The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (71 page)

Sharing a seat with Miss Rawlins in the landau, Noelle nodded absently. The first farms were appearing on the southern outskirts of Gresham. Would she still have a position when she returned to the lending library?
Please, Father…one more chance
.

“…and he had the
cheek
to declare that if I couldn’t display a little more originality in the future, my manuscripts would no longer be…”

“Who is that coming?” Noelle interrupted, craning her neck to the right so she could see past Mr. Herrick. A horse pounded the lane before them, raising a cloud of dust behind. She heard a gasp beside her and turned to look at Miss Rawlins.

“Why, it’s Jacob!” the writer exclaimed as she scooted to the edge of her seat.

“Mr. Pitney?”

Miss Rawlins’ hand flew up to her heart. “And to think I accused him of not being romantic!”

Noelle turned again to the front. The man rode low in the saddle as if trying to win the Derby. Even in the distance his dark eyes seemed intent, almost blazing. “You mean he’s coming for you?”

“Why else would he be flying off to Shrewsbury on horseback?”

That seemed reasonable to Noelle, considering how despondent the archeologist had seemed at the supper table all week. “I wonder why he’s not slowing down?”

“He must not have seen me yet.” Lips curved into a demure smile, Miss Rawlins sat up even straighter, so that she was almost standing in the moving carriage. Her smile froze in place as she swiveled her head to watch the horse gallop by. “Jacob?” she called, but not loudly enough for him to hear over the thundering hoofbeats.

“You may be right, you know,” Noelle said when the carriage was turning into
Larkspur
’s drive. “He didn’t even look our way.”

The writer, who had sat in silence since Mr. Pitney passed, angled her head thoughtfully. “But of course, Miss Somerville. He was so driven by love to reach the railway station that he fell almost into a trance, his senses unable to absorb anything else.” Her expression brightening, she added, “What a wonderful scene that would make! I’ll show that Mr. Wakely that I can create fresh pl—”

“Good for you!” Noelle cut in, already halfway out of the landau before it rolled to a complete stop. “Thank you!” she called up to the driver’s seat, where Mr. Herrick was tying the reins. She was almost at the end of the carriage drive when it occurred to her that she could have gone around the north wing, or even asked the caretaker to drive her to the library. But like Mr. Pitney, she was unable to turn away from her set path, even to save a minute or two.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, Miss Somerville?” Iris Worthy called from across the lane.

Noelle sent the two women a wave and rushed on toward the crossroads. “Sorry!”

Behind her back she heard Jewel’s grating voice. “That’s the trouble wi’ young folk today. No time to stop and chat.”

Not when your life is falling apart
, Noelle thought. Presently she spotted a familiar chimney in the distance on Market Lane. A stab of pain found her heart. To think she had been so eager to give it up less than two hours ago! The lending library was not just a place of employment. It was a symbol. Every time the cottage came into her sight, she was reminded that it was her own God-given ability which provided a roof over her head and food on her plate. The confidence that came from performing her job well brought her more fulfillment than being a wealthy man’s ornament ever had.

But when she grew closer, the pain in her heart welled to a terrible foreboding. Outside the library sat the squire’s barouche and team. The young man clothed in livery at the reins sent her a smile that she was too despondent to return. She went on to the stoop and opened the door. At her desk sat Mrs. Bartley, speaking with a young woman Noelle recognized as a serving maid at the
Bow and Fiddle
.

“Ah, Miss Somerville, there you are!” The squire’s wife spoke pleasantly enough, but the blue eyes were sharp, appraising. “Miss Sloane here is seeking
Wuthering Heights
, but we weren’t able to locate it.”

“That’s because it was checked out last Wednesday,” Noelle told Miss Sloane, mustering the smile she had not had for the driver outside. “But I’ll be happy to hold it and post you a card when it’s returned.”

The young woman expressed satisfaction with that and left. And then Mrs. Bartley pushed out the chair, got to her feet, and walked around the desk. “Would you care to explain your absence from your post before the lunch hour, Miss Somerville?”

Years of taking liberty with the truth provided Noelle with a ready answer.
Tell her you became ill and had to lie down for a little while
. But the temptation was short-lived. Hanging her head, she replied, “I almost did a terrible thing, Mrs. Bartley.”

“You’re referring to the gentleman with whom you left in the coach?”

Noelle’s chin shot up. “How did you—?”

“Surely you’ve lived in Gresham long enough to know the answer to that, Miss Somerville. I came to inform you that the rug for the reading room will be delivered Monday. And Mrs. Perkins happened to be out tending her garden….”

“I see.”

“And where is the gentleman now?”

“He was no gentleman, Mrs. Bartley,” Noelle murmured, shame heating her cheeks. “And he’s on his way back to London now. Hopefully to return to his wife.”

A slight widening of the eyes was Mrs. Bartley’s only reaction. After a short space of silence, she asked, “Does that mean today’s episode will not be repeated?”

Noelle shuddered. “God help me, never.”

“Very well, then. We’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Thank you!” Noelle gushed. It took all her self-control to keep from bursting into tears of relief.

Finally the woman smiled. “The squire and I are most impressed with your work, Miss Somerville. We would hate to lose you.”

“My loss would be greater, Mrs. Bartley,” Noelle assured her.

Chapter 45

“If you ask me, Mrs. Tanner’s roast grouse is far superior,” Lydia’s father said as Wellington and Nelson pulled the wagon up Pride Hill toward the railway station after lunch at the
Lion Inn
. There was no room for Lydia on the seat with her parents, so she sat directly behind them on her trunk, which, thankfully, Noah had come over to help load.

“Well, don’t go telling her that,” Mother warned. “Or the next time you provoke her, she’ll be down here asking to hire on.”

