The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (61 page)

She lowered herself to the cool stones and huddled in a little ball. If the cheese wagons began moving this early, they could run over her and good riddance. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping from her jaw to the bodice of her wrapper. She had to wipe her nose with her sleeve several times. Her throat was one raw ache. Still worse was the terrible, frightening feeling of having laughed in the face of God too many times. How could He bear to look at her? Was His back turned to her now?

“I’m so sorry,” she blubbered over and over between the moans that racked her body. “Please don’t leave me alone!”

Rain was softly pelting his windowpanes when Ambrose became aware of the pounding on the door. His most immediate impulse was annoyance, but then he thought that surely Mrs. Somerville wouldn’t be foolish enough to return. Swinging his legs from under the covers, he padded barefoot into the parlor and became aware that he was still wearing his wrinkled dressing gown over his nightshirt.

“Yes?” he said at the door.

“Mr. Clay?”

He recognized the voice and opened the door an inch. Georgette stood there underneath a dripping umbrella. “Yes, Georgette?”

“Mrs. Beemish asks if you’ll be wanting lunch brought up, Mr. Clay.”

“You mean I slept through breakfast?”

“Lunch too. We wasn’t sure if you were having it out somewhere or not.”

He blinked to clear away the cobwebs in his mind and couldn’t recall being invited anywhere for lunch today. Which was good, because he would have been late. And as he hadn’t shown up for supper last night, he was suddenly ravenous.

“Is there anything left?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I bring you up a tray?”

He started to agree and then shook his head. No sense in putting an extra burden on everyone else, especially in the rain, just because he wasn’t functioning very well. “Have the servants had their lunch yet?”

“We’re just about to.”

“Then I’ll be down shortly, if you’ll ask Mrs. Herrick to set another plate in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen, sir?”

Ambrose smiled, in spite of the cloud that still hovered over him. “You don’t think I’m going to sit in the dining room alone, do you? And please do tell everyone to start without me if I’m not down yet.”

When she was gone, he shrugged out of his nightclothes and bathed and dressed quickly. He would have to wait until tonight to shave. As he stepped out onto the rain-dimpled landing with his umbrella, he recalled how Mrs. Somerville had looked standing there in the darkness just hours ago.
You shouldn’t have played draughts with her
, he told himself, for a vague uneasiness had come over him during their second game on Monday past. There was something about the way she looked across at him, her eyes wide with interest while he talked on and on about the theatre.

Fiona was the love of his life, but Mrs. Somerville was beautiful too—and
not
in Ireland. The attention had been flattering. So much so, that when he realized how the atmosphere of the room had changed, he made the excuse to stop after the second game. He had even encouraged her to attend the Bartleys’ luncheon, just to make it obvious that he had no romantic interest in her. He tried to recall his exact words and couldn’t. Had she assumed he was arranging an assignation between them?

How can I face her?
he thought. She had been terribly wrong to turn up at his door, but being almost twice her age, he had to share the guilt. It was unwise to engage in even an innocent activity with an attractive woman other than his wife. Especially with no one else in the hall. Having spent most of his life among actors, he was well aware that most illicit affairs began innocently enough, with shared banter and laughter. How could he have forgotten?

The kitchen was warm, filled with the savory aromas of cottage pie, sausages, pickled beets, and pease pudding. His protests went unheeded by Mr. Herrick, as he was given the chair at the head of the table where the caretaker usually sat on a high stool.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he scolded, spooning pease pudding onto his plate after Mr. Herrick had prayed over the meal.

“Ah, but we didn’t mind, Mr. Clay,” Mrs. Herrick declared with a merry smile. “But we’ve all decided you’ll have to pay penance.”

The spoon held over his plate, Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Penance, Mrs. Herrick? I didn’t think that was part of your Baptist doctrine.”

“Aye, but it’s the doctrine of the kitchen. We voted that you should have to sing for your supper.”

“Lunch, you mean,” a grinning Mildred reminded her above the chorus of agreement from parlormaids, chambermaids, and kitchen maids.

“I’m sorry, but I’m just not up to singing,” Ambrose replied, shaking his head. “And as we’re all aware that good Christian people like yourselves won’t allow me go hungry anyway…”

“A poem then?” chambermaid Ruth suggested.

“Please?” asked Georgette.

“And none o’ that Shakespeare,” Gertie, the scullery maid, told him with wrinkled nose. “He don’t talk like regular folk, and I canno’ understand half the words.”

Again the others pleaded. Finally Ambrose held up both hands in surrender. “Very well,” he said, sighing inwardly.
Can’t a man be despondent in peace?
“A short one.”

They gave him considerate silence as he inventoried the nonsense verses stored in his mind over the years, which were likely crowding out all common sense. When an appropriate one presented itself, he said, “I learned this one as a child, about stolen pie.”

As Charles his sisters sat between,
An Apple Pie was brought;
Slyly to get a piece unseen,
The little fellow thought.

