The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (8 page)

“Would you care to tell me about it?” she asked.

“I would just as soon forget about that one,” he said. “You don’t believe dreams are prophetic, do you?”

“Surely some are. But you mustn’t take bad dreams too much to heart, Ambrose. If most foretold anything, I would have shown up at church in my nightgown by now.”

Ambrose chuckled. “You consider that a nightmare? Wearing your nightgown to church?”

“I suppose you have to be a woman to understand it,” she said, smiling. “Why don’t we take our walk now?”

Physical exertion of any kind was the last thing he desired during such times as today, but thanks to Fiona, Ambrose had learned that exercise helped to lighten the despondency. Being accompanied by the person dearest to him didn’t hurt either. He quickly dressed again, and minutes later they were strolling up Market Lane.

“How many matches did you and Mr. Durwin manage to finish?” Fiona asked after sending a wave to Mrs. Summers, who, though bent with age, was briskly sweeping the stoop of the lending library.

“Three,” Ambrose replied. “We were just about to start a fourth when Mrs. Beemish announced lunch.”

“And?”

“I won all three, of course.” He gave her a little sidelong grin. “I’m telling you, he holds back when I’m out of sorts like this. Or why else would he manage to win other times?”

“Then why don’t you just ask him to stop?” she asked, threading her arm through his.

“Because it obviously gives him pleasure to do so. Or perhaps he fears I’ll become suicidal if I lose?”

“Ambrose.” A little furrow appeared in her brow. “Don’t joke about such things.”

“Forgive me. Of course I didn’t mean that.” It struck him then that he was being very self-centered. Mrs. Beemish had called everyone to lunch as soon as the three women returned from the meeting, and then Ambrose took his nap without thinking to ask Fiona about her morning. “And I must beg your pardon again. How was your meeting?”

“Interesting. You were almost committed to another one-man drama.”

He grimaced. “Almost, did you say?”

“To raise money for another pulpit. The present one’s about to fall apart from age.”

“I can identify with that,” Ambrose quipped, but then felt a stab of guilt for not having the energy to involve himself in such a project.

“Anyway, Julia came to your rescue,” Fiona continued.

“I’ll have to be sure to thank her.”

They became silent upon reaching the blue waters of the Bryce. A benign east breeze carried with it the nectarlike aroma of golden catkins frosting the willow trees along the riverbank. Among their branches hovered and darted legions of bees collecting pollen. By the end of the month, their humming would be replaced by youthful laughter and banter as the Irish Keegan children gathered the limber twigs for their father’s baskets.

After they had crossed the bridge, Ambrose continued as if no time had lapsed. “You know, this village has been good to us. We could donate funds for a fine pulpit.”

“That’s very generous of you, Ambrose. But the idea is to allow as many people as possible to have a part in it. That way, every worshiper can look at the pulpit and feel a sense of ownership.”

“Hmm. That makes sense.” He still couldn’t let go of the guilt. “But can your ladies raise enough that way?”

She squeezed his arm. “Just be sure to buy your sandwiches from me, Ambrose Clay, and I’ll see that you pay dearly for them.”

Fiona and Ambrose went to supper in the
Larkspur
’s dining room that evening, as usual. It was good for Ambrose to be in the company of other people who understood his mood swings. Fiona could recall when he arrived in Gresham in the grip of severe depression three years ago. Julia had wisely insisted that he could stay only if he came to the dining room for meals with the other guests. It was to save the servants from having to run up and down stairs with trays, but joining the others had also kept him from becoming totally reclusive during his dark episodes.

And Fiona enjoyed mealtimes as well. Some of the faces around the table had changed since the last time she lived here, but the atmosphere was one of mutual affection, and interesting conversation flowed as freely as did food from the sideboard. That evening over roast trout with beetroot sauce, the subject drifted to the Roman ruins atop the Anwyl. This was to be expected with two archeologists lodging under the same slate roof. Mrs. Dearing, who had followed her late husband to the California gold fields and wore her white hair in a long braid, asked if any treasures were uncovered today.

“Actually, a very exciting find,” Mr. Ellis, in charge of the excavation commissioned by the British Archeological Association, replied. He would have been perfectly cast if he were an actor
playing
the role of an archeologist, for his tall, slightly stoop-shouldered frame and graying beard lent him a scholarly and occasionally preoccupied appearance. “A Celtic hand mirror that likely predates the Roman fort.”

“How can you tell that it’s Celtic, Mr. Ellis?” asked Mrs. Durwin. Petite and soft-spoken, with gentle gray eyes and soft wrinkled cheeks, she enjoyed helping the servants lay the table for supper. She and seventy-three-year-old Mr. Durwin, founder of
Durwin Stoves
, had been married in Saint Jude’s less than two years ago. “And was the glass still intact?”

“We can tell its origin chiefly by the design on its back, Mrs. Durwin. And the face is actually of polished brass, not glass. We haven’t packed it up for shipping yet, so I’ll bring it up from the cellar later if any of you would care to see it.”

Mrs. Latrell nodded. “Please do, Mr. Ellis.” The head movement caused her to raise a hand to hold her wig in place. It was of a style popular a decade ago, parted in the center with corkscrew curls over both ears. The stark black tresses leeched the color from her face, for her eyelashes and brows were still white. Vain though she was, the widow had traveled the world extensively on her own and possessed an unwaveringly cheerful outlook on life. “But do tell us, when did glass mirrors come to be?”

