The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (70 page)

She had just cut out a row of green rectangles when the door opened and Quetin Paxton walked in. He wore a suit of fawn-colored cashmere and carried a silver-tipped ebony cane in one of his gloved hands. Stopping halfway across to her desk, he removed his silk hat. “So…it’s true. My little rattlebrain has joined the proletariat!”

“Quetin?” Noelle gasped when she found her voice.

“Hello, Noelle.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“A housemaid at that inn where you’ve been staying was obliging enough to tell me. I’m here to take you home, Noelle.”

But I’m already home
. However she could not stop herself from asking, “What happened to Meara?”

He did not even bother to deny his association with her or to appear surprised that Noelle knew about it. “I got tired of her lifting money from me every time my back was turned.” A rakish grin came to his face. “I’ve your jewelry in the strongbox of the coach. And if we hurry, we can just catch the eleven o’clock to London.”

“I’m happy here,” she told him flatly, setting down the scissors lest her shaking hands cause herself injury.

“Yes? Well, I have to take a little trip to Paris next week. I hate the thought of traveling alone.”

“Paris?”

Making a sweeping gesture with his cane, he said, “But if you’re happy here…”

Here
, she thought, surveying the aged room around her. For the privilege of lodging with servants, she sat in a hut and cut bits of colored paper for dairymen and factory workers who did not understand how to take care of other people’s property. What insanity had caused her to think she was happy?

“I’m even considering getting you a larger flat.”

His smile was smug—he knew that he had won. And so did Noelle, for she pushed out her chair. He did not move but waited for her to come around the desk to him. There was security in the arms that embraced her, and she relished in it.

“We must hurry,” he said after they kissed.

She went with him out to the waiting hired coach, not asking about her belongings. They could be sent for later—she didn’t want to face anyone at the
Larkspur
. In fact, as the team of four horses carried them past the inn, she kept her eyes fixed on Quetin’s face so that she would not see it. He draped an arm around her shoulders and kept her mind occupied with witty gossip about mutual acquaintances in London. Incidentally he announced that Averyl had decided to move back to the country.

There was a time when such news would have delighted her, but she felt a strange dearth of emotion over it. When they reached the outskirts of Shrewsbury, she became aware of a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. She attributed it to the bumpiness of the road and paid closer attention to Quetin’s narrative. By the time they reached the railway station, waves of nausea were rolling through her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked when she hesitated taking the hand he held out to assist her from the coach.

“I just need to walk a bit,” she replied.

“Very well. The train is unloading now anyway.”

But she felt even worse as they walked on the platform, his arm around her waist to support her while she leaned against his shoulder. She had only been able to shut God and her friends—her only true friends—out of her mind for so long. All she could think about was how hurt they would be when they discovered she had betrayed their trust.

“We can board now,” Quetin told her as a sharp whistle pierced the air.

She wound herself out of his embrace and turned to look at him. Had she never noticed the shadows and lines under his self-satisfied eyes? “No.”

Quirking an eyebrow, he said, “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going with you.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but then closed it and shrugged. “Very well.”

Without looking back he walked toward a first-class compartment. He paused at the door, his stance telling Noelle he was expecting her to reconsider and join him any second.
You poor miserable man
, she thought. Just then she felt a touch upon her shoulder.

“Miss Somerville?”

Noelle turned and gaped at the startled face of Miss Rawlins. It was all she could do to keep from wrapping her arms around her. “Miss Rawlins! I’m so glad to see you!”

“Thank you,” the writer replied, her gray eyes bemused behind the spectacles. “What are you doing here?”

“Wishing I were still at my desk.”
Please, Father, don’t let me have ruined everything!
What would the Bartleys think about her abandoning her post? She remembered then that Miss Rawlins had been in London for most of the week. Noelle’s knees went weak with relief. “Are you on your way back to Gresham?”

“Why, yes. Mr. Herrick should be waiting for me. Would you care for a ride?”

“Yes, please!” Noelle told her. Perhaps if she showed up well before the close of day, the Bartleys would forgive her this time. Linking arms with the writer, she did not look again at the train carrying Quetin back to London.

Chapter 44

The leather sheath encompassing the blade had blackened and hardened, and Jacob knew he should not attempt to pull the dagger from it. But for the whole two hours that he worked to get it from the ground intact, an indescribable confidence had overtaken him. He wasn’t sure how he knew this would be a significant find—he just knew.

“What have you there?” Mr. Ellis asked, walking toward him from the north side of the depression, about twenty feet away.

Jacob held it aloft. “A dagger.”

“It must be quite a find. Your face is glowing.”

“I think this is it.”

“You do?” The older man’s steps quickened. When he reached Jacob, he stared with an awed expression at the weapon in his hand. Almost reverently he asked, “May I hold it?”

“Of course.”

Mr. Ellis cradled it in the crook of one arm as if it were an infant. With his index finger he wiped away some of the dirt dulling one of several gemstones fixed into the gold handle. “It appears more ceremonial than practical, doesn’t it?”

“I wish we could pull it from the case. If it’s ceremonial there ought to be an inscription on the blade.”

A glint came to Mr. Ellis’s eyes but then disappeared. “You know that’s not procedure.”

“I know,” Jacob told him, frowning. “I just hate the thought of having to wait weeks to find out.”