Smiling faces flanked both sides of the table, making him grateful he had turned down the offer of a tray and solitude. He winked at a delighted Gertie and managed to give the next stanza a little more animation.

A piece from off Sophia’s plate
Into his mouth he flung;
But, ah! Repentance came too late,
It burn’d his little tongue!

They coaxed him on through three more poems, so by the time he had entertained such an appreciative audience and filled his stomach, his spirits were lighter than when he had gotten out of bed. While his condition was not so simple as could be cured with jests and laughter, the scripture was indeed true that a merry heart was good medicine.

In fact, he almost convinced himself to forget about Mrs. Somerville’s early morning visit. She was likely embarrassed and would steer clear of his path from now on.
No, that won’t do
, he told himself right away. They lived in the same lodging house and took meals at the same table. It was no good pretending it hadn’t happened. And he suspected strongly that his earlier impressions that she had ill feelings toward Fiona were accurate. But speaking with Mrs. Somerville privately—about
anything
—was out of the question. He needed the counsel of his closest friends, next to Fiona.
Please let them be home
, he prayed.

Chapter 39

“This is a very grave situation, Ambrose,” Andrew told the actor from one of the wooden chairs he had moved to the front of his desk. At Julia’s suggestion, the three held their conference in Andrew’s study, for the children understood that the closed door—combined with a caller—meant no disturbing unless an emergency presented itself.

“Grave indeed,” Julia nodded. But she was unable to surrender her disbelief completely. Not that Ambrose’s word wasn’t solid gold, but he had admitted staying up until the wee hours. Could he have fallen asleep and imagined the whole thing?

She recalled the young woman who sat with her in the dentist’s parlor, reassuring her that Andrew would be all right. And had she uncomplainingly endured his weight on her shoulder during the long bumpy ride home. With an apologetic look at their friend, she said, “Forgive me, Ambrose. But could you have mistaken her intent? I myself would knock on a man’s door that time of night if I thought there was danger of fire.”

He ran his hand through his dark hair. “At first I believed she was just concerned for my safety.” With a look of discomfort, he added, “And you might as well know I paid her some attention Monday afternoon. Innocently I thought, but I had no business doing so. So the fault isn’t entirely hers.”

“But you didn’t show up at her door in nightclothes,” Andrew told him.

“She’ll have to leave,” Julia said reluctantly. “As soon as possible.”

Andrew nodded. “I agree.”

His brow drawn, Ambrose said, “Surely if you would speak with her…”

“We can’t have someone behaving that way under the
Larkspur
’s roof, Ambrose,” Julia reminded him. “Mrs. Somerville won’t be thrown out into the streets. There are other lodging houses in England. And she has family.”

A soft knock sounded, and then Dora’s voice. “Vicar?”

“Come in, Dora,” Andrew said.

The door opened and the maid slipped inside. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Mrs. Somerville is in the vestibule in an awful state. I told her you and the missus was in here with Mr. Clay, and she begs to be allowed in.”

The three exchanged glances. “Should I leave?” asked Ambrose.

“I think you should stay,” Andrew told him. “That way if she contradicts your story, she’ll be forced to do so to your face.” He turned to Julia. “What do you think?”

“The same, I’m afraid. Will you speak with her, Andrew?” While this had taken place at the
Larkspur
, Andrew was vicar of Gresham, and these were members of his congregation.

“If you wish,” he replied, standing. He asked Dora to show Mrs. Somerville in, then went for another chair.

Left alone with Ambrose, Julia watched him frown down at the fingertips he tapped together nervously upon one knee. “We have complete faith in your integrity, Ambrose,” she felt compelled to say.

“This would never have happened if I had kept my distance, Julia. And if I hadn’t mentioned that luncheon again! I thought it would be amusing to help the Bartleys get them together.”

Julia gave him a sad smile. “
Now
I understand Andrew’s feelings about matchmaking.”

Following the maid through the cottage with a thick wool shawl wrapped around her rain-soaked poplin gown, Noelle was still embarrassed that the vicar’s son, Philip, had answered her knock at the door. At least the boy had had the presence of mind not to show alarm at her appearance, but calmly asked her to wait in the vestibule, returning two minutes later with the maid and shawl.

The two seconds between the time the maid knocked upon a door and Vicar Phelps opened it seemed like hours. “Come in, Mrs. Somerville,” he said cordially, though his expression was somber. As she walked through the doorway, he asked if she would care for tea, but she shook her head. Mrs. Phelps and Mr. Clay were seated in chairs in front of the desk, and two empty chairs faced them. Noelle was surprised when the actor paid her the courtesy of getting to his feet until she was seated across from Mrs. Phelps, when she had no doubt he would rather strike her.

“Are you warm enough, Mrs. Somerville?” Mrs. Phelps asked. “We could light the stove.”

That simple consideration caused Noelle a struggle to keep from throwing herself at their feet and sobbing out her utter wretchedness. But she had played the child for too long, surrendering to every impulse. The same inner voice that had urged her to be honest with Vicar Treves had returned to insist it was time to face the consequences of her folly like an adult.