The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (36 page)

Dora answered his knock with a welcoming smile, “Why, Vicar Treves, it’s been such a long time!”

Returning her smile, he replied, “Yes, it has. And how are you keeping, Dora?”

“Oh, fine and dandy. It’s the vicar that’s hurting.”

Paul winced and dug into his coat pocket for a cloth bag of dried herbs. “I shan’t disturb him. But Mrs. Coggins sent some bishopswort to make a poultice.”

“Yes? Maybe that means a promotion will be comin’ for you soon.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re delivering
bishops
wort.” She shook her head. “I apologize, Vicar, that was a poor joke.”

“No, it was a good one,” he assured her, smiling. “Do tell the vicar I’m praying for him?”

“Aye, I’ll do that, sir. You could tell him yourself if he wasn’t asleep. But wouldn’t you like to speak with the missus?”

“Oh, I’d really rather not intrude—”

“I’m sure she’d want to see you. And she’s just in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Paget.”

Reluctantly Paul allowed the maid to usher him into the parlor. He sat in a chair and eyed the sofa where he had sat with Elizabeth the evening she broke off their courtship.
What a thickskull you were back then
, he told himself. So smug in his convictions and so condescending in the way he spoke to her. How could he fault her for not wanting to spend her future with such an arrogant lout?

“Spinning wool, Vicar?”

The feminine voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Getting to his feet, he smiled sheepishly at Mrs. Phelps, who smiled back at him from just inside the doorway. “Guilty, Mrs. Phelps. But my mother always referred to it as building air castles.”

She stepped over to offer her hand. “Well, it’s delightful to see you, wool or castles aside. Dora showed me the herbs you brought for Andrew. How did you learn about his tooth?”

“Mr. Mitton was so overjoyed about being allowed to preach that he has no doubt informed half of Shropshire by now.” Quickly he added, “Not that I’m faulting him, mind you. I was the same way when I was a curate.”

“So was Andrew, to hear him tell it.”

“Is he suffering much pain?”

“Considerably less than when the tooth was intact.” She gave him an apologetic look. “But I’m afraid he’s asleep at the moment.”

“I only came to deliver the herbs,” Paul assured her.

“You’ll stay and have some tea, won’t you?”

“No, thank you. I promised Mrs. Coggins I would be back in time for lunch.”

Mrs. Phelps smiled and folded her arms. “Tell me, does she rule the vicarage as our Mrs. Paget does?”

“With an iron spoon,” he replied, rolling his eyes.

Her laugh was gratifying to Paul’s ears. For so much of his life he had held the opinion that sobriety was demanded of ministers of the Gospel. Didn’t the Bible state that men would be held accountable for every idle word? He had never admitted as much to Elizabeth, but there was a period of time when he judged Vicar Phelps unfavorably for his lightheartedness. He would have most likely continued in that vein had she not broken off their courtship. The resulting pain set him on a path of prayerful introspection, which began revealing to him the serious flaws in his way of thinking.

Though he knew he still had a long path to travel toward maturity, he was learning to appreciate humor as God-given and blessed. For if it was frivolous to laugh, then the Scripture wouldn’t abound with passages such as
Eat thy bread with joy,
and
These things write we unto you that your joy may be full.

Mrs. Phelps accompanied him out to where Caesar was tied, though Paul had assured her it wasn’t necessary. Luke, hammering a nail into a loose board in the fence, stopped to wave. “I gave him a bit of oats and water, Vicar Treves.”

“Thank you, Luke,” Paul called to him. When he turned back to Mrs. Phelps, she was studying him with a bemused expression. He had shaved in his usual hurry this morning but quelled the impulse to raise a hand to explore his face for dried blood.

“Andrew will be so disappointed he missed a chat with you,” she said finally.

Breathing a little easier now, Paul replied, “Do tell him I’ll return when he’s feeling more robust.”

She smiled. “Doctor Rhodes has assured us that he’ll be himself again by midweek. So why not join us for lunch on Saturday?”

“Surely, you didn’t,” Andrew said thickly from his parlor chair that evening. Wearing a flannel dressing gown over his nightshirt, he propped his right elbow against the chair arm and held the poultice against his cheek. Julia had offered to wind another bandage from chin to crown so it would stay in place without tiring his arm, but when Andrew had sobered enough to get a look at himself in a mirror on Saturday, the dentist’s bandage had come off.

“And what is wrong with inviting him?” Julia asked, seated on the ottoman so she could be at his side. They rested their joined hands upon the left arm of the chair. “He said he would be returning to see about you anyway.”

“Then why did you wait until everyone was gone to tell me?”

It was true, she had waited until the children were occupied upstairs with homework. But only because it was easier to chat with no distractions, for the girls hovered around their father as if he were a wounded war hero. Only now Julia was beginning to realize what Andrew already suspected—that her procrastination had more to do with not wanting to be accused of matchmaking than any desire for peace and quiet.

“They’re both lonely,” she said defensively.

