The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (31 page)

“Now, who will bid for this basket, belonging to the lovely Miss Jowett?” the man on the platform was saying, motioning toward a family seated on a quilt who nudged and whispered to a plump, crimsonfaced young woman. The first bid—for tuppence—was hooted down. But finally, the basket and Miss Jowett’s blushing company sold for a florin to an equally blushing young man.

“What if some baskets aren’t bid on?” Noelle asked Mrs. Clay, who looked unsure and repeated the question in a low voice to the vicar’s wife.

Mrs. Phelps leaned close enough to reply softly to both of them, “There’s scant chance of that, for there are more unmarried men than women in Gresham. But just in case, Jonathan has asked some of the older widowers to step up. You’ll notice they haven’t made any bids yet because they haven’t needed to.”

“I see.” Though it was no concern of hers, Noelle was relieved to learn that none of the young women would be humiliated. Even having to share a picnic with an old person would be better than not being chosen, especially in front of so many people.

A young woman wearing an obviously home-sewn yellow gingham gown passed within two feet of the Clays’ quilt with the young fellow who had placed the highest bid for her basket. His face was tanned from labor in the sun, and his clothes the simple fustian of a farmer, but one might have thought he was Prince Charming for the way the girl looked at him. And his expression plainly said that the affection was reciprocated.

Perhaps they would marry, if they weren’t already betrothed. And the girl would spend most of her remaining years bearing and tending children, selling eggs and butter for pocket money, and saving scraps from the clothes she sewed to make quilts to warm their beds. She would likely never wear expensive perfume, experience the richness of fine silk against her skin, or know what it was like to have the waiters at
Gatti’s
know without being reminded that she did not care for onions in her
Colin a la Polonaise
.

That’s almost how it would have been with me
. If Quetin had not held the door for her at that millenary shop. She would have married some young curate or bank clerk—perhaps even another vicar, as had one of her sisters. And not knowing any better, she would have worn the same adoration on her face as the young woman in yellow had just worn.

At least I wouldn’t have to be hiding from another man’s wife now
, she thought. Her eyes stung, but she blinked the budding tears away and made herself focus her attention back on the auction. If crying did any good, she would have been back in London days ago.

After the lunches had been auctioned, gallons of lemonade and hundreds of sandwiches consumed, and the brass band had played every song in their repertoire at least six times, Mrs. Bartley ascended the platform and asked for attention. Marriage agreed with Ambrose Clay’s former walking partner, for the rough edges to her personality had softened considerably over the past year.
But I’d wager she keeps the squire on his toes
, Ambrose thought, smiling to himself.

“On behalf of Saint Jude’s Women’s Charity Society, I wish to thank you for participating in our fund-raising effort today. I’m very pleased to announce that enough money has been raised for the church’s new pulpit.”

The elderly woman beamed with hands clasped through the ensuing applause, and when it died down, she continued. “Mr. Howard Croft has kindly agreed to apply his excellent craftsmanship to the project…”

“The coffin maker?” Ambrose whispered to Fiona.

“He says he can do it,” she whispered back.

“How long will that take?”

His wife put a finger to her lips and made a slight nod toward the platform where Mrs. Bartley was saying, “…which he assures us will be completed by midsummer, if not before.”

There were murmurs of disappointment after the announcement. Apparently many in the crowd had expected the pulpit to be in the church by the next service. With a long-suffering smile, Mrs. Bartley explained. “This will be no ordinary pulpit, you understand. And elaborate hand carvings take time.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t get carried away and carve R.I.P. on the front,” Ambrose couldn’t resist whispering.

“Sh-h,” scolded Fiona.

A half hour later as they crossed Market Lane from the green, she squeezed his arm happily. “This was such a good idea, Ambrose. Just think…every schoolchild who bought a glass of lemonade will feel he had a part in the new pulpit.”

“And every husband who paid an exorbitant sum for sandwiches?” he teased.

Smiling, she replied, “At least you’re in good company with the squire and Mr. Durwin. I noticed their wives were equally as ruthless.”

“You mean our dear little Mrs. Durwin is capable of extortion? What is the world coming to?”

“It’s coming along very well,” she replied, then gave him an appraising look as they walked along the
Larkspur
’s garden wall on their way to the carriage drive. “And I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to make jokes.”

“I do feel better,” he admitted. “Good company is good medicine.”

“But apparently not for everyone.” Fiona sent a concerned glance to the
Larkspur
’s second story. Mrs. Somerville had excused herself from the festivities soon after the auction and was likely still alone inside. “The poor woman. So young to be widowed.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think we should see about her?”

He shook his head. “Perhaps she just wanted some privacy. If not, she’ll have plenty of company soon enough.”

During the auction he had happened to glance in Mrs. Somerville’s direction and noticed her efforts to cover what appeared to be tears. His own bouts with despondency gave him compassion for anyone likewise suffering, and he had considered motioning to Fiona. She could have comforted General Cornwallis at Yorktown.

But he had not allowed himself to do so. Having been surrounded by actors for most of his life, he had a keen sense of when someone was putting on a performance. And he couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Somerville had done nothing but perform since her arrival. He no longer shared his uncharitable thoughts with Fiona, who, like the other lodgers, had taken to her as if she were a tragic long-lost cousin. There was likely no harm in that, but he intended to keep a wary eye on this newcomer.

Fiona had suffered too many hurts in her life from the hands of unscrupulous people. And he considered it one of his primary missions to see that it never happened again.

