The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (52 page)

By the time he reached the
Larkspur
’s courtyard door, he had realized that he held no resentment toward Miss Clark. Indeed, he appreciated her frankness and that she had even called him decent and kind. But he was embarrassed that he had even mentioned the poetry, for the notion now seemed foolish.

Not foolish enough to deter his plan, however. There was one thing Miss Clark didn’t understand—how the happiness he felt when Eugenia looked at him with approval was worth any amount of trouble.

Harold spent all Wednesday morning waiting for a chance to slip away to the horse farm at the end of the lane, but his papa seemed determined to watch his every move. And it was Dale’s fault, for he had snipped most of Mrs. Winter’s sweetbrier roses on Saturday past to bring to his girl in Myddle. The cook was so furious upon making the discovery that she threatened to pack up and leave, until Harold’s father had had to promise to build her that worktable.

But Harold couldn’t hold too much of a grudge against Dale, for the meals had suddenly taken a turn for the better. At lunch, Harold barely dared look at the head of the table for fear some new chore would be laid upon his back. With the archery practices at an end and school almost over, he needed advice in the worst way.

“Harold,” Papa grunted around a mouthful of buttered rhubarb.

Harold held his breath.

“Nip over to Seth’s and borrow his bench claw when you finish. We need to get started on thet table.”

Letting out his breath again, Harold nodded. “That’s a right good idea, Papa.”

“Aye, and you’ll be sure to make it so’s the legs is even,” Mrs. Winters called out from the stove. Another good thing about her and Papa settling their differences was that she had stopped pounding bread dough and chopping onions at the table during meals. “I can’t abide a table what rocks to and fro.”

“You’d best get his level too,” Papa said with a weary expression.

Harold hurried through his lunch and took off on foot. He walked through the Langford cottage calling his sister’s name, but no one answered. Just in case, he decided to check the stables, and there he found Seth using a hoof hook on the hoof of a yellow Cleveland bay about sixteen hands high.

“Afternoon, Harold,” his brother-in-law greeted, looking up for a second.

“Where’s Mercy and Amanda?” Harold asked, for Thomas would be at school.

“Shopping in Shrewsbury with Mrs. Bartley.”

It didn’t seem fitting that his sister would run off with the squire’s wife and leave her husband to starve. “Well, what about your lunch?”

Seth looked up again. “She left me some sandwiches. Women need to do things with other women sometimes, Harold.”

He shrugged. “That a new horse you got there?”

“Bought her yesterday from a fellow in Whixall who wanted to sell off his stock. I’ve put the word to Mr. Trumble that we’re looking for a couple of stable hands, if you know anybody interested.”

Harold was interested himself. If he had to break his back working, it might as well be for wages. But he knew what his papa would say to that, which was another reason he had to get his own place. He sure envied Seth Langford’s freedom to run his farm according to his own wishes.

“You’ll make a good profit?”

“A decent one,” Seth replied, still working on the hoof.

“That’s good.” Running his hand along the animal’s velvet flank, Harold asked impulsively, “If I ever marry and get my own place, will you sell me a team cheap?”

His brother-in-law sent him an understanding smile. “I’ll give you a team as a wedding gift. How about that?”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Why would you do that?” he had to ask, considering how hateful he and his papa and brothers had been to Seth before he married Mercy.

“Because you’re family, Harold,” Seth replied, back to work at the horse’s hoof. “Families don’t profit from each other.”

Harold was touched, and searched for the words to tell him so. When they wouldn’t come, he simply said, “That’s right decent of you, Seth.”

“You’re welcome.”

He remembered then that Papa was waiting and got to the most important reason for his visit. “I tried what you said about being distant with Miss Clark. It didn’t work.”

“Then I expect you should give up.”

That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Don’t you have any other ideas?”

Letting down the hoof again, Seth hung the hook on a nail. “Why do you even ask, when you ignore the most important advice we’ve given you?”

Harold winced. “You ain’t gonter go on about church again, are you?”

“Nope.” Seth unlatched the stall door and slapped the horse’s flank, sending it into the paddock where several others were gathered. “I’d just as soon waste my breath talking to a hitching post.”

“Now, that ain’t a nice thing to say, Seth.”

Turning to him, his brother-in-law crossed his arms across his thick chest. “Harold, I’ve work to do, as you can see. So I’m going to say this just once. If you aren’t willing to endure an hour of church every week for Miss Clark, maybe you had better ask yourself if your feelings for her are genuine.”

“Genu…”

“If they’re real, Harold. And if they’re not, you’d be doing yourself a favor by forgetting about her.”

