The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (18 page)

Back at her flat, Noelle stood on tiptoe and stretched to reach into the back of her armoire. She brought down a biscuit tin she had taken a fancy to as a young girl. It had been given to her by their housekeeper when the last of the
PEEK, FREAN & COMPANY ANGEL CAKES
were consumed. A classroom setting was portrayed upon the lid in vivid colors and gilt, showing students studying a map that illustrated that four hundred million
Peek, Frean & Company
biscuits and pastries touching each other would stretch from pole to pole.

She went to the window seat and opened the lid for the first time in over a year. Inside were such treasures as a redbird feather she had found in the vicarage garden, assorted Sunday School merit ribbons for memorizing scripture passages, a pair of velvet doll slippers, a paper doll of a much younger Queen Victoria, a needlepoint bookmark her sister had given her for a birthday, and a tarnished silver whistle from a Christmas stocking.

Carefully Noelle unfolded a yellowing advertisement she had cut carefully from a discarded magazine at the age of nine or ten. Above the words touting the merits of
TRUESDALE & COMPANY, Tea, Coffee & Colonial Merchants
was an idyllic portrait of a family gathered in a cottage garden. The father was playfully hoisting a young child above his head while at his side a boy patted the family dog. Before the wooden gate stood the smiling mother, arm outstretched to receive a posy from her little girl.

It was a scene Noelle had studied often during her childhood. She 123 had envied the little girl holding the posy, and even the rosy-cheeked boy with the dog, for they appeared to be so cherished and happy. Children were listened to in that cottage garden, and not only when they were reciting, but also when they wished to talk about the happenings of their day, their fears and friendships, likes and dislikes. Many daydreams had carried Noelle to that special place, which she came to think of as Truesdale.

But as she grew older, she came to understand that Truesdale did not exist. She would never visit there. The parents and children and even the garden were created by an artist’s brush. As cynicism began to take root in her heart, she wondered if the artist had even known such a family. Perhaps the reason he had managed to portray them so skillfully was because he, like Noelle, had wished such people to be real.

Because she was allowed only one trunk and would be returning within four months, she had not thought it important to bring the tin with her. But now she couldn’t imagine leaving it behind. If she had to live among strangers, at least she would have something of the familiar with her.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, Noelle turned to the window and watched rivulets of water join other rivulets to run down the pane. Beyond, she could see umbrellas bobbing up and down on the walkway. People hurried beneath them to homes and shops and businesses, unaware that they were being stared upon from a thirdstory window by the loneliest woman in London.

“But surely he could have managed an hour,” Noelle sniffed Wednesday morning to the man seated across from her in the private coach moving toward Paddington Station. Mr. Radley was one of the last people she would choose to confide in—his bulbous nose had pores the size of billiard pockets, and his small weasel eyes seemed to be constantly watching for an opportunity to advance his own interests. But he was the only available ear, and her disappointment was so overwhelming.

“There, there now. Some unexpected debate on Irish land reform came up. The Irish Republican Brotherhood are making threats again.” The solicitor reached forward to pat Noelle’s knee. “I assure you that he was just as crushed as you are. And he’ll certainly visit you as soon as possible.”

Noelle wiped her eyes with her handkerchief again. “So you saw him this morning?”

The weasel-eyes blinked. “This morning?”

“When he said he couldn’t get away.”

“Oh yes. This morning.” Changing the subject, he said, “By the way, the proprietor of the lodging house, a Mr. Jensen, assumes you are a widow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He waved a hand. “Just a little invention to evoke sympathy for your cause, Miss Somerville. There was no guarantee that we could procure a room on such short notice, you see.”

“
And…”
he went on with a leer in his little eyes, causing Noelle to turn her knees sharply to the side against the seat when he seemed to be on the verge of patting them again. “People in villages tend to be more straightlaced than Londoners. Were they to know your real…ah, situation, they would likely invite you to leave. So I would advise keeping up the charade.”

Noelle steamed inside at the whole notion, but it would do no good to complain to the man across from her whose company was becoming increasingly more disagreeable. She would certainly complain to Quetin on his first visit about his choice of a solicitor. Surely with the whole of London’s legal expertise from which to choose, he could do better than Mr. Radley!

A more practical matter suddenly occurred to her. “Quetin didn’t give me any money last time we spoke. How am I to pay for my lodgings?”

“That has been taken care of for the next four months, Miss Somerville.”

“And what about the other things I’ll have need of?”

“I’ll make mention of it to Lord Paxton. Surely he’ll send a cheque by and by.” Leaning forward again, he told her, “But
I
might be inclined to lend you a bit, if you’re in desperate straits.”

A shudder of revulsion snaked down Noelle’s spine. “I will never be that desperate, Mr. Radley.”

He grinned and settled back into his seat. Noelle actually found herself relieved when the coach reached its destination and she was able to set foot on the ground. Paddington’s platform was a sea of people boarding and detraining, meeting and seeing off, while behind it a great black locomotive bearing the title
London & Birmingham Railway
in silver letters sent a blast from its shrill whistle.

