The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (60 page)

“I thought that you might care to bring your students up the hill one day when the new school year begins. Children come up there occasionally to watch from a distance, but we can’t often take the time to explain what we are doing. But we could easily do so with a group.”

Why do you have to be so considerate, Mr. Pitney?
Lydia thought. “They would enjoy that. Thank you for suggesting it.”
And perhaps by then, the very sight of you won’t tear at my heart
. Because she knew what she had to do.
Just give me the strength to do it, Father
.

She looked at Jeanie, dozing contentedly on his knees, and thought of her father and mother, who felt they had to disappear soon after his arrival to keep from monopolizing his time. Mr. Pitney would be missed in the Clark cottage, and not just by her.

Closing the novelette, she handed it to him and said quietly, “I’m afraid this will have to be our last lesson, Mr. Pitney.”

Panic flooded his brown eyes. “But why, Miss Clark?”

“It just has to be,” was all she could explain.

“If it’s a matter of money…”

“Money has nothing to do with it, Mr. Pitney.” She was a little hurt that he would even think so. “And I’ll not accept payment for this lesson.”

His crestfallen expression almost caused her to reconsider.

“Why, Miss Clark?” he asked again.

Because I love you
, she thought before replying, “You’ve become just as adept at discerning the stories as I am. You just needed some confidence in yourself.”

He shook his head. “It’s you who gives me that confidence, Miss Clark. Just the thought of attempting it without you terrifies me.”

And what kind of love makes you terrified?
she wished she had the bluntness to ask. But she had already attempted to do so when she refused to teach him poetry, obviously to no avail.

Instead she told him, “You’ll do fine, Mr. Pitney. And I’ve just received some new textbooks I’ll need to read over and outline before the coming year, so my summer will be busier than I had planned.” There were actually only two new textbooks, but still, she hadn’t expected to receive them before fall and would indeed need to study them, so her answer was still truthful.

“I see. Of course.” Gently he moved Jeanie to the sofa between them, gave the animal a final stroke on the back, and stood. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Lydia allowed herself to be assisted to her feet. Mr. Pitney did not let go of her hand but held it and smiled, his eyes a mixture of sadness and warmth. “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Clark. I’ll try to have more confidence. But I do want to thank you for showing me how to get started. I could have never done this without you.”

I changed my mind! I was merely joking!
she resisted the impulse to say. Returning his smile, she said, “I wish you all the best, Mr. Pitney.”

“And I you, Miss Clark.” He let go of her hand, and they walked in silence to the front of the cottage. At the door he turned to ask, “You’ll still be bringing your students up to see us work next year, won’t you?”

“I will, thank you.”

He smiled sheepishly. “But of course, you will. Here I am acting as if we’ll never see each other again, but we still live in the same village, don’t we?”

“Yes, the same village,” she replied.
Just different worlds
.

Chapter 38

I’m trying very hard, Fiona
. Ambrose stared out his window at the darkened form of the Anwyl as the clock on his chimneypiece ticked the seconds of the night away. How he wished he could see clear across to Ireland! He was a fool to send her off without him! For he couldn’t imagine anything worse than the despondency that had tormented him for the past three days. Even having no privacy and sharing a bed with her brothers couldn’t be as miserable as this.

One more week, he told himself. Seven days. Why, she would soon be starting her journey home. A person could live through anything for seven days if he had something to look forward to at the end.
One can even live without sleeping
, he thought as the clock chimed the second hour of the morning.

Dear Lord Paxton,

I shall not be requiring your financial assistance, as I am keeping company with a gentleman whose name you would recognize immediately if I were to tell you. And I hope that Lady Paxton discovers what a scoundrel you are and divorces you.

Disdainfully NOT yours,
Noelle Somerville

Mrs. Ambrose Clay would be even better
, Noelle thought, flipping over her pillow again in an attempt to chase the sleep that had eluded her thus far. But she couldn’t realistically expect Mr. Clay to divorce his wife, no matter that she did go off to Ireland without him.

I would settle for a nice flat in Shrewsbury for now
, she thought, closing her eyes again. And then an apartment in London once the actor decided to return to the theatre. Wouldn’t she love to show up at
Gatti’s
on Mr. Clay’s arm! Why, Meara’s evil cat-eyes would bulge even more so than Quetin’s!

She thought of a good post-script for her imaginary letter to Quetin, which she had amended in her thoughts until her head was beginning to ache.

Your solicitor, Mr. Radley, boasted to me that he has been stealing from you.

That wasn’t true, but it was so gratifying to imagine Quetin’s reaction. And yet the frantic, shallow activity at which she kept her mind engaged could not drown out the insistent voice that seemed to come from deep within her.

You don’t want to do this. You’re sick and tired of feeling so dirty inside
.

“Yes, I do,” she muttered, raising herself enough to pound a dent into her uncooperative pillow with her fist. If Mr. Clay would show her the good times that Quetin used to and would shower her with money and distractions—if she could just live fast enough—she could drown out that voice. She had done it before, so it could be done again.

And what choice have you?
Noelle asked herself. But she had cause for worry that the dreams she was spinning would not come to pass, for a change had come over Mr. Clay only hours after Monday’s draughts match. The times he had shown up for meals, he had had the animation of a bowl of fruit. Was he simply suffering one of his dark moods, or was he feeling remorse for the plot he had hatched with the Bartleys? If so, it was a simple matter of getting them to withdraw the invitation.

