The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (46 page)

“Thank you!”

The relief in his voice made Lydia smile. “You’re welcome, Mr. Pitney.”

“Well, I should go now,” he said.

Yet something in his expression seemed to say that he would be content to linger for a while. But of course he had dreamed of winning Miss Rawlins’ respect for a long time, Lydia told herself.
Why shouldn’t he enjoy speaking about it?

“Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, Miss Clark,” he told her, reaching back for the doorknob.

You could take up the rest of my life
, rushed into Lydia’s head. She was shocked at herself for the most unschoolmistress-like thought and hoped her expression hadn’t given her away. Just to be sure, she shifted her eyes from his face to look down at the pipe in her hand. “No apology is necessary, Mr. Pitney. But I should bring this upstairs before my father becomes apoplectic.”

Her father unwittingly came to her assistance then by bellowing out, “Lydia!”

With another apology for the late hour, Mr. Pitney thanked her for her part in his good news and took his leave. Lydia leaned against the closed door and listened to his footsteps on the porch. She could tell when he paused to open his umbrella, and then stepped out onto the sodden steps, making little splashing sounds as he walked down the stone path. And then there was only the sound of the rain. For a second or two, her ears strained for any sound of his turning around to come back, but reason soon prevailed.

As she carried her father’s pipe upstairs, she thought about the hundreds of novels she had read over the years. Unrequited love had been the theme of many. Surely one should have warned her of how painful it could be.

Having spent the whole morning in the
Larkspur
’s cellar among their latest artifacts, Jacob and Mr. Ellis had to change their dusty clothes for lunch. Jacob was just leaving his bedchamber when he spotted Miss Rawlins farther down the corridor near the staircase. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, Miss Rawlins?” She turned, and her pleased expression caused his heart to make a little leap.

“Mr. Pitney? Why aren’t you on the hill?”

“Last night’s rain,” he reminded her, hurrying to catch up.

“You don’t dig when the ground is wet?”

“We can’t.” He was overjoyed that she was asking him about his work. “You see, we don’t actually
dig
for fear of damaging the artifacts. We brush the dirt away, a layer at a time.” Mr. Ellis had explained this at least once at the supper table, and Jacob had spent many an inclement day indoors, but he couldn’t fault Miss Rawlins for forgetting. After all, her mind was likely overburdened enough with story plots.

They took the first downward steps side by side. “Well, where have you been all morning?” she asked.

“In the cellar. We save days like this for cleaning the most recently found artifacts, then cataloging and packaging them for shipment.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s a bit less tedious than digging in the dirt all day.”

We don’t actually dig
, he started to remind her, but then his heart fell. Not only did she have no interest in his profession, but she found it boring. Misery threatened to overwhelm him, but then he reminded himself that
he
was not his profession, no matter how dear archeology was to him. And hadn’t she listened attentively to his every word for the past two evenings?

“Have you been writing all morning?” he asked.

A smile lit her face, and he was proud that he had caused it.

“
Valentina of the Apennines
,” she replied. “And as fast as my poor fingers could bear. After mulling all week over how to reconcile Valentina and Count Lobue after their misunderstanding, inspiration struck this morning.”

They paused at the foot of the staircase across from the dining room, and she was so caught up in her plot that she absently rested a hand upon his sleeve. He wished he had the courage to put his hand over hers.

“You see,” Miss Rawlins went on, “Valentina’s cousin, Mercede, has been a minor character so far, but it occurred to me that she could be the instrument to reconcile the two. And you’ll never guess how she does it.”

Jacob smiled at the excitement in her eyes. “How?”

“She’ll forge a letter to each, pretending it’s from the other. They’ll say basically the same thing, begging for forgiveness and requesting a meeting in Signor Patrizio’s conservatory.”

“Yes, very good.” Jacob nodded. “Just as Aimee did in
Rachelle of Chaminox
. It worked splendidly that time, so why shouldn’t it again?”

The smile left her face just as her hand left his sleeve. “It’s not exactly the same, Mr. Pitney.”

“Oh. I see.” But he didn’t see, and his mind raced to figure out why.

“In
Rachelle of Chaminox
, Aimee didn’t forge letters to Rachelle and General Massena. She sent her lady’s maid to deliver the messages in person. And they were to meet at a gazebo, not a conservatory. Really, Mr. Pitney, a child could have seen the difference.”

Humbled, he followed her into the dining room, where the others had assembled and were involved in conversation. Even Mrs. Somerville was present after having spent two days in her room with a headache.

“It’s good to see you at the table, Mrs. Somerville,” Mrs. Dearing said after everyone had filled a plate from the two sideboards. “I hope this means you’ve recovered.”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied with a smile that seemed forced to Jacob. In fact, she looked as bleak as he felt.

“Were the herbal teas beneficial at all?” Mr. Durwin asked her.

Mrs. Somerville nodded. “It was very thoughtful of you to send them up.”

