The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (54 page)

“They press flower petals and other natural objects into clay to form the pictures, you see,” he finally continued. “Would you care to accompany me there, Mrs. Somerville? The outing would be wellchaperoned, of course. Mrs. Coggins and Israel—”

“It sounds very interesting, but I’m afraid I cannot accept, Vicar Treves.”

“Very well,” he said with an understanding nod, as if he wished to show that he wasn’t as disappointed as his blue eyes hinted. But then a ray of hope seemed to fill them. “I neglected to mention that it’s not until mid-June. The festival, that is. In case you’re concerned about your injury.”

Noelle shook her head, wishing now she had asked Sarah to tell him she was resting or unable to receive callers. How could she have imagined how disconcerting this would be? But as she wasn’t quite vain enough to believe he felt anything more for her at this stage than infatuation, she thought it better to hurt him a little now than allow him to think there could be any sort of a courtship between them. It would be far less painful to pull out a splinter than to have to amputate a limb later.

“Vicar Treves,” she said quietly, hoping he could tell by the way she looked at him that she actually considered him a pleasant, even interesting, person. “Are you aware that my father is a vicar?” There was no use attempting to keep that quiet since her slip of the tongue Saturday past. And perhaps he already knew.

But he raised both eyebrows, even smiled. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“Where?”

“Truesdale. A tiny place, not even on the map.” Despising the insensitive act she was going to have to present, she nonetheless went on. “And the reason I’m not there with them is that I disliked growing up in a vicar’s household. Actually,
loathed
would be a more appropriate word.”

A ripple of shock passed across his face. “What have you against vicars, Mrs. Somerville?”

“Less than before I moved here,” she had to confess. “I’ll grant you that Vicar Phelps and you have not fit the mold I took for granted was required of men of the cloth. But you’re still married to the church.”

“What do you mean,
married to the church
?”

“Being at the beck and call of every parishioner who has a complaint or simply wishes to take up your time. Having to be pleasant to people who are often not the same to you—
especially
if they are generous tithers.” She shuddered. “And for that, you’re allowed to live in a vicarage that isn’t your own and watch your pennies so that there will still be meat in the pot by the end of the month.”

“It isn’t quite that drastic, you know.” It seemed Vicar Treves was almost amused, for the corners of his mouth curved faintly. “Most of my parishioners have scant time of their own to be taking up mine. I’ve discovered that being pleasant takes much less energy than being otherwise. My fireplace is just as warm, even if it doesn’t belong to me. And I’ve yet to go a day without meat.” And before Noelle could summon a reply, Vicar Treves stood and gave her a polite smile. “But I’m fatiguing you, when you should be resting. I will continue to pray for your full recovery.”

“Thank you,” was all she could say. He was correct about her being fatigued, for she suddenly felt drained of strength. Quetin had made bluntness appear to be so effortless that Noelle had not realized how taxing it could be.

“May I assist you to your feet?” he asked.

She shook her head and touched the handle of the cane he had propped against the arm of her chair. “No, thank you. I’ll just sit here awhile.”

“Very well. Good day, Mrs. Somerville.”

When he was gone, she stared blankly at rows of books and wondered if she had hurt him terribly. Even if their acquaintance was too new for him to feel any sort of deep affection for her, men had their pride.
Father, please comfort him
, she prayed before realizing what she was doing. Then she felt worse, for the prayers of a kept women surely went only as far as the slate roof above her.

At least she had the decency not to lead me along
, Paul told himself as he rode Caesar through Gipsy woods toward Lockwood. He had planned to call upon the Phelps if they were at home, but his heart was no longer in it. Fortunately his heart wasn’t shattered, as it would have been had he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon Mrs. Somerville any longer than they had. Another week or two and he would probably forget what she looked like.

“I do hope you’ll continue reading over the summer,” Lydia said that same afternoon to her dozen students sitting at freshly scrubbed, empty desks. It was unnecessary counsel, of course, for the majority were avid readers and did not need encouraging. The few who despised books would be glad for the reprieve. But there were certain things every conscientious teacher was required to say before turning loose the brood whose minds she had nurtured for the past nine months, and that was one of them.

Another was, “I have enjoyed having you in my classroom, and I will continue to pray for each of you every day.”

“Thank you, Miss Clark,” twelve voices murmured in unison.

She smiled and delivered the last statement, without which the summer could not officially begin. “After we’ve finished sorting and packing up the textbooks, we’ll have punch and cake.”