“Your train should arrive in half an hour,” Mr. Radley said when the whistle was silent again. Behind them, the solicitor’s coachman had set down her trunk and was now engaged in seeking out a porter. When he returned with one some five minutes later, Noelle held out a gloved hand to her obnoxious companion.

“Thank you, Mr. Radley, but you needn’t wait.”

He shook his head while clasping her hand. “Lord Paxton has commissioned me to take care of you, Miss Somerville. I cannot in good conscience shirk my duty.”

“Oh, but I insist,” Noelle said, pulling her hand away. “And I’ll certainly explain that to Lord Paxton.”
Along with some other things, you knee-patting toad
.

“Fine, then,” he replied while a smug smile spread itself under the cratered nose. “We’ll see just how well you can take care of yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The weasel eyes narrowed as his mouth opened to give reply. But he snapped it shut again, and his face assumed a blank expression. “I only meant that you could accidentally board the wrong train, Miss Somerville. Have a pleasant journey.” He turned on his heel and was off, threading his way through the press of people with his coachman following in his wake.

Four hours later the train screamed to a halt at Birmingham Station, where Noelle would disembark and wait for the
Severn Valley Railway
for the next leg of her journey. While waiting for a porter to open the door of her first-class coach, she used the time to bid farewell to the Shipleys, a mother and daughter who had been her traveling companions all the way from London. That way she wouldn’t have to spend any time with them on the platform, meeting family members who surely would be just as boring as those two had been.

“You’ll be sure to visit us soon, Mrs. Somerville?” Mrs. Shipley’s irritatingly shrill voice gushed in the sentimental tone one would use when parting from a lifelong friend.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Noelle replied, adding under her breath,
Then you can tell me again every detail of the wedding plans
.

Mrs. Shipley’s daughter, Amelia or Abigail or something like that, bobbed her too-giggly-to-be-marrying head. “Do come, Mrs. Somerville! I would love to show you my gown.”

I’ll see your gown every time I close my eyes for the next week
, Noelle thought while gracing the girl with a warm smile. She had spent the better part of an hour hearing about satin fabric, Belgium lace, and seed pearl trimming. When the porter finally came around to release her from her prison, Noelle snatched up her reticule, gave the two a wave, and stepped out of the coach.

Fortunately the platform wasn’t nearly as crowded as Paddington’s had been, giving Noelle reason to hope that she would have a coach all to herself when her train arrived. Behind her, she could hear Mrs. Shipley trill to a group of waiting relatives, “And her husband lost his life saving the queen from an assassin! He was a captain in the Royal Guard, you see…”

Noelle smiled to herself. At least traveling with the Shipleys had given her an opportunity to rehearse the details of her new identity. If she had to be a widow, she would at least invent an interesting reason for being one. She was hungry, having had only tea for breakfast, and went inside the depot’s refreshment room to see what was being offered. Other passengers had the same idea, and some fifteen or so were queued up at the counter before her.
All this trouble for food that smells like shoe leather?
Abandoning her meal plans, she freshened up in the accommodations room and then found a bench and watched porters unload trunks as effortlessly as if they were bed pillows. Some quarter of an hour after the
London & Birmingham Railway
had switched tracks for its return trip to London, the Severn Valley train came in sight, shrilling and belching smoke.

Chapter 12

“May I be of assistance, miss?” a burley porter asked Noelle after the first boarding whistle had sounded and people were scurrying for the different coaches. She shook her head, then thought again and motioned toward a huddle of luggage that had been taken from the earlier train.

“I’m going on to Shrewsbury. You’re positive my trunk will be in there too?”

“Oh yes, miss.” He gave her a sociable grin, exposing two missing top teeth. “But that won’t do ye any good if ye ain’t on the train, now will it?”

“I’ll be along, thank you,” she responded with a polite chill, for familiarity irritated her when coming from people in servile positions. Especially if such people were unattractive. The man shrugged and went on about his business. When it appeared that most people had boarded, Noelle got to her feet and walked toward the front of the train. There were only four first-class coaches—none of them vacant. As she had not realistically expected the situation to be otherwise, her disappointment wasn’t overwhelming. At least she wouldn’t be forced to listen to wedding plans, for she could see through the open door of the third coach from the engine that the lone occupant, a sandy-haired gentleman seated at the opposite window, was staring intently at a book he held open before him. He looked over at her as she stepped through the doorway.

“Good afternoon,” Noelle said, taking the seat facing his but just inside the door.

“Good afternoon,” he returned in a pleasant baritone.

He appeared to be about her age and was exceedingly handsome, with Nordic blue eyes and a tall, athletic frame clothed in a black suit. But Noelle’s heart was still raw and aching from missing Quetin, so she was not disappointed when the man returned his attention to the book. Resting her head against the back of the leather seat, she closed her eyes. The train began moving shortly afterward, lulling her into a dream in which she and Quetin were walking in Kensington Gardens. An abrupt crunching sound brought her back to the present.