She was fussed over by other lodgers with advice for warding off any future headaches, from Mr. Jensen’s deep breathing exercises to Mrs. Clay’s avoidance of highly seasoned foods. Jacob would have suggested his mother’s sworn remedy, a daily dose of cod liver oil, but he feared he would somehow say the wrong thing again.

It seemed that the only women, besides his mother and sister, with whom he could share his innermost thoughts were Miss Clark and Mrs. Dearing. He winced inside at the memory of his most recent conversation with Miss Rawlins. Perhaps misunderstandings were usual and even to be expected in all courtships. There was inevitably at least one misunderstanding between the hero and heroine of every one of Miss Rawlins’ stories he had read so far, and she was much wiser to the ways of the world than was he.

That reassured him a little. And when the meal was over, he was quick to seek her out in the corridor before she could disappear into her chamber again. “I must beg your forgiveness,” he said earnestly. “I spoke before thinking.”

She looked up at him with a serious expression, yet her words were kind. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Pitney. You wandered in creative darkness for years, so we can’t expect enlightenment to come all at once.”

Knees weak from relief, he fairly gushed, “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.” Incredibly, she smiled. “And you would pay me a courtesy by addressing me as Eugenia, if you wish.”

His heart skipped a beat. “I may?”

“Yes, you may…Jacob.”

Chapter 30

By late Friday morning, enough of the shock had worn off to allow Noelle to draft a reply to Mr. Radley’s letter. Only she would have sooner cut off a finger than correspond with the odious toad, so she decided to respond to Quetin directly. Or rather, indirectly through Valerie Bradburn, the closest person to a true friend that Noelle had in the world. Surely she would find a way to get it to him without Averyl Paxton’s knowledge.

Dearest Quetin,

Whatever I have done to incur your disfavor, I beg of you the opportunity to make amends.

Her words took much effort and were frustratingly formal. She would have rather poured out her angst and told him of the sleepless nights and how her heart felt like a gaping wound in her chest. But Quetin would take one glance at such a letter and toss it away.

Sending me here to Gresham was a wise action, I can now see. My character has matured over the past four weeks. I have learned not to complain so much and to appreciate all the things I have.

The latter part wasn’t quite true, for she still had some concern about her belongings. Especially tormenting was the thought of Meara Desmond bedecked in her jewelry. But mentioning that would cause him to think she was more concerned about the financial loss than the loss of his affection, which was certainly not the case.

If you would just allow me one more opportunity to see you, I am certain you would agree that I have become a much more agreeable companion.

“Keep it brief,” she murmured, forcing herself to close the letter with a simple
Very truly yours
and sign her name. Of all times, she couldn’t afford to try his patience now.

She penned a letter to Valerie next. This time she poured out her heart, having to stop to wipe her eyes and blow her nose several times. On the way to take the envelope—addressed to Valerie—to the letter box, she came across the Durwins and Clays in the hall. The men sat on opposite sides of the draughts table, and the women were chatting while walking toward the front door. All faces turned in her direction when Mr. Durwin spoke.

“Good morning, Mrs. Somerville. We missed you at breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Noelle replied. “I’m afraid I overslept.”

“You haven’t another headache, have you?” asked Mrs. Durwin with a concerned expression.

Noelle was growing weary of that question, especially considering that she could recall having had only one actual headache since her move to Gresham. But she supposed it was her own fault for overusing such a convenient excuse. And she supposed she should be grateful
somebody
cared about her well-being. “I’m quite well, thank you,” she replied.

“Would you care to take a stroll with us to
Trumbles
?” Mrs. Clay asked. “We can wait if you’d like to fetch a hat.”

Noelle wondered exactly how many Parisian gowns the actor’s wife owned, for she couldn’t recall having seen the day dress of figured grenadine with fluted green trim she now wore. She swallowed her envy to reply, “No, thank you. But will you mind giving this to Mr. Trumble?” It would not reach London any sooner than the mail Mr. Jones would collect in the letter box today, but at least it would
seem
to be starting its journey sooner. She would take any condolence where she could find it, no matter how small.

“Surely he was jesting,” Ambrose said as he brushed his wife’s hair at the dressing table that night. “You know how fond Mr. Trumble is of a good chuckle.”

“No, Ambrose. He said rearranging the shelves took her most of a day, too.”

“
Our
Mrs. Somerville?”

Fiona stared at him in the mirror. “Why do you say it like that?”

“I just can’t imagine her taking the time to do a good deed for anyone, to be honest.”

“Even after she helped Julia get Andrew home from the dentist that day?”

He opened his mouth to argue but found himself at a loss for words.
I know I’m not imagining the way she looks at Fiona
. But he hadn’t realized until just recently how prone to headaches the young widow was. Could he, in his desire to protect his wife, possibly have misinterpreted physical discomfort in Mrs. Somerville’s facial expressions for dislike? He reckoned anyone looking at his own face during one of his dark moods would assume he hated the whole world.