The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (27 page)

She supposed she could have asked Mr. Jensen to have the little man drive her there, but then she would look like a spoiled city girl to everyone else. And it had dawned upon her that she
cared
what the other lodgers thought. Not that they were anything special, except for Mr. Clay, but they made up the little world that she inhabited at present. They didn’t necessarily have to
like
her, but for some inexplicable reason, she was uncomfortable with the thought of them talking about her in derogatory ways.

So as the bell broke solemnly from the stone tower of Saint Jude’s, Noelle walked across the green with the group consisting of lodgers, Mr. Jensen, and even three of the maids, whose names she still confused one for another. The vicar stood beside the open doorway greeting worshipers. Blond-bearded and broad-shouldered, he was a little shorter and certainly more robust than the clergymen who had been her father’s associates. His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners as Mrs. Durwin introduced them.

“Mrs. Phelps has been most anxious to meet you,” the vicar told Noelle, “but thought she should give you some time to settle in before rushing over.”

“Well, I’m quite settled now,” Noelle said, offering her hand.
Any more settled and I would sprout roots
.

“You know, she lived in London most of her life. No doubt you’ll have much to discuss.”

So why isn’t she there now?
Surely no one
purposely
chose this place as opposed to the most exciting city on earth. From bits and pieces of conversation that had drifted her way, she had gathered that even the Clays were here only for a respite from the demands of the theatre.

“I look forward to meeting her,” Noelle lied, for she had no use for anyone so overly pious as she would imagine his wife to be. As she moved on through the vestibule, the familiar aromas of candles and polished old wood greeted her in the sanctuary. Rows of bench pews faced an altar with a decorative frontal cloth, and brightly colored stained-glass windows depicted Biblical scenes. A choir of a dozen or so robed people were filing into the chancel, and at the west end a woman sat behind a pipe organ while a man standing nearby tightened the strings on a violin.

For a second Noelle faltered and considered making some excuse and turning back for the
Larkspur
. She had assumed that because Saint Jude’s was a village church it would be different enough from Marylebow so as not to bring back any painful memories. But the atmosphere was the same—hushed, august, reverential. Closing her eyes, she could almost imagine her father stepping up to the pulpit.

She felt a light touch upon her sleeve.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Noelle turned to find Mrs. Durwin peering up at her with concern in her soft eyes.
I’m so sorry, but this beastly headache has come upon me
. But for some reason the words would not form. “I’m just wondering where to sit.”

“Why, you’ll sit with us, won’t you?”

This invitation was echoed by Mr. Durwin, with Miss Rawlins nodding at his elbow, so she really had no choice. The group from the
Larkspur
seemed so tightly knit that she was surprised to see them separate. She would have much rather sat with the Clays, but they had gone off to sit on the opposite side of the church. Once she was established in a pew between Mrs. Durwin and Miss Rawlins, Noelle looked around and was amused to notice that many sets of eyes were studying her, only to dart away when she looked at them directly. Newcomers were likely rare in a place so off the beaten path, so she could not blame anyone for staring.

Anyway, she rather liked to be noticed. She certainly was a step above the other women in fashion, excluding Mrs. Clay, whom she grudgingly conceded had looked stunning this morning in a gown of green brocaded silk with a collar and cuffs of Maltese lace. Many of the women still wore the sausage curls of the sixties peeking from the sides of their outdated bonnets and wide skirts without a hint of a bustle. Didn’t they have access to fashion magazines? Surely
Godey’s Lady’s Book
was available by post.

The reverent atmosphere in which she was seated was beginning to have some influence over her, for she found herself feeling a little ashamed for being uncharitable. This was a dairying village, and it was likely that most of these woman spent a good portion of their time milking cows. Who would have time to keep up with fashion, in that case? She rather liked the strange inner glow that those magnanimous thoughts produced, so she took them one step further.
And not everyone has as generous a benefactor as Quetin
.

Her feelings of good will—the first she had experienced since coming to this dreadful town—grew even stronger during the song service. For a congregation made up of mostly country people, their voices harmonized nicely, and the organ and violin accompaniment was surprisingly polished.

The choir sang next, also accompanied by both instruments.

Near the cross, a trembling soul
Love and mercy found me;
There the Bright and Morning Star
Shed his beams around me…

Noelle found herself so moved by the words, by the pure adoration evident on the face of each singer, that tears stung the corners of her eyes. If only it were that simple! She had never stopped believing in God, but when guilt over her relationship with Quetin threatened to consume her in the early days, she had had to push Him out of her mind or lose her sanity. It became easier and easier to do so as time passed, especially with Quetin assuring her that guilt was a tool that the church hierarchy had used to control the populace since medieval times. And because he was so well educated and able to reason away her misgivings, it was easy to trust him.

It was only during the space between wakefulness and sleep each night that she sometimes wondered if she had hardened her conscience irreparably. Even if she were to end her relationship with Quetin—which even the thought of filled her with panic—would she ever have the same longing for God that she had as an eleven-year-old girl?

The vicar stepped up to the pulpit when the music was finished. Noelle shifted in her seat and wondered again why she had talked herself into coming.
What was his name…Philips?
After prayer he began telling a story that was all too familiar to Noelle—of how King David had committed adultery with Bathsheba, then caused her husband’s murder when his attempt to cover their sin failed.