If only he would give her some sign of his intentions. But the few times she had seen him, he had hardly looked at her. Was this because he had lost interest, or because he didn’t want their fellow lodgers to suspect anything?

She could hear the faint Westminster chimes of the clock in the library.
How can it be only three o’clock?
Her thoughts were no more settled than when she had first turned down her covers. With a groan of frustration she flung them back again, felt with her toes for her slippers, and lit the candle on her night table. She took her wrapper from where it lay across the bedpost and tied it over her nightgown. No one in Gresham could possibly be awake at this hour. She would sit out in the garden and allow the cool breezes to bathe her face. Perhaps they would soothe her tormented thoughts as well.

The candlelight threw her shadow grotesquely against the wall as she padded down the corridor. Save the ticking of clocks in the library, and then the hall, the house was as quiet as only stone walls could be. How she envied the others their sleep! To lie one’s head upon a pillow and simply fade into sweet dreams—when was the last time she had done so?

Halfway across the hall she paused.
The courtyard would be better
. She had no idea how long she would wish to sit outside, and in the back there was no chance of cheese wagons rumbling by before sunrise and disturbing her thoughts. That was reason enough to turn and head in the opposite direction, she told herself, and not because she would be able to see Mr. Clay’s apartment. Why in the world would that matter, when he was likely as sound asleep as the rest of Gresham?

The courtyard door was locked, but it was a simple matter of switching the candle holder to her left hand and raising the latch. As soon as Noelle had closed the heavy door quietly behind her, she turned and breathed in the night air. It smelled of impending rain and was indeed fresh upon her cheeks. She almost wished she could bring her pillow and bedclothes outside, for surely she could be lulled to sleep by these gentle breezes.

She walked softly over the flagged stones to sit on one of the benches. A breeze had snatched the flame from her candle, but with the stars visible through the branches of the oak tree, she had no need for it and set the holder down. That was when she noticed the light coming from a window of Mr. Clay’s apartment over the stables. Whether candle or lamp, she could not tell because of the curtains.
So he can’t sleep either
. Was he thinking of his wife? Or of her?

If only she could talk with him! She would explain how even though she planned to be at the squire’s luncheon, she had not set out to become a fallen woman in the beginning. It was simply that once she had stepped across a certain line, there was no going back. For some reason it was important that he understand.

She leaned back and stared at the stars for a while, feeling very small and insignificant. She wondered several minutes later why the light still burned in the window. Had the actor fallen asleep while reading? If so, it was certainly dangerous to keep a lamp burning like that. How could he fault her for showing up at his door with his well-being in mind? And if he took it upon himself to join her outside, perhaps he would rationalize away her guilt as Quetin had so skillfully done, and she would no longer despise herself.

She climbed the staircase on the side of the stables slowly and gave three light knocks upon his door. The door was opened shortly, and he stood there wearing a dressing gown in the glow of a lamp on a table several feet behind him. “Mrs. Somerville?”

“Your light, Mr. Clay,” she explained in an apologetic voice. “I was afraid you had fallen asleep.”

“Oh…that’s very kind of you. But I was awake.” Glancing out into the night behind her, and then at the wrapper she wore, he asked, “But why are you out here?”

“The same reason you are,” she shrugged. “Can’t sleep.”

In the shadow the lamp made of his face she could see a sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For both of us.”

His sympathy seemed so genuine, and he was treating her with such respect—not like a loose woman—that Noelle found herself saying, “I wonder if you would care to join me in the courtyard, Mr. Clay? The stars are quite beautiful.”

After sending an automatic glance skyward, he shook his head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Somerville. Why don’t you go on inside? You shouldn’t be outside alone this time of night.”

Impulsively Noelle said, “If you’re concerned about causing any rumors, there’s no one else awake.”

“Causing rumors? Why, no.” The door moved a little as he took a half-step backward. “Again, thank you for seeing about my light, Mrs. Somerville. You really should go on inside now.”

The formality that had overtaken his voice startled Noelle. And she knew she would be robbed of even more sleep if she didn’t end this confusion once and for all. “Mr. Clay, before I leave I would just like to know if you still plan to be there on Saturday.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She took a deep breath. “If you’ve changed your mind, I would appreciate being told. I can’t bear much more of this uncertainty.”

“Uncertainty about what?”

He’s just pretending not to remember
. But why? “Didn’t you arrange to…meet me at the squire’s?”

Mr. Clay stared at her for a couple of long, uncomfortable seconds before replying, “You are obviously mistaken, Mrs. Somerville. And I must bid you good night.”

Soon she was facing a closed door. Shame welling up within her as tears welled up in her eyes, she descended the staircase and walked out around the north wing of the
Larkspur
until she met Market Lane. Patches of starry sky between the overhanging branches provided just enough illumination to paint the cobbled stones a ghostly gray as she continued down the lane. The sound and smell of moving water met her ears long before she reached the Bryce. She stood on the bridge and stared down into the dark river, wishing she were much higher up so that she could jump and put an end to the pain. As it was, she would just wash up into someone’s pasture down river, wet and cold and even more wretched.