The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (43 page)

“Mr. Sanders?” Timmy Casper said through a gaping tooth.

“Give me a minute,” Harold told him sternly on his way back to the half dozen children who waited for siblings at practice. “I’ve told you how taxin’ this is to a grown man’s body.”

“Yes, let him rest,” Phoebe Meeks scolded.

“Why don’t we give you a turn, Mr. Sanders?” asked Lester from the merry-go-round.

“Give me a turn?” Harold chuckled. Wouldn’t that be a sight? “I’m too heavy for the likes of you.”

“No, you ain’t, Mr. Sanders.” Lester let go of the iron bar and let himself to the ground. “We’re strong enough. Do get on.”

“Please?” another child pleaded. “You don’t have to be afraid. It won’t hurt you.”

Hurt me?
Did they really think he was afraid? Throwing up his hands, Harold declared, “All right. You can give me a spin.”

There was much giggling as children scattered from the contraption and took up positions at the bars. Trudy looked for a place from which to push but was admonished by Phoebe to move out of the way lest she get trampled. That led to tears, so Harold intervened.

“Here, now,” he said. “You can ride with me.” So when he was satisfied that the giggling girl’s arms were securely wrapped around a bar, he made a face at the children waiting to push. “Go ahead—if yer able, that is.”

With a whoop they were at it, their legs pumping slowly at first as the merry-go-round squeaked into action. “I told you I was too heavy,” he taunted. But in just a few seconds they had built up a surprising speed. The school building, trees, his papa’s horse and new wagon—they all whizzed by him. He clutched the bar a little tighter, while beside him Trudy squealed and begged to go faster.

Why do they like this so much?
he wondered as queasiness rolled up in waves from his stomach to the top of his head. He thought that maybe the scenery flying past was the problem, so he closed his eyes. That made it even worse.

“Wheee!” Trudy cried.

“Stop!” Harold shouted.

When the contraption was mercifully still again, Harold flung himself out of it. Only the ground was spinning just as fast, and he pitched forward to his hands and knees.

“Mr. Sanders?”

The little monsters were all around him now, staring with wide eyes.

“I’m all right,” he muttered.

“Shall I fetch you some water, Mr. Sanders?” asked Phoebe.

“No. Just leave me alone.”

“Miss Clark is coming,” Lester warned.

“Oh.” Harold pushed himself to his feet. He took a few unsteady steps to look past the corner of the schoolhouse. Sure enough, she was walking up the lane. With his stomach still in his throat he wove toward the wagon and shimmied up into the seat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sanders,” he heard a minute later.

He tore his eyes from the fingernails he was pretending to study, looked down at the lane beside him, and replied nonchalantly, “Oh…good afternoon, Miss Clark, I didn’t know you was there.”

As usual she did not stop to chat, but he was positive that her steps slowed a little. Was she hoping he would chat some more?
You’re supposed to be distant
, he reminded himself. So he gave his attention again to his fingernails. He did not look up again until she had had time to go beyond the crossroads, for it would ruin his plans for her to look back and catch him staring at her.

The children were still milling about the merry-go-round and sent him remorseful looks as he approached.

“We’re sorry for making you sick, Mr. Sanders,” Timmy apologized.

“I weren’t sick. I just didn’t care for it.” And Harold couldn’t see how anyone in his right mind would want to spend one minute spinning around like a top. But as the children about him were fond of the contraption, and he had nothing better to do, he asked in a gruff voice, “Well, are you gonter stand there all day or get aboard?”

Chapter 28

The Worthy sisters were not alone in their garden when Lydia crossed Market Lane. Her father, wearing a paint-spattered smock over his clothes, stood in concentration behind his easel about six feet away from their chairs.

Iris noticed her first and gave her a serene, if rather stiff, smile while her fingers continued to spin lace on the cushion in her lap. “Good afternoon, Lydia.”

At the sound of her name, Lydia’s father looked up from his canvas long enough to salute her with his brush. “Hello, daughter.”

“Good afternoon,” Lydia said to all three as she drew closer.

“Did all the children bring their maps to school today?” Iris asked.

“What maps?” Jewel asked before Lydia could reply.

“The paper-mache ones. You remember Ben Mayhew showing us his just this morning, don’t you?”

Jewel frowned. “That were a map?”

“What did you think it was?”

“Ladies, please,” Lydia’s father interrupted. “Will you look this way again?”

Meekly, both obeyed. Lydia went around to her father’s side of the canvas. True to his habit, he had painted the wattle-and-daub cottage and the garden first. A surprisingly good likeness of Jewel stared back at her while he filled in the finishing touches to Iris’s black lace bonnet. “Very nice,” Lydia said.

“Thank you.” And without missing a brush stroke, he lowered his voice to ask, “Did Harold Sanders snub you again today?”

Lydia glanced at the sisters, whose expressions had become decidedly more attentive. “Papa…”

He grimaced. “Sorry.”

“Well
I’m
not,” she was unable to resist saying with a little smile before bidding farewell to the three of them.

Five minutes later as she unlatched the gate in front of the cottage, she saw her mother sitting in the long shade of the elm tree, squinting at a familiar-looking book held close to her face.
Countess Lucinda’s Journey
, the novelette she and Mr. Pitney would be discussing tonight for their third discussion meeting. “You’ll ruin your eyes,” Lydia warned after leaning down to kiss the proffered soft cheek.

“The book isn’t
that
bad, dear.”

“No, I meant the lighting.” Realizing her mother was teasing, she smiled and shook her head. “You and Papa are just alike, you know?”

