The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (49 page)

But you don’t want to court anyone just for the sake of courting
, he reminded himself. And certainly not just because a woman was comely. Fair looks didn’t last forever, and even if they did, he figured he would grow weary of even the most beautiful face if there was no substance behind it.

He understood now the reason he had become so enamored with Elizabeth Phelps and why she still crossed his mind—though with much less frequency now that he was heeding Vicar Phelps’s counsel about taking control of his thoughts. Elizabeth not only possessed beauty but an intelligent, questioning mind. And a sense of humor like her father’s. How painfully ironic it was that his inability to appreciate those latter qualities in a woman had ultimately led to the end of their courtship.

Paul realized he was ignoring Miss Wingate. “You can see everything from up here,” he told her, hitching a knee over the side and jumping to the ground. He took her parasol and reticule to hand up to Mr. Lawson, then walked to the back of the wagon to remove the plank from between the stakes and prop it against the side. When he turned, Miss Wingate had followed and was standing only two feet away. Paul cleared his throat. “With your permission…?”

Giving him a demure smile, she moved her arms from her sides so that he could put both hands at her narrow waist. Quickly he hoisted her to sit on the floor of the wagon bed, then stared gentlemanly at the ground while she swung her covered limbs inside. When Mr. Lawson had helped the girl to her feet, and she was staring down expectantly at him, Paul tipped his hat to her.

“I believe I’ll walk about a bit,” he said with delicate politeness and a smile. “And you’ll all be more comfortable if you aren’t crowded.”

“But don’t you want to watch the match?”

“I have height to my advantage. I’m sure I’ll be able to see.”

As he walked toward the standing spectators, he hoped he had not hurt her feelings. There was no sense in giving the girl false hopes if he did not intend to court her. And he certainly didn’t want to provide any other Lockwood residents with fodder for gossip. They were good people, but they would have the two of them practically betrothed by the time the last arrow hit the target.

“Does that mean we’re winning?” Noelle asked Mr. Clay after a lad with brown hair scored an impressive nineteen points. She stood on the porch of the schoolhouse with the Clays, Mrs. Phelps, and Elizabeth Raleigh along with about a dozen other spectators. The vicar and Mr. Raleigh were inside the roped area with Gresham’s team.

Had anyone but the Clays invited her to accompany them, Noelle would have demurred. But the actor had been in a charming, animated mood at the breakfast table, and the thought of spending another day in her room brooding over Quetin was immensely depressing.

“We won’t know that until it’s over and the scores are tallied up,” Mr. Clay explained.

He spoke to her with much more warmth than at any time since her arrival in Gresham. At first Noelle wondered if he and Mrs. Clay were at disagreement over something and he was attempting to make her jealous, but that notion was put to rest when she saw them holding hands as they left the dining room. She supposed she must resign herself to the idea that the two were a package. One had to put up with pits if one wished to enjoy plums, and with thorns to enjoy roses. And Mrs. Clay’s company was certainly more tolerable than Meara Desmond’s had been.

Just the thought of the woman’s treachery was enough to increase the ache in the lump that had lodged itself inside her chest since Wednesday. She had to think about something else, or she would dissolve into tears and make a scene, so she turned her attention back to the match. Another boy was just stepping up to the shooting line. “Where is he from?” she asked Mrs. Raleigh, standing at her right.

“Prescott,” the vicar’s daughter replied with a smile. “They’ve won for the past two years. Papa was almost beside himself with anxiety this morning.”

“I would think your husband would be anxious as well, being the schoolmaster.”

Mrs. Raleigh and Mrs. Phelps exchanged quick glances. Leaning closer, Mrs. Raleigh lowered her voice to explain, “It’s more personal with Papa, you see. A certain vicar lords it over him whenever Prescott wins.”

“Elizabeth…” cautioned her stepmother.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Noelle said, giving a conspiratorial smile to both. “I know just how it is. Vicarage walls are made of glass.”

She had slept only fitfully for the past three nights, so her mind was not functioning as well as it should have been. She did not realize her slip of the tongue until Mrs. Phelps asked with a surprised expression, “Why, Mrs. Somerville. Is your father a vicar?”

The mind that had betrayed her couldn’t think fast enough to provide her with an escape. And the Clays were watching her curiously now as well. “He is,” she replied in an off-handed manner, hoping that by going ahead and admitting it the subject would wear itself out soon.

But it was not to be, for Mrs. Phelps was smiling at her as if she had just discovered they were twins who had been separated from birth. “Andrew is well acquainted with several London vicars. I can’t wait to tell him. Perhaps he knows your father.”

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Noelle agreed halfheartedly.

“Perhaps we’ve even attended his church,” said Mrs. Clay with the same pleased expression. “Which one is it?”

Finally Noelle’s mind decided to function. “Oh, but my father hasn’t preached in London for years. I lived there because that was my husband’s post of duty, you see. My family lives in…Truesdale.”

It worked, for even if such a town existed outside the advertisement in her biscuit tin, no recognition came across any of the faces about her. She felt safe enough to add, “It’s no wonder you haven’t heard of it. It’s a small village in Humberside, smaller than Gresham, actually. But it’s a charming place, and they are very happy there.”

She was rescued from any further inquiry by Mr. Clay, who pointed out at the match and said, “It looks as if Grace will be next.”

