The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (21 page)

Assist you?
Noelle caught on then and had to clear her throat to cover a smile. The old fossil was concerned about propriety! Did he really think she was worried that he might attempt to take advantage of her? She walked with the couple down a corridor, pausing again only to be shown the location of the water closet and lavatory.

Noelle decided that the chamber was adequate for the short amount of time she intended to spend here, with its attractively papered walls, rugs on the floor, and comfortable looking—though too heavy for her taste—furniture. She was surprised to see her trunk already on the floor at the foot of her bed. And on the bureau, indeed, sat a vase bursting with purple-blue flowers with triangular petals.
Enough to take care of all the nosebleeds in London
, she thought while tossing her reticule into the upholstered chair by the window. “This will be fine, thank you.”

“You have a couple of hours until supper, if you’d like to rest,” the housekeeper suggested meekly.

“Actually, I would rather have a bath. Will you have someone draw me one? And I’ll take my supper on a tray, as I will be retiring for the night shortly.” The manager glanced at the housekeeper and was opening his mouth to reply when Noelle thought of her most pressing concern. “Do send up a sherry first, will you?”

Mr. Jensen cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that is not possible, Mrs. Somerville. This is a temperance establishment.”

“Surely you jest.”

“Were you not informed by your solicitor?”

“He somehow neglected to mention that part.”
Mr. Radley, you’ll never practice law again when Quetin finishes with you
. Noelle shrugged. “When will my bath be ready?”

“I’ll see to that right away,” the housekeeper offered.

“Wait please, Mrs. Beemish,” Mr. Jensen said to her before turning again to Noelle. “Now that you have approved of the room, Mrs. Somerville, there is the matter of the interview. I believe we will be more comfortable in the sitting room.”

Noelle blinked. “Interview, Mr. Jensen?”

“I take it that your solicitor…”

“He’s not
my
solicitor,” she protested but then sighed. “Very well.” She had to spend the night
somewhere
. But first thing in the morning she would wire Quetin and tell him this place was unacceptable.
Surely a person can send a telegraph somewhere in this village
.

As she accompanied Mr. Jensen and the housekeeper back to the sitting room, Noelle thought that it would be best not to advise the manager of her plan to leave as soon as possible. It would surely take Quetin a few days to find her another place to stay or, better yet, come back to his senses and allow her to go back home. Until then, she had no other place to go, and not enough money to pay even if there was one. She sat down on the settee that Mr. Jensen offered.

“You see, Mrs. Somerville, we do not consider the
Larkspur
merely a business,” he began after he and Mrs. Beemish had lowered themselves into chairs. “For the welfare of all our lodgers, we strive for harmony…not unlike a large family.”

“I strive to be agreeable to everyone, Mr. Jensen,” Noelle informed him.

“I’m pleased to hear that, Mrs. Somerville. But it is my duty to inform you that we extend that courtesy to the servants as well. And while any of the chambermaids will be only too happy to draw a bath, we do not require them to carry trays up and down the stairs unless a guest is ill. I believe you will find the fellowship in our dining room much to your liking, as I do not boast when I say that the
Larkspur
has the most congenial people you will find at any lodging house.”

But of course they would be, Noelle thought, for what was there to argue about once one became old? Which liniment was most effective upon rheumatic joints? “Very well,” she replied. “I can live with those conditions.”
As long as I don’t have to live with them for long
.

Later, Noelle was relieved when one of the chambermaids who introduced herself as Ruth not only drew her a nice warm bath, but hung her clothes in the wardrobe and even offered to press a fresh gown for her. After Mr. Jensen’s little speech, she had wondered if she could expect the servants to do anything. With Ruth’s assistance, she slipped into a dress of violet percale with tiny black dots. “That will be all,” she told the maid, then, remembering Mr. Jensen’s comments, added, “Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, ma’am,” the girl replied from the doorway with a smile across her freckled face. “We hate to see folk leave, mind you, and Mrs. Latrell was a dear lady. But it’s exciting to see who comes.”

I would imagine anything would be exciting in this place
, Noelle told herself as she twisted her waist-length strawberry blond hair into a loose chignon and fastened it with a comb. She felt no need to take great pains with her appearance, for there was not one person under the
Larkspur
’s roof—or in the whole village—whose opinion mattered. That was a depressing thought, and once her hair was arranged, she closed her eyes and allowed her imagination to carry her back to her London flat. She was at her own dressing table preparing for an evening with Quetin. Perhaps they would go to the
Grand Hotel
after the theatre and have lobster.

A lump thickened her throat. If only she could
will
herself home! But when she opened her eyes, the same unfamiliar room was reflected in the mirror in front of her. Sighing, she pulled herself to her feet and thought about how much she hated Averyl Paxton.

Chapter 14

Out in the corridor, yet another elderly man was passing by. He stopped to speak with Noelle. “Good evening. Allow me to introduce myself—I’m Randall Ellis.” He was scholarly looking, stoopshouldered with flecks of gray in his beard. “I presume you are Mrs. Somerville?”

Extending her hand, she gave him a polite smile. “Yes, I am.”

“May I show you the way to the dining room?” he asked as they shook hands.

It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that she already knew the way. That was the only trouble with being beautiful. Men of all ages, physiques, and professions presumed that the pains she took with her appearance gave them open invitation to flirt. But because she did have to live in harmony with her fellow lodgers for the next few days and happened to be on her way to the dining room anyway, she replied instead, “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Elkins.”

“Ah…it’s Ellis.”

“Do forgive me.” She gave a sheepish little shrug. “I’m afraid I’ve never been good with names.”

“Oh, but you must use my wife’s little technique,” he said as they walked toward the staircase side by side. “Whenever she meets someone new, she repeats the name under her breath seven times. It’s very effective.”

“Indeed? Why seven?”