Chapter 20

“Shouldn’t you see a dentist?” Julia asked Andrew in the vicarage dining room Saturday morning. She was dressed to accompany him on a call but noticed the difficulty he was having chewing his breakfast. “We can be in Shrewsbury in less than an hour.”

“I’ll drive you,” Philip offered.

Andrew shook his head, the swelling in his right cheek obvious even through his beard. With clenched teeth, because drawing in air was painful, he said, “Let’s give it a few more days. Monday, if it’s no better.”

“There is always Mr. McFarley,” Wanetta suggested while bringing in a fresh jar of marmalade to empty into the server dish. “He’s quick and only charges two-bob.”

“I would no more allow a barber to extract my tooth than to amputate my leg,” Andrew articulated plainly in spite of the clenched teeth.

“They used to do that, you know,” Aleda offered. “Surgeries, I mean. That’s why the pole is red and white. People were once given small poles to hold because of the pain, and—”

“Let’s discuss that some other time, Aleda,” Julia interrupted with a glance at Andrew.

“Are you afraid to go to the dentist, Papa?” Grace asked.

There was a silence of several seconds before he replied. “Terrified. So let that be a lesson for all of you.”

“What lesson, Papa?” Laurel asked with a puzzled look.

“Not to take good health for granted. You should get on your knees and thank God every day that your teeth don’t hurt. I know I shall when this is over.”

A half hour later, Julia and Andrew left the vicarage. As the affliction had come upon him yesterday evening, it caught them with very little salicin in the cupboard. Their first stop would have to be
Trumbles
. Julia drove the trap while her husband sat with his hand pressed against his jaw, letting out a low groan at every bump in the lane. When they reached the shop, Mr. Trumble turned from stocking items upon his shelves to peer sympathetically at Andrew. “Headache?”

“One of his back teeth is hurting terribly,” Julia answered as they approached the counter. “We almost sent Philip to wake you last night.”

“Yes? Well, I wish you would have. There’s no night so long as when you’ve a toothache.”

Andrew made an appreciative groan and motioned toward the shelves.

“He would like a dose of the medicine now, please,” Julia translated.

“Right away.” Mr. Trumble reached for an amber-colored bottle, pulled out the stopper, and poured out about a tablespoon of the white powder into a square of brown paper. As Andrew tossed it back into his mouth, wincing at the bitter taste, Julia hurried for a dipper of water from the pail at the far end of the counter.

Thoughtfully, the shopkeeper scooped out a peppermint ball from a glass jar and handed it over. “This’ll get the taste out. One for you, too, Mrs. Phelps?”

Julia politely declined as Andrew put the candy in his mouth, and resisted the impulse to smile, for the dignified Vicar of Gresham now resembled a hamster with two bulging jaws. The effect only lasted a second before he spat the candy into his hand as if it were poison. “Hurts!”

“Oh, I should have thought about that,” the shopkeeper said with a slap on his own forehead. “Sweets can make it worse.”

There was nothing Julia could do besides offer sympathetic little murmurings, so she paid for the medicine and put the rest of the bottle into her reticule. Andrew, caught up in his own agony, waited mutely.

“Next time now, be sure to wake me,” Mr. Trumble told them as he handed over Julia’s change. “I wouldn’t want desolation to drive you to the riverbank to chew on a tree.”

Julia and Andrew exchanged glances. She understood that he had likely meant
desperation
, but chewing upon a tree?

“Salicin.” Mr. Trumble explained with a chuckle at their confused expressions. “It’s made from willow bark, you see?”

After expressing appreciation for this bit of information, Julia thanked the shopkeeper and guided her suffering husband back out to the trap. “Andrew, this is ridiculous,” she said, picking up the reins again. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“Can’t hurt any more than this.”

I’m not too sure about that
, Julia thought, but having never had a tooth extracted, she had no choice but to heed his wishes in the matter. “Then you should at least be in bed. We can visit Mrs. Hayes another day. You know all she’s going to do is complain about her husband. I’ll send Luke to explain.”

He shook his head, causing Julia to wonder if all men were this stubborn about their work. “She’s likely to show up at the vicarage if I don’t come. And I’m feeling better now.”

There was nothing to do but drive the trap southward and fume silently, her frustration divided between Andrew and Mrs. Hayes. Some quarter of a mile past the
Bow and Fiddle
, she reined Rusty to the east, down a dirt drive flanked by hedgerows frosted with white hawthorn blossoms. Black-and-white cattle grazed upon grass shiny with dew, and in the near distance sat a cottage and several outbuildings of mellowed stone. A deceptively tranquil scene, Julia thought. Minutes later she was reining the horse to a stop in front of the stables. She turned to her husband and found him fast asleep, his chin touching his chest.

“Andrew?” she nudged after debating whether she should turn the trap around and head back for home.

“Huh?”

“We’re here.”

“Oh.” He blinked and looked sheepishly at her. “The medicine.”

“And your tooth?”

“Much better.” This time his smile seemed more genuine. He patted her hand. “Thank you for being so patient with me, dear.”

“Oh, that’s not so difficult,” Julia replied, her resentment evaporating.

A ruddy-faced man in work clothes advanced upon them as Andrew was helping Julia from the trap—Luther Hayes. He didn’t seem surprised to see them. After they had exchanged greetings, he took the reins from Andrew to loop around a post. “We’ve some new calves. Would you care to see ’em before we let ’em out to pasture?”