The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (5 page)

“And ye may as well nail us in our coffins with our cushions and pins when the time comes for us to go,” Jewel added. Her voice resembled metal grating against a file. “Because our old fingers ain’t going to know how to stop spinnin’.”

Giving her sister-in-law a stern look, Iris reproved, “You shouldn’t be talking about our coffins like that, Jewel.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s inviting trouble. Remember old Mr. Summers who lived on Short Lane? He was forever telling folks that—”

“He lived on Thatcher Lane,” Jewel interrupted as Andrew waited for a pause in which to remind them gently that he had delivered a forceful sermon against superstition just last month. “In that old stone cottage with the dirty windows. It were before the lanes was cobbled, and folks was always havin’ to clean dust from the windows so’s they could see out. But his wife, Mrs. Summers, she didn’t—”

Iris, whose lips had drawn together tightly during Jewel’s narrative, finally cut in. “But that wasn’t the old Summers place, Jewel. That was their son Rowan’s. Old Mrs. Summers used to give us pears from her tree, and her windows were as clear as well water.”

In an effort to change the subject, Andrew leaned closer to inspect the band of lace trailing from Iris’s pillow and quipped, “Isn’t it narrow for a tablecloth?”

The tactic worked, for they stopped arguing and stared up at him as if he had lost all his faculties. “We sews ’em together, Vicar,” Jewel explained in the tone one would use to tell a child why he mustn’t eat peas with a knife.

“Yes, of course.” He drew the loaf from under his arm. “Would you care for some blackberry bread?”

Both wrinkled faces wreathed in smiles. He was clearly forgiven for his attempt at humor. “Why, how good of you, Vicar!” Iris exclaimed. “And Mrs. Paget, too, of course.”

“Oh, but this came from the bakery just a couple of hours ago,” Andrew was quick to make clear. “I’ll just need to take the towel with me.”

“We’re right fond of bakery bread too,” Jewel reassured him. But then she looked helplessly at her spinning fingers, as if not quite sure how to command them to stop.

“We’ll have it with our tea later,” said Iris.

But when she also seemed hesitant to take the loaf from him, Andrew nodded understanding. “Shall I bring it inside for you?”

Relief washed across both aged faces. “Would you, Vicar?” Iris asked. “We shouldn’t want to get any crumbs on the queen’s lace.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Andrew replied. He felt so much better as he crossed the garden that he found himself whistling one of his favorite hymns, “Blest Be the Tie.” The wattle-and-daub cottage consisted of two rooms, the front serving as a parlor, dining room, and kitchen. Andrew went straight to the bread box sitting on a dresser and opened its lid.

“Blest be the tie that binds…” he sang softly while unwrapping the towel. And then he froze. A slice had been cut from one end of the loaf.

“No!” he groaned. How would he explain that? When did the day begin to unravel for him? If only he could start it over again! With clenched teeth, he took a knife from a crock of cutlery.

“I pray you don’t mind…” Andrew said on his return to the sisters. Showing them the thin slice of bread resting upon the folded towel in his hand, he added sheepishly, “I took the liberty of helping myself.”

Of course they assured him that they didn’t mind. He felt shamed by their graciousness and took a bite because he knew it would please them. “Very tasty,” Andrew said after swallowing. Ordinarily he was fond of blackberries, and this bread was heavy with the moist fruit. But guilt made it as palatable as sawdust. “And now I must finish my calls.”

He didn’t have the heart to reprove them for the coffin comment. After his actions for the past two hours, a little superstition seemed a mild thing. It was only after Mrs. Perkins had welcomed him into her cottage that the thought struck Andrew of how Mrs. Ramsey would soon be unwrapping the loaf in her kitchen.

Chapter 3

As Rusty pulled the trap at a spanking pace down Bartley Lane, Julia realized that she was still smiling.
A grandchild!
Jonathan would be so delighted to find out he was going to be a father! He was so good with children in the classroom, and now there would be a little one at home as well. And Andrew! He would be beside himself with joy! It was going to be difficult to keep the secret, but Elizabeth was right—she and Jonathan should be the ones to tell the new grandfather-to-be.

