The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (25 page)

“
B.C.
,” he reminded her.

Even Mrs. Somerville, who was rather quiet most of the time, looked interested. “But how can you tell by looking at a marble how old it is?”

“That would fall under the realm of Mr. Pitney’s expertise,” Mr. Ellis replied with a smile in Jacob’s direction.

Jacob had long ago figured out that this was the older man’s way of graciously drawing him into the discussions. And it had been effective over the past two years, for Jacob found himself far more at ease among his fellow lodgers than he had been during those first few months.
Except for Miss Rawlins
.

But even she was looking at him expectantly now. He cleared his throat and prayed he didn’t have food between his teeth. “The oldest set we’re aware of was found buried with an Egyptian child in a grave site at Nagada. And once the date of the grave was determined by translating the hieroglyphics, it was simple to determine the age of the marbles.”

“Were they of glass, Mr. Pitney?” Mrs. Durwin asked.

Jacob smiled at her. He liked Mrs. Durwin, recognizing in her the same timidity that had plagued him all of his life. “They were carved of semiprecious stones, Mrs. Durwin. But marbles have been made of all sorts of materials through the ages—clay, hazelnuts, even ordinary stone.”

“Then how did they come to be named marbles?”

This question was posed by Miss Rawlins, incredibly enough. With his heart beating a little faster in his chest, he replied, “It was the Greeks who named them thus—or rather,
marmaros
, which was their term for the polished white agate they used.”

The sweet that followed the meal was apple-and-raisin pie, Jacob’s favorite, but in his state of happiness he could scarcely taste it. At last he had found a subject that interested Miss Rawlins besides her books, which he was sadly ill-qualified to discuss.

He dawdled as the lodgers left the dining room, staying behind to help Sarah carry an overloaded tray to the kitchen. By the time he reached the hall, everyone had settled into chairs and sofas save the Clays and Mrs. Somerville, who had retired for the evening. Gratefully Jacob noticed that Miss Rawlins had taken her usual seat by the fireplace, in which a hearty fire snapped and hissed against the evening chill.

She glanced at him as he ambled over to take the chair next to hers but turned her attention back to the discussion among Mr. Durwin, Mrs. Dearing, and Mr. Ellis over the identities of the “giants of the earth” in the sixth chapter of the book of Genesis. Jacob listened with only rudimentary attention, his mind consumed with how to initiate another conversation with Miss Rawlins. Finally a lull occurred in the discussion—apparently the three different opinions had reached an impasse. Jacob saw his chance and seized it.

“Miss Rawlins?”

She turned to look at him. “Yes, Mr. Pitney?”

The light from the fireplace reflected in her spectacles and shielded her eyes, which unnerved him a bit. Still he ventured forth. “Would you be interested in knowing how marbles were used for divination purposes by ancient priests in the Near East?”

He was encouraged when she smiled. But his own smile grew stiff upon his face as he listened to her reply.

“No doubt it’s a fascinating story, Mr. Pitney. But I had just a moment ago decided to retire for the night. I’m quite fatigued.” She covered a yawn with her hand as if to give proof.

“I…I pray you rest well,” Jacob managed.

“Thank you.”

After bidding everyone a pleasant night she was gone, leaving Jacob feeling twice the idiot because the others present had probably eavesdropped upon another fumbling attempt at conversation. He felt his cheeks flame and wondered bitterly why they were so wont to betray him—weren’t blushes only supposed to occur on female faces?

He couldn’t get up and leave, or it would appear that he was following Miss Rawlins. And so he stared miserably into the fire. After a little while had passed, Mrs. Dearing walked over to sit in the chair beside him.

“I wish I had a daughter, Mr. Pitney,” she said kindly. “I wouldn’t rest until you and she were courting.”

Jacob shook his head. “No doubt she would find me a bore, Mrs. Dearing.”

“You? Heaven forbid! Why, you’re one of the most interesting people I know.”

Of course she was only trying to cheer him, but he gave her an appreciative smile. “Thank you for saying that.”

“Oh, but it’s true.” She glanced over at the others, now discussing whether they preferred broiled or baked fish, and lowered her voice. “Miss Rawlins loves to discuss her novelettes. I realize that your occupation consumes enormous amounts of time, but perhaps if you were to read some of them?”

“I’ve already done so. And she despises me the more for it. It seems I can’t recognize the most obvious of symbolism.”

“Yes? Well, you mustn’t fault yourself. Clearly your mind is more scientific than perspicacious.”

“Perspi—”

“Discerning. At least in the case of fiction.” Mrs. Dearing pursed her lips thoughtfully for several seconds, then smiled. “I believe I have a solution, Mr. Pitney.”

“You have?”

“Miss Clark.”

“I beg your pardon?” Jacob said. “You mean the schoolmistress?”

“I have spoken with her on many occasions at the lending library. She’s the most well-read woman I’ve ever met. If she can’t ferret out the symbolism in Miss Rawlins’ books, no one can.”

“But I hardly know her. And certainly not well enough to ask a favor.”

“I’m not suggesting you do that, Mr. Pitney. What I’m suggesting is that you offer to commission her services.”

“Hire someone to read books?”

“Why is that so strange? People are hired every day to exercise their particular skills. Summer is fast approaching, and I daresay she would enjoy the task.”

The whole notion seemed so hopeless that Jacob felt emotionally drained. “I don’t know, Mrs. Dearing…”

The elderly woman’s lips tightened, giving her the appearance of a stern schoolmistress. “Mr. Pitney, the American poet John Greenleaf Whittier had something to say about this situation.”

