The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (4 page)

“Nursemaiding you, Ambrose? That’s not what I do, and you know it. If anything, you’ve been the one to take care of me.”

“A responsibility I do not take lightly,” he teased.

It was so encouraging when Ambrose could find his sense of humor even when in the grip of despondency. Coming home to the
Larkspur
four days ago had been the wise thing to do. He had finished the twenty-month run of
The Barrister
at the Prince of Wales Theatre with the usual glowing reviews. But in the latter months of the performance, his vacillating moods, coupled with the demands of the stage, had proved so taxing upon his strength that taking up another role immediately afterward was unthinkable. They were exceedingly blessed in that wise investments made during his earlier years made it possible for him to take long stretches of rest, even to retire if he wished. This welcome interlude would last until February of next year, when he was committed to begin rehearsals for Byron’s
Sardanapalus
at the Princess’s Theatre.

“But what will you do while I’m away?” she asked. “Sit at this window all morning?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear—”

“I may move to the other window.”

Frowning, Fiona said, “Ambrose…” He chuckled, a welcome sound to her ears.

“Or rather, I’ll dress and see if Mr. Durwin is up to a game of draughts, seeing as how his wife will be away as well.”

A knock sounded at the door. “That will be Mr. Herrick,” Fiona told him. She kissed his forehead again and left, looking back once from the doorway just to reassure herself that his urging her to go had not been just a noble act. Had there been tears shining in his slate gray eyes, she would have stayed, but he was smiling with his hand lifted to bid her farewell.

Andrew spent almost an hour with Mrs. Ramsey and Mrs. Cobbe, then returned to Market Lane and headed north. While passing the
Larkspur
, he set the basket down over the wall to be collected on his way home. His next visit would be with Mrs. Perkins, who was recovering from an attack of ague. He paid attention only to the lane directly in front of his steps, grateful that no passersby were out with whom he would have to stop and make small talk.
Why didn’t you simply tell her where the bread came from?
he asked himself. Lies told by omission were just as sinful as those spoken aloud.

He had just raised a lethargic fist to knock upon Mrs. Perkins’ cottage door when his left ear caught a series of dull raps and a male voice shouting something that sounded suspiciously like an oath. Andrew stepped back into the lane and peered toward the stone bridge over the River Bryce. The Sanders wagon sat motionless, still hitched to the pair of speckled drays, and listing to the left where a familiar figure was bent over a wheel, banging at it with a hammer.

“Thank you, Father!” Andrew muttered as he hurried up the lane with fists balled at his sides. At least he would have the opportunity to give Harold Sanders the rough side of his tongue for all the trouble he had caused! But that righteous indignation began to fade with every step. One of the consequences of spending hours each week in Bible study was that scriptures having to do with returning good for evil and turning the other cheek now nudged themselves into his mind uninvited. He unclenched his hands, and when he was within hearing distance, he called out, “Broke again, did it?”

Harold twisted his body only long enough to send a scowl over his shoulder, then raised the hammer again. “It’s a piece of rubbish, this old wagon!”

Stepping closer, Andrew could see the problem. The wheel had apparently hit a rock, which caused the seam in the iron rim to separate, breaking the wood felly and two spokes. “Couldn’t have happened in a better place, you know.” When Harold looked at him again, Andrew motioned toward a stone cottage and wheelwright’s shop at the entrance to Worton Lane. “Mr. Mayhew’s. I don’t see how you can fix it yourself without the proper tools.”

Harold’s scowl grew even more sour. “Can’t take it there.”

“Why not?”

“My papa—” he began, then shrugged.

It was easy for Andrew to supply the rest in his imagination, for it seemed that either Willet Sanders or one of his older sons had feuded with every man in Gresham. Even easygoing Mr. Trumble had banned Harold’s brother, Dale, from his shop for several months for insulting one of his customers.

“Well, if you’d like to unhitch one of the horses and go home for help, I’ll stay with the other one.”

“Can’t. My papa and Dale are in Grinshill lookin’ at some cattle. Won’t be back ’til afternoon milking. And Fernie and Oram are as useless as Jack and Edgar.”

Why don’t we try being a little more negative?
Andrew thought. “What if I spoke with Mr. Mayhew? I’m sure he would allow your father to pay him later.”

The man got to his feet and turned around to face him. One eyebrow lifted over a deep-lidded moss green eye. “You would do that, Vicar?” He motioned toward the bed of the wagon and at least had the decency to blush. “You know I stole your cake.”

And I’ve half a mind to bring you to Mrs. Paget and let her deal with you!
Andrew thought. “It’s fig bread. And yes, I would do that, Harold.”

Both eyes narrowing with suspicion, the man asked, “How did you know my name?”

“The same way you know mine, I expect. Small village.”

“You ain’t gonter make me promise to go to church, are you?”

“I can’t make you promise anything,” Andrew replied. “But I confess it would please me if you did.”

He shifted his feet. “Well, I’m Wesleyan.”

Andrew did not contradict the man by pointing out that having a sister and two younger brothers in the Wesleyan faith did not make one a Wesleyan any more than having a brother in the Royal Navy made one a sailor. “You can find God at the Wesleyan church, too, Harold. Or I can tell you about Him now, if—”

“We’d best get on over there if you’re gonter talk with Mr. Mayhew,” Harold cut in. “But it won’t do no good.”

With a quiet sigh, Andrew replied, “Well, you never know until you ask.”