Though he was fuming inside, Harold couldn’t bring himself to stand his ground. Not after what Seth had said about giving him a team of horses. “Got to get back home,” he mumbled with a halfhearted wave of the hand. He had gotten halfway before remembering the tools. By the time he reached home and had to endure his papa’s swearing fit for taking so long, he was in such a foul mood that his teeth began to ache from the grinding.

It was during the afternoon milking that Harold’s temper finally took a turn for the better. He sat on a stool beside Juneberry, who delighted in whipping her tail back to slap his face, and recalled the many times he had happened to be in the vicinity of Saint Jude’s just as Sunday morning services let out. Folks milled around the grounds visiting afterward—dozens and dozens of them. If he happened to be there too, dressed in his new tweed coat and checkered trousers, who was to know that he hadn’t been in church?

Just then Juneberry let fly with her tail again, but it didn’t wipe the grin from Harold’s face.

Should I?
Paul Treves asked himself again as his train left Birmingham Station on Thursday morning. Sunday activities and his scheduled visit home the next day had prevented him from seeing how Mrs. Somerville was faring. But he was glad for the hindrances, for he needed some time to think. Had he not realized at the archery tournament how much he enjoyed her company, he would have had no inner struggle. It would be a simple matter of paying a courtesy call.

The fact that he and she were both eligible, however, complicated matters. For a visit, combined with the fact that he rather liked her, could be the first step on the road to a courtship. Providing she showed some sign of interest in him, of course. And he believed even that first step should not be taken lightly, for the road ended in marriage. The farther down it a person walked, the more difficult it was to turn aside—or the more painful it was when the other person chose to do so, as had been the case for him with Elizabeth.

He had prayed for direction for the past four days, but with no clear answer. That evening as he readied himself for bed, his prayer changed. If for some reason God chose not to reveal His wishes in this, Paul could accept that. God saw the entire picture—even how the picture would alter in years to come, and sometimes silence was His instrument.
But, Father, if Mrs. Somerville would be adverse to my calling on her now and then, please have her give me some sign
.

He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, and he surely didn’t want her having to endure his company only for the sake of politeness.

On Friday, Julia and Andrew joined the squire and Mrs. Bartley for lunch in the manor house garden. They sat at a wrought-iron table, surrounded by a kaleidoscopic mixture of blue delphiniums, scarlet Oriental poppies, mauve and white foxgloves, and golden feverfew, as they feasted on an excellent
Filet de Porcelet aux Pois Nouveaux
, along with herbed cucumber-and-tomato salad.

“Well, I don’t see what you have to worry about,” Mrs. Bartley was saying as she refilled Andrew’s teacup. She waved away a curious bee, causing the gold bracelet on her wrist to flash with reflected sunlight. “Ben Mayhew is a fine young man.”

“He’s a dear boy,” Julia agreed. “And if God means for them to be together, we’ll accept that. But he has such ambitious plans for his career. We hate the thought of having Laurel move away.”

“Perhaps he’ll live in Shrewsbury,” the squire said by way of consolation, his hatless head shining almost as much as his wife’s bracelet. A pat of butter had melted and formed a little pool in the center of his porridge. Unfortunately, his stomach could not abide the rich foods that he was proud to serve at his table. “That’s not so far.”

Andrew shrugged. “I would settle for that. But I fear Shrewsbury isn’t what he has in mind.”

“You have to consider that the church could very well move
you
one day.” Mrs. Bartley’s pause to press her lips together evidenced that she did not care for this possibility. “And once the children are settled with families, it would be almost impossible to uproot them.”

That faint possibility Andrew did not care to dwell upon. He had found his paradise-on-earth. And for the time being, all of his ducklings were happily in the nest.
You’re borrowing trouble anyway
, he told himself, echoing Julia’s admonition last night. So what if Ben Mayhew had given Laurel another note…had Andrew himself not attended an all-boys’ school, perhaps he would have been a notorious note-passer.

But the thought of Laurel’s interests growing beyond dolls and storybooks was depressing. He had already blinked once and found Elizabeth grown up. How did one stop time?

His eyes met Julia’s across the table.
Are you all right?
was the message in hers.

He smiled back and gave a slight nod. While his mind searched for another subject, Mrs. Bartley obliged him unwittingly by saying, “Speaking of romance, have you heard about Vicar Treves carrying your Mrs. Somerville in his arms at the tournament?”

Of course they had heard. Who in Gresham had not? Even Mrs. Somerville’s understandable absence from church on Sunday past had sparked rumors that she was attending Saint Luke’s in Lockwood. Andrew knew this not to be the case, for when he and Julia called upon the young woman on Monday, she was having to walk with a cane. “She injured her knee,” Andrew reminded the good woman, a little alarmed at the pleased glint in her blue eyes.