“Provoke her? When have I ever—?”

Lydia smiled at their banter, but her heart was not merry.
This wasn’t a good idea
, she told herself again. Saint Margaret’s and Glasgow were her old life. While she would enjoy renewing some of her former acquaintances, exchanging letters would have sufficed. She now feared that absenting herself from any sight of Mr. Pitney would have the opposite effect than the one for which she hoped. Instead of forgetting him, what if she spent the whole seven weeks pathetically brooding over him?
You waited too long to fall in love
, she told herself.
You have a schoolgirl’s heart in a thirty-four-year-old body
.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t realize they had arrived at the railway station until the wagon came to a halt on the side of the street. There was a bustle of activity about them as porters unloaded trunks from carriages and wagons and people hurried toward the station for the train presently loading. With a sigh, she stood. Her train was not even due to arrive until half-past one, an hour away. But she still needed to hurry to find a porter before her father got impatient and took a notion to carry the trunk to the platform himself. She became aware then of approaching hoofbeats.

“Someone’s about to miss his train,” her father pointed out, lighting his pipe.

Her mother sent a worried look up the street, in spite of the fact that the rider was more than likely a total stranger. “I do hope he makes it.”

The horse, a rust-colored hunter, only slowed its pace a little to weave around vehicles in the busy street. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat as the rider’s face became achingly familiar. “It’s Mr. Pitney.”

“Mr. Pitney?” her parents said in unison.

“Why, it is!” her father exclaimed, rising in the seat. “But what—?”

“Miss Rawlins must be returning from a trip.” Come to think of it, Lydia had noticed Mr. Pitney walking home from church alone on Sunday past, but she had just assumed the writer was ill. She prepared to inform the archeologist as he reined the sweating animal to a halt just inches from the wagon bed that she had not seen Miss Rawlins. But he spoke before she could do so.

“Miss Clark—please don’t go to Glasgow!”

Lydia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He seemed almost maniacal, his dark eyes wild and his hair tousled about his head. The horse, not settled down from its run, stamped and snorted so that Mr. Pitney had to keep the reins taut to keep the animal close to the wagon.

“We found Cerealis’s artifact, and you were the first person I wanted to tell. It looks as if we’ll be assigned to Gresham for years to come, and I…”

It was only then that he appeared to notice her parents, who were turned to face him, for he automatically reached up as if to tip a hat that was probably lying on the side of the road somewhere.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitney,” Lydia’s mother said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Clark,” he said as the old bashfulness overtook his expression. Nonetheless he looked at Lydia again. “And I can’t bear the thought of you not being here, Miss Clark.”

But I’m only going away for a visit
, Lydia started to explain. Her father spoke before she could open her mouth.

“What exactly are you saying, Mr. Pitney? That you want her to come back so you can take some more of those reading lessons from her and impress that writer woman?”

“No, sir!” Mr. Pitney exclaimed with a shake of his head. The motion caused the restless horse to rear a bit, so he swung down from the saddle and, with the reins in one hand, approached the wagon on foot. His dark eyes looked earnestly up at Lydia. “I would like you to come back because…”

“Yes, Mr. Pitney?” Lydia said when he hesitated.

“Yes, Mr. Pitney?” her mother echoed.

Resolve replaced the timidity in his expression. “Because I can think of no greater joy than coming home to a cottage every day with you waiting for me, Miss Clark.”

Suddenly Lydia felt the need to sit back down. Her mind simply needed time to register everything that had occurred within the past two minutes, so all she could think of to say was, “You found the artifact?”

Looking down to fuss with his coat pocket, he said. “Thank God it didn’t bounce out on the way here.”

“I didn’t realize you could ride, Mr. Pitney,” Lydia’s mother told him.

He looked up to send her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t either, Mrs. Clark.”

And then he held out what appeared to be a dagger. He withdrew it from the aged sheath so that Lydia could see the inscription on the blade. “To Governor Cerealis from Vespasian,” he explained.

Fearful that she would somehow damage the artifact, even when centuries in the ground had not done so, she took it carefully from his hands. “Incredible,” she breathed, turning to show her parents.

“Incredible,” her mother echoed.

Her father cocked his head at Mr. Pitney. “You know, after we find that horse some water, we could tie him to the back so you can ride in the wagon with us.” He gave Lydia a hint of a smile. “That is, if our daughter is willin’ to return.”

“Will you, Lydia?” Mr. Pitney asked.

It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her given name, and it warmed her heart. But she had to know one thing. “What about Miss Rawlins?”

“Yes, what about Miss Rawlins?” her mother repeated.

“I wish her well,” he replied frankly. His hands closed over the top slat of the wagon’s side. “But I was a fool to think that I loved her. And it’s you who has found a place in my heart. Please say you’ll marry me, Lydia Clark. We’ve both been alone for too long.”

“We have,” she agreed, her heart about to burst as she fought tears. “And I will…Jacob.”

There was a rustling sound in front. Her father began helping her mother from the wagon seat. “Should be a water trough nearabouts,” he explained. “We’ll look about for a little while.”

“May I sit with you?” Jacob asked when they were gone.

“Of course,” Lydia replied.

He tied the horse’s reins to the back, put a foot in a wheel spoke, and swung himself easily into the wagon. A little of his old shyness seemed to come over him as he approached Lydia, but she smiled and moved aside on the trunk.

“It seems there should be a cat napping between us,” he said as he sat next to her.

She smiled and handed him the dagger. “I’m very happy for you.”

Holding it across both palms, he said, “Just think, Lydia…when Vespasian awarded this to Cerealis, little did he know he would be aiding a romance centuries later.” He looked again at her and raised an eyebrow. “We do have a romance, haven’t we?”

She nodded. “It appears so.”