She rode past the new red brick building that housed the
Octavia Bartley School for Advanced Learning
and scanned the four front windows, though she knew Aleda, Laurel, and Philip would be busy at their desks. A stab of memory found her heart of how her first husband had swung her up into his arms and laughed when she shyly told him she was carrying their first child.

At only seventeen, Julia had still been a child herself during the pregnancy. Little did she know that in addition to his long days as a surgeon at London’s
Saint Thomas Hospital
, Dr. Philip Hollis was already finding another outlet for his time—the gaming halls. When he died of a heart attack fourteen years later, he left a wife and three children who barely knew him, as well as debts that cost them everything they owned.
Except the Larkspur
, Julia thought. A loan and some wise advice from her butler, Mr. Jensen—now the
Larkspur
’s manager—combined with hard work and the grace of God had enabled her to turn the abandoned coaching inn into a successful lodging house.

And God had been faithful to send many people along the way, whose generosity of spirit and encouragement fortified her when she needed it most. Former housemaid, Fiona O’Shea, now Mrs. Ambrose Clay, who insisted on moving to Gresham with her, working at first without wages. Mr. and Mrs. Herrick, whose caretaking and cooking freed Julia to learn the business aspects of running the inn. Even her first lodger, Mrs. Kingston, now Mrs. Bartley, taught her not to rush to judgment of other people.
And of course, Andrew
, Julia thought.
Dear Andrew
. He had given her a love based upon friendship and respect—as well as romance—and was a caring father for her children.

The manor house loomed in sight, a high-gabled, red sandstone building set in a framework of pine and deciduous trees on manicured lawns. It was owned, along with a good deal of the farmland in Gresham, by Squire Bartley, founder of
Anwyl Mountain Savory Cheeses
. The old squire was showing increasing signs of mellowing since his marriage last year. He actually smiled whenever people greeted him and Mrs. Bartley in the course of their daily walk. It was he who had constructed the secondary school in honor of his wife.

Empty carriages in the gravel drive stood as evidence to Elizabeth’s prediction that Julia would be late. Gratefully she turned her reins over to a young groomsman, Silas Reed, lingering only long enough to compliment his clear tenor voice, heard every Sunday in the chancel choir at Saint Jude’s. A maid ushered her into the house and to the drawing room, where twenty or so women sat upon velvet-upholstered Queen Anne furniture and were thankfully still occupied with socializing. Near one oak-paneled wall a table boasted a silver tea service and dishes of sponge cakes covered with chocolate sauce.

Julia spotted Fiona right away and they exchanged smiles. Her dear friend shared a sofa with Mrs. Durwin and Mrs. Latrell, the
Larkspur
’s newest lodger. Fiona had expressed an interest in becoming involved with the community while in residence but confided to Julia at church yesterday that her husband was suffering another dark mood. Knowing Ambrose’s gallant nature, Julia was certain that he had urged her to attend today’s meeting anyway.

“Well, Mrs. Phelps, you managed to show yourself after all!” Mrs. Bartley, a commanding gray-haired presence, rose from a chair, her voice carrying over the hum of conversation. Three years ago Julia would have wilted at the woman’s tone, but now she knew well the warm heart inside that forbidding exterior. She simply walked over to plant a kiss upon her former lodger’s wrinkled cheek.

“And I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Bartley. Have I missed anything important?”

“Nothing earth shattering, I suppose,” she replied in a voice considerably warmer. She sent a worried glance past Julia’s shoulder. “I trust Mrs. Raleigh is well? Several ladies noticed your trap at her cottage.”

But of course they would
, Julia thought, for there were few secrets in Gresham. With truthful evasiveness she replied, “Elizabeth was feeling a little out of sorts, so I urged her to stay home and rest.”

“I pray it’s nothing serious. And you gave her very astute advice. It’s always best to stay in when there is the possibility one may be carrying something contagious.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Mrs. Bartley took her arm. “And so now why don’t you go ahead and have some tea and cake so our meeting can begin?”