Fiona met her husband’s eyes and smiled, for they were both aware of what was coming next. Mr. Ellis did not allow a conversation regarding his profession to continue for too long without generously including his assistant. Sure enough, Mr. Ellis pointed his butter knife at the younger man. “Would you say fourteenth century, Mr. Pitney?”

If dark-haired Jacob Pitney were to play any role, it would have to be of a plowman in the fields. Big-boned and awkward, he towered over everyone in the lodging house. It was not surprising that in his midthirties he had not married, for to court a woman would require him to actually
speak
to her, and he was one of the most timid people Fiona had ever known. Only when answering a query about his beloved vocation did his brown eyes light up and he seem able to find his tongue.

“Yes, fourteenth-century Venice,” he replied with a serious little nod. “Only the technology was crude, so for the next three hundred years or so the images were blurred and distorted.”

“Fascinating, Mr. Pitney,” Ambrose commented, in spite of his dark mood. “But tell me, why would anyone tolerate mirrors with such imperfections? And for three centuries?”

A corner of Mr. Pitney’s mouth twitched timidly. “Those early mirrors were expensive and therefore symbols of wealth.”

“Some even wore them as jewelry, didn’t they, Mr. Pitney?” was Mr. Ellis’s rhetorical question.

“They did. On small chains. Some men even had them set in the hilts of their swords. For practical usage, though, I believe many continued to use the metal mirrors until the technology advanced.”

The conversation went on to Mr. Jensen’s recollection of something from the book of Exodus, where Moses commanded the women of Israel to surrender their “looking glasses,” to be melted down into a brass ceremonial washbasin for the tabernacle. This information was received with great interest, so the manager of the
Larkspur
offered to show everyone the exact location of the passage in his Bible after supper.

Even Georgette and Sarah, maids standing at the sideboard to refill dishes and teacups, listened attentively—whether it was because they were also interested in historical antiquities or in studying Jacob Pitney’s handsome face, Fiona wasn’t sure, but she certainly couldn’t fault them. But there was one person in the room who almost never contributed when the conversation drifted over to archeology—Miss Rawlins. In fact, the gray eyes behind her spectacles almost seemed to glaze over during such times. Her silence was a mystery to Fiona, because one would think a writer of historical novelettes would be taking notes on such valuable information, at least mentally.

Julia had once confided to her that she believed Mr. Pitney to be infatuated with Miss Rawlins. Now that she had had occasion to observe the two, Fiona was sure she was correct. They were almost the same ages, and though she supposed Miss Rawlins would not be considered a beauty in the classical definition, the coffee brown hair falling just below her chin flattered an angular, interesting face, and the wire spectacles served to accent large eyes of smoky gray. How odd, that a woman who spent hours daily writing about romance would be so immune to it in actual life.

Perhaps it’s because he’s not like the heroes of her stories
. Fiona had read most of Miss Rawlins’ novelettes because she had not the heart to refuse when the author pressed them upon her.
Other than being tall, that is
, she thought, for without exception every hero was as tall as every heroine was slender. And Mr. Pitney’s dark hair and eyes would put him in the same category with about ninety percent of the writer’s heroes.

But that was where the similarities ended, for the archeologist was not a “mysterious rogue with a heart of gold” who meets his match in a “fiery-tempered woman with a mane of wild tresses.” He was just a considerate man who loved his work, opened doors for women, and attended church every Sunday. Not very exciting compared to the men who swashbuckled their ways through Miss Rawlins’ fictitious world.

Chapter 5

“I’ll be glad to see the back of this day,” Andrew groused to Julia as they climbed the stairs together to hear the children’s bedtime prayers.

Julia couldn’t help but smile to herself, for if everything went according to plan, his day would soon improve greatly. They went down the corridor to Philip’s room first. The sixteen-year-old, who had once declared himself too old for such things, seemed to enjoy the nightly ritual. But back then, he had felt pressured to be the man of the family. Now that he had surrendered that responsibility to Andrew’s capable hands, he could relax and be a boy again. Julia noticed he had tacked a copy of his poem, which the family had coaxed him into reciting three times during supper, to the wall just above his night table.

“I think I’ll send a copy to Gabriel too,” her son said, leaning upon an arm propped upon his pillow. Philip had befriended Gabriel Patterson during his ill-fated months at
The Josiah Smith Preparatory Academy
two years ago.

“He’ll be happy to learn you’ve become a fellow writer,” Julia said from his bedside.

“I’m not nearly as good as Gabriel. It was just a poem. And I still want to be a doctor.”

“Perhaps you’ll do both,” Andrew told him. “Look at Saint Luke. He was a doctor and wrote two books of the Bible.”

The boy smiled. “And if I’ve paid attention in church, he had some help.”

“Absolutely so, my literate son. But since you pay attention in church so admirably, you know that God still helps us.”

Julia then had to remind both that the girls were waiting to be tucked in as well. She was very grateful that Andrew took the time to chat with Philip and seemed to enjoyed their discussions. That was something the boy’s own father had never made time to do. They listened to his prayer, and Julia kissed his forehead while Andrew extinguished the lamp.

The girls’ room was the largest in the vicarage. After Elizabeth’s wedding, Laurel had asked to move in with Aleda and Grace, so the upstairs sitting room was transformed into a bedroom. Soft laughter drifted from under the door as Julia and Andrew paused outside. “What mischief are they up to now?” Andrew whispered with his hand upon the knob.

“Surely you’re aware that girls don’t need to be up to mischief to giggle,” Julia whispered back.

“Ah, but those definitely sound like ‘up to mischief ’ giggles to me.”