Noelle’s heart began to pound in her chest so violently that she feared Mrs. Durwin and Miss Rawlins could hear it.
But Quetin and I haven’t hurt anyone
, she rationalized. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Miss Rawlins studying her curiously, which made her realize she was tapping her foot. She stopped and shifted in her seat again. She certainly had never taken anything away from Quetin’s wife, for his duties would have taken him to London whether she spent time with him or not. And while Bathsheba’s husband had apparently been the decent sort, Averyl Paxton was a nagging shrew. If she were any kind of a wife, her husband wouldn’t feel the need to stray.

She had just convinced herself that David and Bathsheba’s situation had nothing to do with her when the vicar looked out across his congregation and, it seemed, directly at her. “Never assume that because God is patient, He has turned a blind eye to your sin. The consequences of David and Bathsheba’s moment of pleasure plunged his family and, eventually, an entire nation into generations of conflict. Is the pleasure you derive from your hidden sin worth the price you will have to pay for it one day?”

Heat rose to Noelle’s cheeks. She was certain that the eyes of every person behind her were trained upon her at that very moment. How did he know?
Mr. Radley wrote and told him
. That was why he was so smug at the station! She wished he were sitting beside her right now—she would gladly slap a whelp upon his leering face. Why, she would deliver it to him in London, for Averyl or no Averyl, she was determined to leave this village as soon as she could procure a ride to Shrewsbury. She reckoned she had just enough money for a ticket—if not, she would ask Mr. Jensen to refund the rest of her lodgings.

And then you’ll make Quetin furious
, she told herself, trying to calm down. Where could she go if he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble anymore?

Her thoughts were in such a tumult that she could no longer concentrate upon what the vicar was saying. But between catching occasional familiar words like
propitiation
and
atonement
, she took three deep breaths and forced herself to sort out the situation. Mr. Radley, reptile that he was, surely wouldn’t do anything to cause her to leave Gresham after he had gone to the trouble of manufacturing a background for her that would evoke sympathy so she could stay. And as Quetin’s solicitor, he had not the liberty to act upon his own dislikes.

She breathed easier now. She of all people knew that ministers were still human. There was no way Vicar Phelps could have known her situation. If he had happened to look her way while stressing a point, well, she noticed that he looked out to the congregation through his whole sermon. And he certainly couldn’t help making eye contact—what was he to do, stare at the back wall?

Her self-reassurances were realized at the end of the service when he again clasped her hand warmly at the door. “Mrs. Phelps will want to meet you. Would you mind waiting a minute? It takes her a little time to make her way from the front.”

That’s it—Phelps
. “I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry to get back to the
Larkspur
,” Noelle replied, bestowing upon him a chaste smile. It was enough that she had agreed to attend church in an attempt to fit into village life. She certainly had no desire to stand in front of the church and make small talk with the vicar’s wife. “I have this beastly headache, you see.”

Something’s rotten in Denmark
popped into Andrew’s head as Mrs. Hayes regarded him with tight-lipped disapproval, while offering her hand as stingily as if it held gold in the palm. And Mr. Hayes, standing beside her with a pained expression on his ruddy face, looked as if he wished the smithy shop opened on Sundays.

The couple sat in a back pew and usually were among the first to exit, but they had apparently stayed on purpose until no more parishioners waited to shake his hand at the door.

“I pray you have a pleasant afternoon,” Andrew told them both in spite of his apprehension.

Mr. Hayes held out a work-worn hand. “And you as well, Vi—”

“We wish to speak with you, Vicar,” Mrs. Hayes’ high-pitched voice cut in.

Andrew’s smile did not fade. He reckoned he could smile while being horsewhipped after over two decades in the ministry. “Very well. Why don’t I stop by tomor—”

But she was shaking her severely combed head. “This can’t wait. I spent the whole sermon looking through the hymnal for that choir song, and it wasn’t in there.”

“You mean ‘Near the Cross.’ ” Relieved that this issue was a relatively minor one, Andrew nodded understanding. “That’s because I happened upon it in a recent issue of
Christian Observer
. It was written by an American woman, a Fanny Crosby. Very moving, wasn’t it?”

“And what’s wrong with the old hymns, pray tell?” the woman demanded. “Vicar Wilson never brought newfangled songs into the church.
He
understood the importance of tradition!”

The two turned to leave then, Mr. Hayes sending an apologetic look back over his shoulder. Struck speechless, Andrew could only stare after them until he felt a touch upon his left sleeve and turned to rest his eyes upon more pleasant scenery.

“I’m sorry I was held up,” Julia said. “Mrs. Rhodes has asked us to supper tomorrow—she had to leave out the side door to assist with a calving.” She looked past him, out into the yard where several of the congregation were still milling about. “I hope Mrs. Somerville doesn’t think me terribly rude. Will you show her to me?”

“She asked me to give you her apologies. She was suffering a headache.” Rubbing a spot that had begun to throb over his right eyebrow, Andrew added, “I never realized they were contagious.”

“Oh dear,” Julia said sympathetically. “But surely you don’t think you caught a headache from Mrs. Somerville.”

He gave her a wry smile. “No…not from Mrs. Somerville.”

Chapter 18

Later that afternoon, Jacob took a leisurely stroll up Walnut Lane. He was relieved to see that the Worthy sisters weren’t in their usual spot in the sunlight—they didn’t spin on Sundays, he supposed. Had he seen them, he would have altered his route accordingly.