A pained expression settled upon his face—either from the missing back tooth or the subject of their discussion. She was just about to ask if he needed more salicin when he explained, “We don’t know enough about Mrs. Somerville. Paul was hurt once before.”

“Granted. But it’s just lunch. And she seems a very decent person.”

He merely stared at her, so Julia pressed on. “And they’re both adults. If they’re not suited for each other, surely they’ll realize it. But what if it turns out that they’re meant to be together?”

“If they’re meant to be together, God will see to it that it happens.”

“But God could have given me the idea to invite them here.”

After a sigh, he halfway conceded. “Perhaps He did.”

Though Julia appreciated hearing this, his earlier argument had planted some seeds of doubt in her mind. Paul Treves was their friend, and friendship obligated the parties involved to certain responsibilities. If Philip were older, would she instigate a possible romance between him and a woman she hardly knew?
Never
.

“…Julia?”

She looked up at her husband again. “You were saying something, Andrew?”

“I asked what was wrong.”

Sighing, she replied. “I must admit I acted strictly upon impulse. A picture crossed my mind of the two of them together….”

“And it set your romantic heart to beating, didn’t it?” His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners. “Well, as you said, they’re both adults. And it’s just lunch.”

“Thank you.” She felt somewhat better now. “But you’re the romantic in the family, Andrew.”

“I think not.”

“Oh, but you are. In fact, I never knew a man could be so romantic until we started courting.”

The left side of his mouth curled into a pained smile. “Indeed?”

“Absolutely.”

Squeezing her hand, he said, “Then you wouldn’t mind fetching a romantic old fellow another dose of salicin, would you?”

After supper the following evening, Jacob Pitney went upstairs to clean his teeth and give everyone else ample time to take up their usual stations in the hall. He descended the staircase with light steps afterward, turning left and heading past the kitchen door. From the other side the clatter of china and cutlery blended with female voices to produce sounds of comfortable domesticity. But it was the short corridor just past the kitchen that was his destination. He turned the corner sharply to the left, grateful that no one had seen him yet.

Dusk had settled outside when he pushed open the courtyard door, the western clouds stained crimson from the sun hiding behind the Anwyl. The door had no sooner closed behind him when Jacob noticed the two faces turned in his direction from one of the benches.

“Good evening again, Mr. Pitney!” Mr. Clay greeted.

“Uh…good evening,” Jacob replied. He tipped his hat to Mrs. Clay. “I was just…walking about.”

The two didn’t seem to find anything odd about this. “We’re enjoying the evening breezes,” Mr. Clay explained. “They’re quite refreshing. Will you join us?”

All you have to do is decline politely and walk past
, Jacob told himself. But then wouldn’t they wonder why he was headed off toward the back lanes at this time of evening? Only Mrs. Dearing, Miss Clark, and her parents knew about the lessons. Too many people for his comfort, but he had no control over that. If Miss Rawlins ever found out, she would despise him so much that he could forget any hopes of courting her.

“Are you all right, Mr. Pitney?” It was Mrs. Clay who asked, her usually serene face wearing a concerned expression. “Perhaps you would care to sit and chat?”

She knows
, Jacob thought in a panic. But that wasn’t possible. He was just allowing his nerves to overrule his common sense. He cleared his throat and smiled. “I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be going inside now.”

He would have to leave through the front, which he prayed wouldn’t attract too much attention. Fortunately, the hall was almost empty for a change. “I believe I’ll take a walk,” Jacob mentioned casually on his way past the two facing sofas from which Mr. Jensen and the Durwins were chatting.

Mrs. Durwin looked up from her needlework. “This late, Mr. Pitney?”

“It’s only a quarter past eight,” he told her, then noticing the defensiveness of his voice, added in a more pleasant tone, “The evening breezes are so refreshing, aren’t they?”

“I was always taught that night air was poison for the lungs,” Mr. Jensen remarked. “I never saw a firefly until after I went into service.

Mother forbade us to go outside after six o’clock.”

“Surely you’re aware now that that’s not true,” said Mr. Durwin.

“Yes, but I confess I still find myself taking shallow breaths if I happen to be outside very late. And I cannot bring myself to sleep with an open window.”

I should have gone out the back
, Jacob thought, waiting with strained patience but unable to leave because the conversation, in a way, still included him.

“My mother believed hot water caused rheumatism,” Mrs. Durwin said, smiling. “So our baths were as tepid as possible without actually causing icicles to hang from our noses.”

This brought chuckles from the two men. Had Jacob the time he would have been happy to tell them how the Romans heated their baths, but he was in a hurry. Resolved that it was now or never, he gave the threesome a farewell wave as he walked over to the door, took hold of the knob, and was finally on his way.

It took but a few minutes of brisk walking to reach his destination. Mrs. Clark greeted him at the door. “Lydia is in the back parlor,” she said, taking his hat. “And did you find some nice things on the hill today?”

“Nothing but dirt, I’m afraid.”

“Oh dear,” she sighed. “Your whole day wasted.”