“To hear from thy lettuce…”

On the Anwyl Saturday morning, Jacob Pitney frowned down at the bronze ax head he was in the painstaking process of unearthing from the hard ground.
Lettuce? She’ll think you’re an idiot for certain
.

He gave it another try, mumbling softly so as not to be heard by Mr. Ellis, who was propped upon a huge stone and scribbling notes some twenty feet away.

“…from thy
lattice
breathed, the word that shall grant…
give
me rest.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Ellis said for the third time that morning.

Jacob looked over at him and for the third time replied, “Sorry. Just talking to myself.”

His colleague returned to his notes, but not before giving him a curious look. Jacob decided it would be best to practice the lines in his mind, without even moving his lips, but he found the process much more difficult.

It was Mrs. Dearing who had helped him find a poem in the
Larkspur
’s library that would prove to Eugenia that he had the soul of a poet. “
You can almost feel the sultry desert night air
,” Mrs. Dearing had enthused. He would have to memorize other works as well, but not before Bayard Taylor’s
Bedouin Song
was cemented as firmly in his mind as the tool in the earth below his fingers. And he believed himself almost ready, in spite of the occasional slip, to impress Miss Rawlins with his poet’s soul. The late hours spent in study for the past week had not been in vain.

That evening Jacob dressed quickly for supper, giving himself time to read
Bedouin Song
aloud—or at least a shade above a whisper—six times. He could hardly taste Mrs. Herrick’s excellent steak-and-kidney pie, he was so nervous, and while watching Eugenia mash butter into her boiled potatoes, he wondered if it would be unseemly of him to ask her to sit in the courtyard with him.
You sat in the garden together
, he reminded himself. But that had been in the daytime, and where any passerby could see that nothing inappropriate was taking place.

Yet he quailed inside at the very thought of reciting like a schoolboy in front of his fellow lodgers—especially a poem having to do with love.

Perhaps tomorrow would be a better time, while we walk home from church
. What was one more night of fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of himself spouting nursery rhymes or the alphabet or some such foolishness? But what if the Durwins accompanied them, as they had just Sunday past?

He drew in a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. Why anyone cared for poetry was a mystery to him, if learning it caused so much anxiety.

“I felt compelled to scold Mr. Trumble for selling the horrible stuff,” Mrs. Dearing was saying, making Jacob curious enough to snap out of his self-torment and pay attention to the ensuing discussion. “Why, it’s almost criminal!”

To the best of Jacob’s knowledge, Mr. Trumble was a good Christian man. What could he possibly sell that would raise affable Mrs. Dearing’s ire?

“One can hardly pass a group of children without being reminded of cows working at their cuds,” she went on.

“But how can we expect them to do otherwise?” Mr. Jensen suggested tactfully. “Look at the example adults have set over the years with their snuff-dipping.”

“Well, I think it’s even nastier than snuff-dipping,” Eugenia entered into the discussion, her spectacles shifting as she wrinkled her elegant nose. “I actually stepped in a wad of it on my way to the barber’s Tuesday. It was murder to get off my shoe.”

Her hair
. Jacob had
thought
she looked different lately. Without being obvious, he looked across at her again and realized about two inches had been shorn.
You have to be more observant
, he lectured himself.

“And
that’s
only when they have the good sense to spit it out,” Mr. Durwin added. “Imagine what it does to the intestines of those who simply swallow it.”

“But isn’t chewing supposed to be good for the teeth?” queried Mrs. Durwin in her usual meek manner. “Dogs chew bones to keep theirs clean.”

“Yes, but bones do not adhere to the teeth as chicle does.”

“What exactly
is
chicle?” Mrs. Somerville asked.

Mr. Jensen patted his mouth with his napkin before replying. “It is the dried milky sap of a Mexican jungle tree, the sapodilla. There was a most enlightening article about it just last month in the
Saturday Review
.”

“But I believe Mrs. Durwin has something there,” Mr. Clay said with a wry smile that alerted all lodgers that the next words from his lips would not be serious. “All we have to do is convince Mr. Trumble to sell
bones
to the little ones instead of gum.”

“The bigger task would be convincing the little ones to
buy
them,” said Mr. Ellis, bringing chuckles from everyone but Jacob, who was still trying to find a foothold in the subject of conversation.

Gum?
What was that?

Mrs. Clay, apparently believing him to be too timid to speak, turned to him and smiled. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Pitney?”

All Jacob could do was confess his inattention. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I didn’t hear the first part of the conversation.”