As it turned out, Mr. Mayhew declared he could get to the job within the hour and didn’t seem to mind that it was a Sanders wheel he would be repairing. He even offered to allow Harold to leave one of the horses in his paddock so he could go home on the back of the other one and tend to some chores. After thanking Mr. Mayhew, Andrew walked with Harold back to his wagon and helped him unhitch the horses.

“Here, this is for you,” the man said, avoiding Andrew’s eyes as he scooped a towel-swathed bundle from the bed of the wagon and thrust it at him. He shrugged again. “I just wanted to see if I could get away with it anyway.”

It was on the tip of Andrew’s tongue to tell Harold to keep the loaf, but then it didn’t seem right that thievery should be rewarded—even when the thief offered to return his bounty. So he tucked it under his arm and caught up the reins of the horse that he would be walking over to Mr. Mayhew’s.

“Think about church, now. Reverend Seaton would be happy to see you.”

Harold mumbled something in reply that could have been either affirmative or negative—or perhaps simply a grunt—as he hoisted himself onto the bare back of the other horse. He took up the reins, lifted a hand in farewell, and rode off across the bridge.

Just as Andrew was leaving the wheelwright’s shop, it dawned upon him that he could now right the wrong he had perpetrated earlier. He would have to confess all to Mrs. Ramsey, of course, but it would be better than living with the guilt that had returned in full force to nag at him. And how could Mrs. Paget hold it against him if the proper loaf of bread had eventually found its way to the Ramsey cottage?

He took the back way down Walnut Tree Lane, eager to have it done with before making the rest of his calls. Recrimination no longer clouded his senses, enabling him to appreciate the coolness of the tree-shaded lane and the varied colors of newly blooming gardens in front of half-timbered and stone cottages. Within minutes his spirits were fairly soaring.

And then his eyes caught motion in the distance ahead. Mrs. Ramsey, wearing a bonnet and carrying a shopping basket, was walking briskly toward Market Lane.
Must be going to Trumbles
, he thought, hurrying to narrow the distance between them so he could call out to her. But then an idea insinuated itself into his mind, causing him to return to a slower pace.

She only leaves when her mother is napping
. And their kitchen was located in front of the cottage. He had never actually mentioned to Mrs. Ramsey what
kind
of bread he had brought her. What if he slipped inside and switched the loaves? It would be such a relief not to have to worry about this whole affair becoming fodder for gossip.

Shame!
he told himself. No decent Christian would even consider such a thing, much less a man of the cloth. But then another thought nudged the first one aside.
Is it so wrong to want to undo what I’ve done?
True, it would require a certain unpalatable stealth, but hadn’t Joseph once surreptitiously hidden a silver cup in his brother Benjamin’s sack? Who would argue that Joseph was not a righteous man!

And what about Harold Sanders? Now that was something to consider. If word reached the young man’s ears that the vicar had spread tales of his misdeed, he might never darken the door of a church!

“Good mornin’ to you, Vicar!”

Andrew fairly jumped at the booming voice of Doctor Rhodes’ gardener, who raised his clay pipe in greeting. “Good morning, Mr. Blake,” Andrew returned when his pulse slowed to normal again. “A fine day for gardening, isn’t it?”

“Ah, but it is at that!” The gardener’s grin stretched wide above a red beard. “And a fine day to be out walkin’. Men are gettin’ too soft these days, forgetting what the Almighty made feet for!”

“Yes, that’s true,” Andrew agreed, but with much less enthusiasm than Mr. Blake’s, seeing as how he would be riding in his trap if Julia hadn’t needed it. He passed six more cottages and then turned onto Thatcher Lane, all the while almost hoping someone would be in the lane or out in a garden to stop him. When he reached the Ramsey cottage, shaded by the meandering branches of a sentinel oak, he stopped and sent a look in all directions. There was no one in sight.
I’m simply correcting myself
, he rationalized. If he had accidentally walked away with Mrs. Ramsey’s umbrella instead of his own, there would be nothing wrong with switching them in her absence.

With heart pounding he opened the front door—he would not ease it open as a thief.
You’re not a thief
, he reminded himself. If Mrs. Cobbe woke, he would just have to explain his actions. He could see a white, familiar shape upon the table and drew closer. Incredulously, Mrs. Ramsey had wrapped the loaf in a towel identical to the one Mrs. Paget used—white cotton with yellow binding. And so the task was easier than he had imagined, a simple matter of switching bundles and heading out the door again.

He had to retrace his steps up Walnut Tree Lane, in case Mrs. Ramsey should be on her way home. If only the hard knot in the center of his chest would go away! With everything put to rights again, surely he should be feeling as cheerful as he had this morning when he left the vicarage.
It’s this loaf!
he thought, glancing down distastefully at the blackberry bundle under his arm. Like Achan’s gold, it was a symbol of what happens when one takes that first step on the downward path of deception. He had to be rid of it as soon as possible!

Turning onto Church Lane, he could see the Worthy sisters across from the
Larkspur
’s carriage drive, sitting in a patch of sunlight in their garden between a pear and yew tree. The lap cushions upon which the white-haired women pinned their lace-spinning patterns were so much a part of their frames that it always seemed unusual to Andrew to see the two seated in church without them. As he moved closer, the two bade him good day in unison. Andrew returned the greetings. His steps finally felt a little lighter.

“How are you keeping this morning?” he asked the two, who were actually sisters-in-law, not siblings by birth.

Jewel, the more outspoken of the two, nodded as her gnarled fingers continued to weave threads through the pins on her cushion. “Got more orders than we know what to do with, Vicar.”

“But we’re making a tablecloth now,” Iris told him in her soothing voice. “To send to the queen. Her birthday is next month, you know.”