All eyes in the Clay-Raleigh-Phelps party turned back in that direction. Even Noelle was interested in seeing how the girl performed and not just because of the fortunate timing. The girl reminded her of herself as a child—quiet and thoughtfully somber. But she didn’t think the Phelps’s child’s quiet temperament stemmed from loneliness, as had her own. People were born with different natures, else how could she explain why she was never able to content herself with the upbringing her siblings had apparently thrived upon?

Grace’s first shot landed in the blue ring to score five points, which brought applause from all over. Most enthusiastic was from the group on the porch, with Noelle contributing as well. One of the girl’s six arrows missed the target completely, but one scored a nine, and so her final tally was eighteen. Not the most impressive score, but still applause rippled through the assemblage.

The vicar’s two other daughters appeared on the steps from wherever they had been watching the match with faces beaming. “Did you see her, Mother?” Aleda asked unnecessarily.

“She didn’t look nervous at all,” declared the blond-haired Laurel.

Both nodding, Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Raleigh agreed that she had performed well. Noelle imagined their smiles would be no less broad if Grace had scored the lowest of all. Their enthusiasm seemed to be based on the girl being a beloved part of their family rather than on her performance. How strange and wonderful to be accepted and cherished for simply being alive. Would Quetin’s attentions have found their way into her own eighteen-year-old heart so completely had she not been so starved for indications that she mattered to someone?

When Noelle realized Mrs. Phelps was speaking to her, the two girls were gone from the steps, and a brown-haired lad had taken Grace’s place in front of the target.

“I beg your pardon?” she said to the vicar’s wife.

“Will you join us for lunch afterward?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “The Clays have agreed, and Elizabeth and Jonathan are coming as well. I know Andrew would enjoy trying to figure out if you have any mutual acquaintances in the ministry.”

Though she had nothing else to do but pace the floor of her room to wait for a letter—which may or may not ever come—Noelle could not afford to accept. For if Mrs. Phelps ever realized she had not been straightforward about her background, she would surely demand she leave the
Larkspur
. She was a kind woman, but even kind people could be maddeningly stubborn about sticking to their principles.

Where else could you go?
Noelle asked herself. Even if she happened to have enough money left for a ticket to London, she had no place to stay. Though Valerie and Geneva would extend sympathy, there was little else they could do, being the paramours of Quetin’s fellow Members of Parliament.

It was an odd twist of fate that she found herself clinging to the place she once loathed. But cling she would have to do, until Quetin came to his senses. Noelle smiled gratefully at the vicar’s wife. “It’s so kind of you to ask, but I’m rather fatigued.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Phelps gave her a sympathetic look. “You haven’t a headache, have you?”

“Not at all,” Noelle was quick to assure her. She was quite pleased with herself when a different one came to mind. “I’m embarrassed to admit I spent most of the night reading. I lose all track of time when I’m in the pages of a good novel.”

“You too?” Mrs. Phelps looked past her at Mrs. Clay. “I can recall when Fiona would stay up for hours to read. Do you still do that, Fiona?”

“Oh, sometimes,” was the Irish woman’s smiling reply. “Though I inevitably regret it the next morning. What were you reading, Mrs. Somerville?”

Berating herself for her usual fallacy of not leaving well enough alone, Noelle waved a hand. “Oh, one of those Dickens stories. Look, isn’t that another Gresham child at the target?”

Chapter 32

The distraction worked. This time Noelle decided not to tempt good fortune. Pressing hands about her, she murmured farewells and stepped down from the porch. She had woven her way around at least two dozen knots of spectators when she looked to her left and discovered she was passing directly behind Vicar Treves. By his stance she could tell he was totally absorbed by the match, which was fine with her because she had socialized enough for one day.

She was turning her eyes to the front when a flash of movement startled her, just before she collided with something. She let out a gasp, lurched sideways, then found herself sitting on the damp cobbled stones, rubbing a throbbing chin and clamping the other hand over the skirt covering her left knee. Before her stood a brown-haired girl of about fifteen, surprisingly petite for the impact her skull had made upon Noelle’s chin.

“I’m sorry, miss,” the girl cried. “I didn’t see you!”

Vicar Treves came to kneel beside her. “Are you hurt, Mrs. Somerville?”

Having not yet collected her wits, Noelle could only gape at him.

“Is she all right?” asked one of the several people standing and staring.

“The girl ran right into her,” said another.

“Shall we fetch the doctor?” someone offered after another round of cheering had abated. “I saw him but a minute ago.”

“I think I’m all right,” Noelle finally said. Allowing Vicar Treves to take her arm, she attempted to ease up to her feet, but winced at the pain that shot through her knee and sat back down.

“Will someone please find Doctor Rhodes?” the vicar asked. Two young men nodded and moved away. Noelle looked up again and realized the girl with whom she had collided stood as if frozen in place.

“Is she hurt badly?” the girl asked with lips trembling. She blinked her eyes often as if she was weak-sighted.

“I’m sure it’s nothing that Doctor Rhodes can’t mend,” Vicar Treves told her. “How about yourself? Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, miss. I was looking for my mother.”

“I wasn’t paying attention either,” Noelle felt obliged to admit. She felt ashamed that her most immediate impulse upon hitting the cobblestones had been to scold the lass, who looked as if she would crumble at the first harsh word. “And I’ll be fine.”

“You will?”

“Yes.” She even mustered a strained smile. “Why don’t you run along now?”

“Thank you, miss,” the girl said in a relieved voice before turning to sprint away.