Having had two cups at the vicarage as well as a hearty breakfast, Julia declined politely, opting to call the meeting to order as soon as the others had served themselves. She crossed the room, exchanging greetings along the way, and took a place near the marble fireplace in which a low fire snapped in the grate to break the morning chill. When everyone’s attention was directed her way, she expressed appreciation to Mrs. Bartley for hostessing the meeting and led the group in prayer.

The Women’s Charity Society’s main concern was raising money to help provide food and other necessities for Gresham’s poor. But Saint Jude’s centuries-old pulpit had needed replacing for years, and just because it hadn’t actually crumbled apart when given a good pounding during a heated sermon, the diocese was dragging its collective feet in replacing it. Mrs. Derby, the cobbler’s wife, was first to raise her hand when Julia asked for suggestions.

“We could sew quilts and sell them.” That idea was swiftly and tactfully put to rest because of the time such a project would require—not to mention that several of the members, Julia included, had never sewn a stitch beyond needlepoint.

The most impractical suggestion came from Mrs. Bartley, yet it drew spirited applause—muffled by gloves. “We drag the pulpit out to the green and make a bonfire.”

“Mrs. Bartley,” Julia was compelled to respond while constraining a smile, “how would that help the matter?”

A coy smile curved under the elderly woman’s hawkish nose. “The diocese would have no choice but to give us a new one, now would they? They couldn’t very well expect Vicar Phelps to prop his prayer book and Bible on the floor.”

Again there was applause, with Mrs. Bartley soaking it up like the sponge cakes soaked up chocolate sauce. “Aye, but they jolly well might if we burnt our own pulpit,” Mrs. Sykes argued, as if she believed Mrs. Bartley actually intended to carry out her plan.

It was timid Mrs. Durwin who started everyone down the path toward a solution. “Why not sell sandwiches and lemonade on May Day?”

“That’s a fine idea!” Mrs. Sway, wife of the greengrocer, enthused. “We could ask the vicar to announce it in church. But would that raise enough money?”

“Why not have a pantomime too?” Mrs. Johnson suggested. “We could charge admission.”

“But May Day is less than a month away. Would we have time to arrange it?”

Mrs. Bartley got to her feet again. “Instead of a pantomime…”

She looked across at Fiona, who stared back at her with growing caution upon her oval-shaped face. “Why not real theatre! After all, one of our parishioners is a famous actor. And his one-man show two years ago was the talk of Gresham.”

The muffled claps were louder this time, intermingled with excited chatter. Intercepting Fiona’s panicked look, Julia raised a hand for attention.

“Ladies…” she said when silence finally arrived. “I must remind you that Mr. Clay is here for a much needed rest.”

Mrs. Bartley was the first to retract. She had once been Ambrose’s walking partner and felt great affection for the man. “That’s true,” she declared. Resuming her chair, she sent Fiona a look filled with regret. “I quite forgot myself.”

“It was a good idea, Mrs. Bartley,” Fiona replied calmly, smiling to show that she understood.

A moment or two of collective thoughtful silence had lapsed, when Mrs. Latrell had a suggestion. “We auctioned box lunches on May Days back in Faversham. You know, for the unmarried couples? Couldn’t we do that here as well?”

This plan was seized upon eagerly. Mrs. Bartley was nominated, seconded, and then voted unanimously to head the project. When the business part of the meeting was concluded, Julia slowly made her way over to Fiona. Every woman she passed complimented her on her husband’s sermon yesterday or asked about Elizabeth, and it would have been rude not to linger and chat for a minute.

“How is Ambrose?” Julia asked her friend when they finally had the opportunity for private conversation. She wasn’t quite sure when friendship between the Phelps and Clays had evolved into a first-name basis, but it seemed perfectly natural to her now.

Taking her hand, Fiona replied, “The same. Thank you for coming to his rescue. He insisted that I attend today.”

“I assumed as much. Your happiness is so important to him.”

“I would have been just as happy to stay with him.” She flashed a guilty glance to the nearest circle of chatting women. “Not that I’m not having a lovely time.”