but discarded that notion right away. Focusing his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of her chin, he said, “Sundays are my days off, but people are sure to notice if I come here every week in broad daylight. I don’t intend to deceive Miss Rawlins, but I’d rather her not find out that I’m being tutored. Her opinion of me is low enough as it is.”

“I see.”

Miss Clark was thoughtfully quiet for a second. Jacob looked at a potted geranium in one window, the bookshelves, anywhere but her intelligent green eyes.

“Then how about Monday evenings after supper, Mr. Pitney? Excluding tomorrow, of course.”

“After supper? Wouldn’t that be too late for you?”

“Not at this house,” she assured him, smiling. “We tend to stay up later than what most people would deem sensible.”

He returned her smile and let out a relieved breath. “That would be fine, thank you.”

“What did the young man want?” Lydia’s mother asked as soon as the door closed behind Mr. Pitney.

The hope in her expression saddened Lydia, for she knew what was going on in her mind. For it was the same thought that had occurred earlier in her own mind—that Mr. Pitney was calling upon her simply because he had enjoyed their exchange of conversation at the end of the carriage drive on Friday past. It was a silly notion, she realized now, because she had never before had a gentleman caller. And as it turned out, he was only seeking help in impressing the writer, Miss Rawlins. Lydia couldn’t help but wonder why he thought it necessary to go to all that trouble. Surely his thoughtfulness and obvious decency were enough to impress any woman.

“He has hired me to read some books for him,” Lydia replied.

“Surely he can read, if he’s an archeologist,” her father said, his eyes fixed upon the canvas as his brush moved with confident strokes.

“Not read
to
him, Papa.” She decided she would have to tell the whole story if Mr. Pitney would be showing up here every Monday. Of all people, she knew she could rely upon her parents’ discretion. And she certainly didn’t want them to get their hopes up by assuming that this business arrangement was anything resembling a courtship. For the only men who seemed to have an interest in her were a widower looking for a sizable dowry and a brawler with a prankster in his family.