The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (58 page)

Having learned firsthand, and through the experiences of her friends, the intrigue necessary for a relationship with a married man, she became suspicious that Mr. Clay had a part in this. He certainly couldn’t express any romantic interest in her here at the
Larkspur
with so many people underfoot. Perhaps these Bartleys were his best friends, whom he could trust with any secret.

The more Noelle convinced herself, the more tumultuous her thoughts became. She had hated Averyl Paxton for two years, but now she was experiencing how cold-hearted and ruthless Quetin could be. Was it possible that he was at least partly responsible for the sad state of their marriage? He had led her to believe his wife was a cold, demanding woman who cared only for her daughters. What if, instead, she loved him intensely and was hurt by his infidelities? He had complained of her lack of physical beauty, yet no one had forced him to marry her. Could the reason have been the same money he now claimed she held over his head so that he would do her bidding?

Noelle’s thoughts turned inward. Though she had had a longtime affair with a married man, she had held herself much higher on the social scale than the common women who lurked about on certain London streets—sometimes even in broad daylight. Being kept by one man was not the same as being kept by many. But by going from one married man to a second, would the gap between her and those haunted women not be quite so vast? And when the second man tired of her, and all prospects of a decent marriage were lost, would she have to seek the arms of a third, and then a fourth?

And then what? She was already finding faint little lines at the corners of her eyes, no doubt from weeping long nights over Quetin. How much longer would she be beautiful and desirable to men?

I’m so sick of this!

The intensity of the thought startled her. But her sudden revulsion for the path she had chosen in life was at odds with a more compelling force—the terrible, relentless, soul-aching loneliness. And she knew she would be at the squire’s luncheon.

“Dale! Papa says it’s time to get up!” Harold said for the second time, leaning on one elbow on the featherbed they shared and shaking his brother roughly by the shoulder.

“Mmmph,” came from the blond head buried in the pillow.

“Come on now. You don’t want to start the day by gettin’ him all riled up! You should’ha known better than to stay out all night anyway.” He had been asleep when Dale slipped into bed, but then, Myddle was almost an hour away by horse, even longer in the dark of night.

“Mmm?”

That was all Harold could take. Flinging back the covers, he hopped out of bed and took his trousers from the back of the chair and pulled them on over his linens. “Serve you right if Papa puts an end to your courtin’!”

Finally Dale raised his head from the pillow and muttered, “All right. You ain’t got to go on and on about it.”

“Then just lay there all—” Harold began while buttoning his shirt but then bit off his sentence in midair. For the left side of his brother’s bleary-eyed face wore an angry red scratch from cheekbone to jaw. Stepping closer, Harold asked, “What happened to you?”

Dale grinned, pushed back the covers, and sat up. “I had to break up a fight between Lucy and Dorene, and got in the way of a fingernail.”

“You did? Who’s Dorene?”

“Lucy’s friend. Or at least she was ’til the fight.”

Harold was stunned. Dale had courted some rough women in the past, but he had never heard of any carrying on like men. “Why were they fighting?” he asked.

After a wide yawn that showed all his crocked teeth, Dale snickered. “Because I were talkin’ to Dorene, and Lucy thought we was being a little too friendly.”

That made Harold suspicious. “All you were doin’ was talking?”

“That’s all.”

“I can’t see the harm in talking.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a man, and we have a mite more sense than women. Women get jealous at the drop of a hat.”

“Well, are Lucy and you finished?”

“Finished?” Dale gave another snicker as he looked around on the floor for his trousers. “Lucy’s wantin’ me to marry her now. It’s the jealousy that does it, see? Makes ’em scared of losing you.”

Harold was so busy digesting this bit of information at the breakfast table—along with his eggs and sausage and bread—that he didn’t notice Mrs. Winters had spoken until Oram elbowed him.

“Uh-what?” he said, blinking up at where the cook stood behind Fernie’s chair.

She crossed her beefy arms and gave him a thunderous look. Her good mood over getting the worktable had lasted about as long as one of Dale’s sober spells. “I said, eat them crusts.”

“But they’re burnt.”

“They’re just a bit sooty, that’s all. I don’t work my fingers to the bone so’s you can toss out good bread.”

When Fernie snickered, she cuffed him on one ear. “And you—don’t lick your fingers at the table! You wasn’t reared in a barn, was you?”

“No, ma’am.”

Harold picked up a crust of bread. He had learned not to appeal to Papa, who was heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his tea at the head of the table, so he sopped the crusts in his egg yolk and ate them. At least the yolks weren’t runny anymore, so he expected the worktable was good for something.

“My plan is to fill my days with as much activity as possible,” Ambrose Clay told Julia and Andrew in the vicarage parlor on Saturday afternoon after a simple but hearty meal of fish chowder and crusty brown bread. “The fortnight will drag on forever if I spend it moping in the apartment.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” agreed Julia from the sofa while handing the cup she had just poured over the tea table. The children had resumed their own activities—Philip, fishing the Bryce with Jeremiah and Ben; Laurel and Aleda, helping to compose a play at Helen Johnson’s; and Grace, entertaining little Connie Jefferies and their dolls in the garden.

