The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (64 page)

It seemed then that the voice she had deafened herself to for so long spoke in her heart.
Help is yours for the asking, My child. But you must take that first step before I can give it
.

When she wanted to protest that it was unfair, a picture came inexplicably to her mind of a boat on rough seas. Two men were huddled together at the mast wearing expressions of terror, yet one man clung to the edge, looking out into the distance.
It wasn’t until he stepped out of the boat that Peter was able to walk on water
, the voice seemed to say.

“Will you take lunch with us, Mr. Sanders?” Mrs. Meeks asked after Harold had assisted her from the wagon in front of her cottage. This time Harold was eager to accept, for he was in a fine fettle, and not just because Miss Clark had again looked at him as he drove the wagon down the green. He had a secret, one that had kept him grinning almost the whole time he waited outside Saint Jude’s.

But polite people went through certain motions, he was learning by watching his sister, and so he first replied, “But you haven’t got to feed me just because I gave you a ride.”

“We would enjoy your company, Mr. Sanders,” she told him.

“Well…if you’re sure—”

“Mr. Sanders, will you catch me?” Lester asked, perched atop one of the wheels. The others had already scrambled down to the ground.

“Lester, Mr. Sanders doesn’t want to be pounced upon,” his mother scolded.

“I don’t mind.” Harold turned, took two steps backward, and held out his arms. Hesitating only briefly, as if considering changing his mind, the seven-year-old sailed out into the air and into Harold’s arms.

“That was fun!” Lester exclaimed as he was lowered to the ground. “May we again?” he asked, while Trudy and the others looked hopeful.

“No, children,” their mother said firmly.

Harold nodded agreement. “You’re all too big for the likes of me. But after lunch I’ll unhitch Bob and lead you around, if you ain’t afraid of riding bareback.”

He was almost embarrassed by how happy this made the children, who chattered like rooks and clapped their hands.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Sanders,” their mother said with her soft brown eyes shining a little in the sunlight.

“Aw, it’s nothin’,” he replied, ducking his head. But then Harold remembered his delightful secret. Turning to Mark, he said, “Climb back up in there. I’ve something for all of you.”

“There’s a sack in here, Mr. Sanders,” Mark announced after being directed to open the lid of the supply box behind the wagon seat.

Harold chuckled to himself and hitched his arms over the slats on the side. “Well, hand it over.”

With a grunt the boy did his bidding. “It’s heavy.”

Of course it was, Harold thought happily as he took the drawstring sack from the boy. All of their eyes grew wide as he hefted from it a ham as big as a gourd.

“Mr. Sanders,” Mrs. Meeks breathed, her hand up to her collar. “We can’t be takin’ food from your family.”

“It ain’t from my family. I bought it with my own money.”

“But it’s too expensive.”

“I got a right fair price,” he assured her with a grateful thought toward his brother, who had the good sense to court a woman who worked on a pig farm.

Lydia’s brother, Noah, along with his family and Beatrice’s mother, Mrs. Temple, came for lunch after church. They later visited in the front parlor until the children and Lydia’s father grew cranky for need of naps. After the cottage was quiet again, save the click of her mother’s knitting needles from the sofa and soft snores drifting from the ceiling, Lydia sat in a chair with William Morris’s
The Earthly Paradise
.

She could not absorb herself in the words, however, because her mind continued to dredge up a picture, just as a child wiggles a stubbed toe in his shoe in spite of the pain. Mr. Pitney and Miss Rawlins had walked home from church together several yards in front of her family. The two held hands, and when Mr. Pitney turned to send them a smile and wave, he appeared happier than she had ever seen him.

She closed her book, prompting her mother to lower her knitting to her lap.

“Not a good story, daughter?”

“I’m just not in the mood for reading.”

“I could always teach you to knit.”

Lydia smiled because the offer was made in jest. It was a family joke that Lydia’s domestic tendencies were somehow misplaced when she was created. And her stock answer was, “Perhaps tomorrow, thank you.” Setting her book aside, she rose and stretched both arms out in front of her. “I believe I’ll take a walk to clear my head.”

“Would you like me to go with you?”

Bending down to kiss her forehead, Lydia replied, “No, thank you.”

Her intent had not been to hike the Anwyl when she stepped through the cottage doorway. But a half hour later she was walking one of its footpaths. The quarried red sandstone, which had been used to build many of Gresham’s cottages, was cool, and the dirt path had dried enough not to be dangerous. Still, Lydia kirtled her dress about her knees so she could see her footsteps. She had no worries about her solitude being invaded, for the dampness would discourage any picnics, and the archeologists did not work on Sunday even when the hill was dry.