“Yes? Is that a terrible thing?”

“It’s wonderful.” She put her satchel on the ground, and her mother gathered aside the skirt of her gingham gown to make room for her on the bench. “How did he convince the sisters to sit for him?”

“Oh, they were delighted to do so after your father offered to make them another washpot.” Her mother returned the wave of Doctor Rhodes passing by in his trap and asked, “Will your Mr. Pitney be here again tonight?”

“He’s not
my
Mr. Pitney, Mother,” Lydia replied, surprised by the bitterness in her own voice. “Miss Rawlins holds claim to his heart—even though she doesn’t realize it—nor deserve it.”

“It’s not like you to speak that way, Lydia.” Her mother gave her a pained but understanding smile. “You’ve grown fond of him, haven’t you?”

Very fond of him
, Lydia thought, but replied, “It doesn’t matter how I feel about him. But it grieves me to see a man practically have to memorize her little stories to get her to see his worth.”

Patting her hand, her mother said, “Infatuation is a strange thing, Lydia. It’s like a spell we cast on ourselves. If he’s so ill acquainted with her, then Mr. Pitney has obviously fallen in love with love itself.”

“He’s too intelligent for that,” Lydia protested.

“Unfortunately, that has little to do with infatuation. But sometimes intelligence will bring it to an end, in due course.”

“How?”

“If his knowledge of Miss Rawlins’ books does indeed bring them together, he’ll be forced to contend with her true personality instead of the myth his mind has created. Perhaps he’ll find himself suited to her—or perhaps not.”

Lydia couldn’t help but feel hopeful at the
perhaps not
. Not because she entertained any hope that he might turn his affections in her own direction. But at least he wouldn’t continue offering his heart to someone unable to see that it was made of gold.

That evening, Jacob’s knock upon the Clark cottage door was answered by Mr. Clark himself. “And so you’ve come for some more book talk, have you?”

Though there was no mockery in the elderly man’s voice, still Jacob found himself stammering his reply. “Uh…yes, sir.”

“Well, come inside, then,” he said, stepping out of the way. “Lydia’s fetching my pipe. You’ve time to compliment me on my latest project.”

Jacob was motioned to an easel set up before the fire screen. “Why, it’s the Worthy sisters.”

“Don’t see how you can tell. I ran out of daylight.”

Incredulously Jacob looked up at him, for even if one face was unfinished, any resident of Gresham could tell their identities by the lace-spinning cushions and cottage in the background. He realized then, by the glint in the man’s eyes, that he was teasing. Jacob smiled. “This is very good. But didn’t you say people were difficult to paint?”

“Aye, they still are.” He cocked a white eyebrow meaningfully. “And catching them is even more so.”

A vision of Mr. Clark chasing down one of the Worthy sisters flashed before Jacob’s eyes. “Sir?”

“Cost me a washpot, just to get those two to sit in their garden and do what they would be doing anyway. And I won’t be surprised if they up their fee when I go back to finish tomorrow.”

From the open doorway leading into the rest of the cottage called a familiar voice. “You left it in the kitchen, Papa! Mrs. Tanner says you ought to keep one in every room so we aren’t always…” Miss Clark entered the room and paused at sight of Jacob. “Oh, good evening, Mr. Pitney,” she greeted with a sheepish little smile.

“Good evening,” Jacob replied, returning her smile.

She handed her father his pipe and then offered her hand. She was clothed in a simple blue dress, and her brown hair drawn back loosely into a knot. Jacob was surprised at himself for not noticing before now that she was almost as tall as he. Or that her ears were slightly prominent. He rather admired that she didn’t try to conceal them with curls or ribbons or such.

“I wouldn’t have bellowed like a fishwife had I realized you were here, Mr. Pitney,” she apologized. “I’m afraid we’re used to shouting at each other, especially when Papa misplaces his—”

“Amos—it’s not upstairs!” another female voice called through the doorway, just before Mrs. Clark stepped into the room. Her plump cheeks pinked. “Oh, Mr. Pitney. How rude you must think us.”

“Actually, you make me feel quite at home,” Jacob confessed. “We’ve a bakery connected to our house back in Dover, and our father would often have to shout through the doorway for another hand if business was brisk. My sister and brothers and I could each mix dough and serve customers by the age of ten.”

“That’s a far step, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Clark. “From baking to archeology.”

“Amos…” cautioned his wife.

“I don’t mind.” Not only did Jacob not mind, but he found himself enjoying the exchange. “I actually spent my first year at Oxford studying to become an engineer. My mother’s brother was an engineer, and I admired that he got to travel and build bridges. But I happened upon a book titled
Nineveh and Its Remains
in the library one day—”

“And Nineveh won out over bridges!” Mr. Clark exclaimed. “What an interesting story, Mr. Pitney. I do so admire folks who aren’t afraid of change.”

“Amos,” Mrs. Clark said again, yet with affection in her voice as she took his arm. “We should allow Mr. Pitney and Lydia time to chat.”

The old man looked disappointed but shrugged. “Very well. I suppose I’m to find something useful to do.”

“I could use some help with untangling a skein of wool upstairs. Jeanie made a mess of it.”

“Oh joy,” he mumbled affably.

Seconds later, Jacob was seated with Miss Clark on the sofa in the back parlor. Jeanie, the yarn-tangling cat, jumped to the space between them and curled up for a nap. “You’ll have to forgive my father’s gregariousness,” Miss Clark said while turning pages of the copy of
Countess Lucinda’s Journey
. “He forgets that you aren’t here just to socialize with him.”