“It was Fiona’s idea, actually. She made Mr. Durwin promise to challenge me to as many draughts matches as I could stand.”

“And you’re to come here for supper on Monday and Wednesday, remember?” Andrew asked as he took his cup and saucer from Julia’s hands. “The following week as well.”

“You don’t have to coddle me like a colicky child, you know,” Ambrose said. “I’ll manage just fine.”

“But of course you will,” Julia assured him. “We would still enjoy your company.”

With a nod, Andrew added, “Some people save up a week’s wages just to see you, Ambrose. All we have to do is put a little chowder and bread before you.”

“How can I refuse such gracious invitations? Between you and the Bartleys and Mrs. Herrick, I should expect to put on a stoneweight before Fiona returns.”

“I’m surprised Mrs. Bartley hasn’t talked you into moving out to the manor house so she can mother you every day,” Julia told him while her teaspoon clinked delicately against the side of her own cup as she stirred in the sugar.

“Actually, she did suggest that yesterday—four times, I believe.”

Andrew smiled. “Life would be dull around Gresham without our dear Mrs. Bartley.”

“I’ll say. And she has a new matchmaking project. I had to deliver an invitation yesterday so she could get a certain couple together for lunch. Care to guess who they are?”

“Paul Treves and Mrs. Somerville?” Andrew ventured as he rolled his eyes.

“Very good!” Sitting back against the chair cushions, the actor took a thoughtful sip of his tea. “They would make an attractive couple, don’t you think?”

“Et tu Brute!”
groaned Andrew.

“Well, you have to admit they’re both lonely. I have to confess I was unfairly harsh in my judgment of Mrs. Somerville at first, but she seems a decent woman. And a vicar’s daughter…what better choice for a young minister?”

“Andrew still has nightmares about the way his mother tried to marry him off,” Julia explained.

“Nightmares,” her husband agreed dolefully.

“And which one of those women did you marry?” Ambrose asked with raised eyebrows.

Andrew tilted his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “Marry? Why, none.”

“Then, just because your mother paraded the lot in front of you didn’t mean you were forced to marry one. Mrs. Bartley isn’t going to wrap the two of them in chains and drag them to the altar, you know.”

“You
are
referring to our Mrs. Bartley, aren’t you? She’s perfectly capable of doing just such a thing.”

“But being that you’re the vicar,” Julia told him, “you could simply refuse to marry them in that case.”

“Refuse to marry whom, Mother?” came Grace’s voice from the doorway as the girl walked into the room with little Connie Jefferies trailing shyly behind.

Sending mirthful glances to the two men, Julia shook her head. “No one, Grace. We’re just being silly.”

“Oh.” The girl’s sober expression did not change. “May we have some biscuits for a tea party outside?”

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Paget. But don’t trouble her if she’s still having her lunch.”

“Yes, Mother.”

When the girls had left the room, Mr. Clay said, “I can assure you both of one thing…your daughters will have no lack of suitors knocking at your door one day.”

A sad smile touched Andrew’s lips. “The time may come sooner than we’re prepared for it. Ben Mayhew has passed Laurel a couple of notes.”

“Indeed?
Our
little Laurel?”

“I’m afraid so.” Narrowing his eyes, Andrew took on a mock, threatening manner, “So if Mrs. Bartley ever asks you to deliver a luncheon invitation to
her
…”

Chapter 37

On Sunday morning, Harold told Jack and Edgar that he would be using the horses. “But we need them to get to church,” they whined.

“You can stand out front and fetch a ride with Mercy and Seth.”

They went to their papa to complain, but the only good thing about being the eldest was that Harold usually got his way when it came to disagreements with his brothers. He made Oram hitch Bob and Dan to the wagon while he put on his good suit and combed some
Sir Lancelot’s Fine Grooming Pomade for Distinguished Gentlemen
into his hair. Upon reaching Saint Jude’s, he tethered the horses to a post outside the town hall, where Miss Clark would be sure to see them. Then he walked around the corner of the building and waited. Presently the green was filled with worshipers. Upon seeing a familiar figure wearing a blue dress, he raked his fingers through his hair and slipped from his hiding place.

“Mrs. Meeks?” he called, coming up behind her.

She turned and smiled. “Why, Mr. Sanders. How good to see you again.”

“Thank you. It’s good to see you too.”

Trudy, smiling happily, lunged toward him, but Mrs. Meeks caught her shoulder. “Don’t, Trudy.”

“Aw, I don’t mind,” Harold said.

“But I’m trying to teach her to be a lady. It’s naught against you, Mr. Sanders. You understand, don’t you?”

He didn’t. “A lady? But she’s just a girl.”

“We mold the clay before it’s set, Mr. Sanders.”

That he did understand, and he was a little surprised at himself for doing so. If Trudy, who likely threw herself at him because she didn’t have a father, didn’t learn to stop while she was young, who knew what trouble it could get her into later? “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “That makes sense to me.”