“
And
allowing some museum archeologist, who hasn’t gotten dirt under his fingernails for years, the first peek at it,” Mr. Ellis added with a grim nod.

“Aren’t there times when we’re allowed to break procedure?”

“Only when the senior associate deems it necessary. But I’ve never found it necessary to break procedure.”

“Never?”

“Not in all my thirty-five years of field study.”

Jacob sighed. He had lived his life trying to abide by the rules set before him. Just for once he wished he could be reckless and even defiant. “I suppose you’re ri—”

“So I declare it’s long overdue, don’t you?” Mr. Ellis cut in with an almost wild expression. Before Jacob could speak, the elderly man grabbed the dagger by the handle. There was a crackling sound, and then the golden blade glinted in the sunlight. A hush fell over the two as they put their heads together. Latin words were indeed etched into the metal.

“You’ll have to read them, Mr. Pitney,” the older man said, handing it over.

Holding his breath, Jacob studied the inscription. He then looked up at Mr. Ellis and smiled. “It was a gift from Vespasian.” Which enhanced the value of the find, for Vespasian was Emperor of Rome from
A.D.
69 to 79, including the four years Cerealis served as Governor of Britain.

“You say! Incredible! But to whom?”

“Would you care to guess?”

Mr. Ellis put a hand up to his chest. “General Cerealis?”

“General Cerealis,” Jacob echoed with a grin.

Letting out a whoop of joy, the older man pounded him on the arm. “I’ve hoped all my life for a find like this! Just wait until my wife hears—”

But the older man then froze and looked at him with a crestfallen expression. “Oh. Forgive me, Mr. Pitney. The credit will go to you, of course.”

Jacob shook his head. “To
us
, Mr. Ellis.”

“But you pulled it from the ground.”

“And you pulled it from its sheath. We started this together. It could have just as easily been you working this particular spot.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“I insist upon it.”

Mr. Ellis smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Pitney. We’ve made quite a team, haven’t we?”

“Absolutely.” Glancing toward the east, in which direction the town lay, Jacob said, “You know, we should put this away at once. Don’t you think?”

“I do indeed.” The older man’s smile grew wider. “And I suspect you can’t wait to show a particular young woman.”

Again Jacob felt his face flush. But he grinned sheepishly and said, “I’ll hurry.”

“Take your time, Mr. Pitney. I suspect I’ll be singing for joy once you’re out of earshot.”

With a laugh Jacob replaced the dagger into its sheath and secured it in his coat pocket. He hurried down the footpath, sending small rocks tumbling. His pace did not slow up until he was standing on the stoop of the Clark cottage.

Mrs. Tanner answered his knock. “Hello, Mr. Pitney,” she said, wiping her hands upon her gingham apron. “Are you looking for Miss Clark?”

“Yes, please.” He automatically glanced over the cook’s shoulder. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Miss Clark’s face when he told her his news. “Is she here?”

“Why, no. The mister and missus are taking her to Shrewsbury to catch the train to Glasgow.”

His heart lurched in his chest. Stupidly Jacob echoed, though he had heard her, “To Glasgow?”

“Well, she’ll have to switch trains in Birmingham, you understand.”

“Do you know what time her train leaves?”

The cook shrugged. “They left here an hour or so ago. But they’re to have lunch at one o’ those inns as a farewell, so it ain’t likely—”

“Thank you!” Jacob called over his shoulder, already halfway to the steps.
Not Glasgow!
raced through his mind as his boots pounded against cobbled stones. His mind had been so preoccupied over the past two weeks with mourning Miss Rawlins’ disaffection that he had not given Miss Clark much thought. How foolish, because now he couldn’t imagine Gresham without her!

“Where are ye going in such a hurry, Mr. Pitney?” queried a grating voice from his right as he neared the
Larkspur
’s carriage drive.

“Sorry!” he called back to the lace spinners without slowing down enough even to look at them.

Mildred, the kitchen maid, stood at the edge of the courtyard, throwing a pan of potato peelings out into the shrubberies for the birds. “Mr. Pitney?” she said with eyes round.

“Is Mr. Herrick inside?”

“No, sir. He’s down to Shrewsbury, collecting Miss Rawlins.”

“Collecting Miss Rawlins?”

“Why, yes, sir. She’s been in London.”

How could he have forgotten, when he had had to force himself all week not to stare morbidly at her empty dining room chair? But that didn’t seem to matter now. Quickly he asked, “Did he use both horses?”

She sent a pointed stare into the direction of the empty paddock before replying, “I expect so, Mr. Pitney.”

Jacob went weak in the knees, but this was no time to give into any weakness. He turned and sprinted down the carriage drive. From across the lane one of the lace spinners asked in a more pleasant voice, “Why are you hurrying so, Mr. Pitney?”

“Sorry!”

Fortunately a groomsman was in the stable behind the
Bow and Fiddle
, currying a rust-colored hunter. “Have you a saddle for that horse?” Jacob asked between pants of breath.

Greed washed across the young man’s scarred face. “My uncle charges half-a-crown.”

“Have him saddled in less than five minutes, and I’ll give you double!”

“…and so I said to Mr. Wakely and his colleagues, ‘With all due respect, you may be shrewd at conducting business, but for you to suggest that my stories are too similar tells me that you’re ill-informed about the expectations of readers…’ ”