“She read somewhere that it takes seven repetitions of any action to form a habit. And she has always been quite adventurous about trying new ideas.”

It was a relief to Noelle that he would mention his wife at length, for men entertaining the illusions of a romance never mentioned their wives unless in the negative sense. “Is your wife downstairs?” she asked.

“Alas, but she resides in Bristol, where our home is. I’m on assignment for the Archeological Association, you see. But I try my best to go home one weekend every month. I do miss her terribly in between times.”

The sentiment in the old man’s voice was touching, yet it sent a stab of pain through Noelle’s heart. Would Quetin miss her as much? A year, or even six months ago she wouldn’t have had to ask herself that question. She lapsed into a melancholy silence as they walked downstairs. At the dining room door he courteously stood aside to allow her to enter. A long table stretched out before her, covered with a white cloth and set with Blue Willow china. Most of the chairs on either side were filled with people engaged in chatter. Noelle recognized, besides Mr. Jensen at the head of the table, the three people she had met in the hall—though she couldn’t recall their names. And she was surprised to discover two people closer to her own age, sitting on opposite sides of the table and four chairs apart. One was a giant of a man with dark hair, and the other a curiously short-haired woman wearing eyeglasses over an angular face.

“Good evening, everyone,” Mr. Ellis said from Noelle’s elbow. “Have you met Mrs. Somerville?” This brought conversation to a pause. Faces turned her way, and the men pushed out their chairs to stand.

“Not all of us,” Mr. Jensen responded, stepping aside from his chair. He introduced her to Mr. Pitney, the giant, and Miss Rawlins, the bespectacled woman. After Noelle had returned their greetings, the manager led her to an empty chair between the woman who had played the piano and the man who had advised her to stuff periwinkle leaves up her nose should it bleed. The dark-haired giant was directly across from her. Remarkably, besides sending her a bashful smile as she took her chair, he did not attempt to flirt with her.

“Did you find your room agreeable, Mrs. Somerville?” the woman with the braid asked from beside her.

“Quite so,” Noelle replied. It was a lie though, not because the room was lacking in comfort, but because it wasn’t home.

“Tomorrow you must acquaint yourself with Gresham. It’s a charming little village.”

“Is there a place from which I could send a wire? I would like to inform my parents that I’ve settled safely.”

“
Trumbles
general merchandise shop,” Mr. Jensen offered from the head of the table. “If you care to write your message, I shall be happy to have it delivered over there first thing in the morning.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m looking forward to exploring,” she lied again. She certainly didn’t want to have anyone read what she would have to say to Quetin.

“Have you lived in London long, Mrs. Somerville?” the periwinklegathering woman asked from Noelle’s left, leaning forward a little to see past her husband.

“All my life,” Noelle replied cordially, while wondering exactly when these people intended to eat. In spite of the sandwich she had consumed three hours ago, the aromas wafting from the sideboard were becoming irresistible. She glanced to her left and noticed that two places farther down on the opposite side were still empty.

“Do forgive me for asking, dear, but you’re so young…” said the woman with the braid, studying her with sympathetic eyes. “How did your husband pass away?”

All attention was focused somberly upon her, even from the two maids flanking the sideboard. Noelle decided that if she was unable to eat, she could at least attempt to chase away the melancholy by amusing herself. With a brave little smile she replied, “John—Major John Somerville—was assigned to the Royal Guard.” She had told the Shipleys on the train that he was a captain but decided the story could use some embellishing. “Almost two years ago a man armed with a pistol somehow managed to slip into Buckingham Palace. John discovered him in the corridor just outside the Queen’s bedchamber.”

“My goodness!” The short-haired woman, who had not spoken except to greet her, raised a hand to her collar. “He shot your husband?”

“Yes, as they struggled for the pistol. John was attempting to disarm him without using his own pistol, you see, for fear of stray shots causing harm to Her Majesty or any of her children.”

“What happened to the murderer?” Mrs. Periwinkle asked from her husband’s other side.

Noelle allowed herself pause, noting with satisfaction that no one seemed to breathe while waiting for her answer. “Even though wounded, John did manage to wrestle the gun away and shoot the man through the heart. But my husband passed on an hour later.” She looked wistfully just over the giant’s shoulder, as if her imagination was taking her back to the scene. “Only minutes after I was brought to his side. It was as if he was hanging on to life until he could say good-bye.”

A couple of dinner napkins were raised to eyes, so Noelle decided it would be a nice touch to raise her own. “We had only been married three months when it happened.”

She was sent pained and sympathetic looks from all directions as a hush settled over the room. From one of the maids Noelle heard a sniff. And then a voice with the faint trace of a Cornish accent came from the doorway, “Please forgive us for keeping you.”

Noelle looked to her right. An aristocratically handsome man had just entered the room with a beautiful dark-haired woman upon his arm. As they walked toward the two empty places, he explained, “We were reading and didn’t think to mind the time, I’m afraid.”

The men at the table rose until the woman was seated. “We didn’t mind waiting, Mr. Clay,” Mr. Jensen assured him in a somber tone, then gestured toward Noelle. “Have you met Mrs. Somerville?”

“Why, no, we haven’t,” the man answered, sending a warm smile across the table while the woman with him did the same.

Noelle searched her mind for when she would have seen the man before, for he looked incredibly familiar.
Did he call him Mr. Clay?

“Ambrose Clay, Mrs. Somerville,” the man said. “And this is Fiona, my wife.”

“Welcome to the
Larkspur
, Mrs. Somerville,” his wife said in a soft Irish lilt.

“Ambrose Clay?” Noelle was stunned silent until she became aware that her mouth was gaping in an unladylike fashion. Quetin was as fond of the theatre as he was the opera, and she could very well recall seeing Mr. Clay onstage. “You’re the actor?”