Her lungs filled with air smelling of damp earth and the myriad of tenacious flowers in the tall grasses along the path—the ubiquitous milkwort, bluebells and buttercups, forget-me-nots, mountain pansy, and blossoming pink clover. Tranquillity surrounded her, and yet try as she may, she could not bring peace to her mind. Upon reaching the evacuation site, she stared down into the depression where Mr. Pitney had shown her how to look for artifacts. There was evidence of more recent work, more gaps in the earth where something had likely been discovered. She wondered if he had found his missing link. Surely he would tell her if he had, but perhaps not, now that she was no longer his tutor.

“Father, please help me to stop feeling this way,” she murmured, and then realized the unfairness of her request. While God could work miracles, He did not wipe thoughts from a person’s mind. Free will was a gift since the Garden of Eden. How could she expect God to extinguish the love in her heart for Mr. Pitney when her mind would not stop thinking about him? And how could she stop thinking about him when she still saw him at Saint Jude’s every Sunday? When she could not step out of doors without seeing the Anwyl, knowing he was up there at work?

“You have to do something,” Lydia spoke aloud again, this time to herself. And by the time she reached the bottom of the hill, she had a plan.

But her mother and father, awake from his nap, reacted with intense disapproval. “Glasgow?” her father questioned. “Why do you want to go back there?”

“Just for a visit, until school starts here again. I can bring my texts to review and still make myself useful by helping to mark papers and such. It would be nice to see my former students.” And there would be students there.
Saint Margaret’s
only recessed a month for Easter and one for Christmas, yet still had a waiting list among members of the peerage with too much money and too little maternal and paternal instincts.

“You know what that damp old place did to your lungs. What if you take the pleurisy again, and that far from home? Why, you wouldn’t even be able to ride the train back.”

“But the summers were pleasant, Papa,” she reasoned.

The worry did not leave her mother’s normally serene expression. “You plan to stay there the
whole
summer?”

“Closer to two months, Mother. June is halfway over. And I still have to write Mrs. Mitchell and wait for her reply.” Mrs. Mitchell was the headmistress and Lydia’s mentor for the fourteen years she taught there. “You’ve nothing to worry about. If I get so much as a sniffle, I give you my word I’ll pack my things and catch the first train home.”

“That’s reassuring, daughter,” her mother said, but a question still lingered in her eyes. “But forgive me for asking. You aren’t…”

“Aren’t what, Mother?”

A hesitation, and then, “Running away, are you?”

It would have been dishonest to ask what she meant, and again, dishonest to reply that she wasn’t. So Lydia simply replied, “It’s something I have to do, Mother.”

You have to take that first step
went again through Noelle’s mind as she brushed her hair in preparation for retiring for the night. How could she take it, when the very thought of Quetin and Meara made her clench her fingers so tightly that her fingernails stabbed her palms? They had hurt her, and no doubt thought her naiveté terribly amusing.

“They’re still hurting me,” she murmured as the realization struck her. They stood between her and God, robbing her of the peace of mind that she longed to know. And she was the one allowing them to do so!

She set her brush down and studied the image in the mirror. The candle on her dressing table painted her face with a yellow pallor. No innocent victim stared back at her, but a foolish woman who had knowingly involved herself with people who were ruthless with others, even their own families. So why was she so stunned when they turned on her?

And what was more important? Clinging to her hatred, nursing a grudge until it sent bile through her body and hardened her features, or pleasing God, who had mercifully given her another chance?

Pushing out from the table, she got on her knees and rested her chin upon the hands she had clasped upon the bench. Her eyes she closed tightly, and she listened to the night sounds floating in through her open windows. She imagined herself a vessel, filled to the brim with hatred so that there was no room left for joy.
No more
, she thought, and prayed,
Father, I forgive them
.

Yet there was something wrong, something unfinished, for the joy she so longed for did not flood the vessel. And painfully, she discovered that it was not yet empty. Unforgiveness for her family had been stored inside for so long that it had hardened, clinging to the sides. She bit her lip and felt the sting of tears again. She would have thought forgiving Quetin and the others the more difficult, but the family wounds, though they were older, were deeper.

You have to do this
, she told herself.

Father, I forgive my family as well
. She brought each face to mind.
My parents, sisters, and brothers—all of them
.

The effort had been as strenuous as hiking a mile, and yet now that it was done, she felt strangely relaxed. And clean. Tears that had threatened earlier flowed freely, dripping down onto the upholstered bench until she wiped them upon the sleeve of her nightgown.