“He did?”

She lifted her chin and quoted softly:

Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

Resuming her “stern schoolmistress” expression, she asked, “Will you ask yourself twenty years from now, when it’s too late, if you could have won Miss Rawlins’ hand with just a little more effort?”

Her argument crumbled his defenses so completely that all he could do was mumble, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to speak with Miss Clark.”

She smiled, reached over, and patted his cheek as if he were but seven years old. “Such a bright young man you are, Mr. Pitney.”

The quarterly regional meeting of the diocese was to be held in Lockwood on Saturday, which would be Vicar Paul Treves’ first time to host it. For that reason Andrew prepared to leave Gresham a half hour earlier than necessary to see if he could lend assistance in any way. “But won’t you hinder him from dressing?” Julia asked while he ate a quick breakfast of toast and jam with his tea.

“If I know Paul, he dressed himself hours ago,” was Andrew’s confident reply. For the young vicar reminded him so much of himself in his early years—so unsure of himself among his peers, and so conscious of crossing every
t
and dotting every
i
correctly.

At least Paul had shed some of the stuffed-shirt notions he had held two years ago while courting Elizabeth. A wise old bishop had once remarked to Andrew that a minister was of no earthly use until his heart had been broken. Well, that had certainly occurred when Elizabeth broke off their courtship. Since being assigned to the neighboring village, Paul looked to Andrew as a mentor, often asking advice about how to minister to his own parishioners. Evident in the young man’s character now was more empathy and more patience with people’s shortcomings.

Just a quarter of a mile east of the vicarage lane, the wheels of Andrew’s trap left cobbled stones for the macadamized roadway leading eight miles through Gipsy woods so embowered with trees that it resembled a pleasantly cool green tunnel. It had been little more than a dirt path until five years ago when Squire Bartley expanded his cheese factory and began purchasing milk from the neighboring village. Of course Lockwood’s dairy farmers needed a good road for making deliveries.

The village broke into Andrew’s vision as soon as his horse and trap left the woods. Sequestered in a gradual hollow, it was a pleasant hamlet where black-and-white friesians grazed in hedged pastures, and weathered buildings of stone, brick, half-timbering, and wattle-and-daub rubbed shoulders together in an amiable fashion. The fine fifteenth-century tower of the red sandstone church of Saint Luke’s roosted on a little knoll overlooking the village. Andrew tied Rusty’s reins to the picket fence surrounding the half-timbered vicarage, opened the gate, and walked the path through the garden.

Fine day for a meeting
, he thought, but carried his umbrella crooked over one arm just in case the smell in the air of forthcoming rain wasn’t his imagination. There was no bell chain at the door, so he knocked four times in a row. After at least two uneventful minutes had passed, Andrew gave a much stouter series of knocks while wondering if Paul had gone ahead to the town hall.
Of course
. Be it like him to hover over the women trying to set up tables and refreshments.

He had just turned to leave when the squeak of the doorknob roused his attention. The door opened several inches, and Paul Treves’ face appeared, blinking and slack-jawed.

“Vicar Phelps?”

This is the twenty-seventh?
Andrew asked himself. But of course it was, for all of his absent-mindedness, he had yet to forget an important date. The door opened wider, exposing a wrinkled flannel dressing gown and bare feet.

“Paul?” Andrew said. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

The young man blinked again. “What time is it?”

“Half-past eight,” Andrew replied after fishing his watch from the fob pocket of his trousers.

“Oh no!” Paul backed away from the door. “Come in, please. I was up all night with the Gripps, and—”

“You’re ill?”

He shook his head and started for the staircase, motioning for Andrew to follow. “The Gripps—Stanley Gripp is a carpenter. Doctor Rhodes had to amputate his foot yesterday from gangrene.”

“I’m so sorry,” Andrew said, jogging up the steps behind him.

“Me too. But to hear Mr. Gripp joke about it beforehand, it was all a lark. He was making all sorts of plans for the wooden foot he was going to carve himself.”

Andrew winced. “Well, a merry heart and all that…”

“He wasn’t so merry afterward, I’m afraid. But he’ll rouse himself in good form.”

They had reached a bedroom, where the young vicar hurried over to the washstand. “Still a little warm,” he said, dipping fingers into the pitcher. “Israel must have filled it this morning. I wonder why he didn’t wake me?”

“Where is everyone?”

“Mrs. Coggins would be at the hall helping lay out refreshments. And no doubt Israel has been put to arranging chairs.” He poured some of the water into the bowl. “You know, I do seem to recall his speaking to me sometime this morning. But it’s all fuzzy.”

“Shall I make you some tea?”

“No, thank you. The shock has me well awake now.” He turned from the mirror while vigorously banging the sides of a shaving brush against the inside of a mug. “But I would have been suicidal if you hadn’t shown up and got me on my feet. Oh…do have a seat, will you?”

Andrew pulled out the chair from a writing table and watched the young man spread lather all over his face. “Your clothes?”

“Mrs. Coggins will no doubt have them laid out in the room next door. Will you get them for me?”

“But of course.” Leaving the chair he had just settled into, he went into the corridor and on into another bedroom, where a black suit and white shirt lay across the bed. Paul was already drying his face when Andrew returned with the clothes over his arm. “That was fast.”

“Hit or miss.” The young man turned to him again and raised an anxious eyebrow. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”