The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (66 page)

Her face gave signs of an intense inner struggle. “What would people think?”

She’s very young
, Julia reminded herself. Gently, she said, “Is that so important, Miss Somerville? More important than the self-respect you would gain by taking control of your own life?”

“My own life,” the young woman murmured thoughtfully, but with no easing of her expression. “But, Mrs. Phelps, what if something were to happen? What if the squire isn’t pleased with my work? Or I could contract an illness and not be able to work for a long time…”

“And Lord Paxton could tire of supporting you and stop sending money. Every path we take has its risks, Miss Somerville. While I don’t believe in making rash decisions, there is a time when we must prayerfully step out in faith. Why don’t you pray about this for a little while?”

“I will. Thank you,” the young woman replied in an unsure tone.

Well aware of the magnitude of the decision she was leaving Miss Sommerville to make, Julia rose from the chair. “And with that, I’ll bid you good morning. Grace and I are on our way to
Trumbles
to look for a birthday present for one of her friends.”

Miss Somerville got to her feet and held out a hand. But before Julia could take it, the young woman stepped forward impulsively and embraced her. When they drew apart, Miss Somerville’s eyes were shining. “You can’t imagine how grateful I am for your kindness,” she said in a thick voice. “After knowing everything I’ve done.”

“It’s all in the past and forgiven, dear,” Julia told her, her own voice altered by emotion. “And I see a promising future ahead for you, Noelle Somerville. You’ll be surprised at how gratifying it is to accept God’s help in taking control of your own life.”

As the train wheels began slowing for the last time, Fiona sent a weary but happy smile to Leila Keegan, seated across from her in the first-class coach. “Gresham.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Keegan said. “It seems we’ve just left—and yet it seems we’ve been away forever.”

Tom Keegan turned from staring out the window, his flaxen hair almost white in the morning sun. “If you’d ever be needin’ someone to go to Ireland with you again, Mrs. Clay, I’d be most happy to.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Fiona said, and when the boy turned back to the window, she traded smiles with his mother again. A girl from Dublin had won the sixteen-year-old’s heart. He had promised to write, and true to his word, he began drafting his first letter while in the boat crossing Saint George’s Channel, until seasickness drove him up on deck.

So many things to tell you, Ambrose
, Fiona thought, appreciating how nice it was to have someone waiting to hear about her experiences.

And indeed he was waiting, all smiles, along with the rest of the Keegans. As the youngest Irish tot was lifted up into his mother’s arms, Fiona was caught up into her husband’s. “I couldn’t sleep last night for happiness!” he murmured into her ear.

“Nor I,” Fiona told him, smiling.

As fond as she was of the Keegans, Fiona was pleased to discover Ambrose had asked Mr. Herrick to deliver the family home in the landau, having borrowed the Phelps’s horse and trap for themselves. “Would you care to have breakfast somewhere?” he asked after arranging for her trunk to be delivered and helping her into the seat.

She shook her head. “I just want to go home.”

“Home it is, then,” he said with a smile and snap of the reins.

On the way she told him of Aileen’s wedding, how her family was faring, and of her journey to Kilkenny and back. There was so much news to share that it was only when they were halfway to Gresham that she thought to ask what had been going on in the village while she was away.

He turned to her with a wry smile. “Well…”

At half-past eleven, Noelle was finally groomed and dressed for the day. She had spent the night in restless sleep, even having to get up once to tuck her sheet back into the foot of her bed. When morning came, she decided she would rather have the extra sleep than breakfast and did not venture out of bed until past ten o’clock.

You can’t hide in here all day
, she told herself when she became aware of what she was doing. She had no sooner touched her doorknob when a knock sounded from the other side. Noelle opened it.

“Oh!” Mrs. Clay exclaimed with a little jump.

Noelle winced. “I’m sorry!”

The Irishwoman put a hand to her heart and nodded. She showed no signs of the strain of travel in her blue-gray serge traveling outfit and smart Rabagas hat with black ostrich feathers. “I just have to collect my breath.”

“Would you care to come in and sit down?”

“Yes, please. But not to sit.”

Has he told her yet?
Noelle wondered, moving aside to allow entrance.

To her surprise, Mrs. Clay closed the door and turned to look at her. “My husband has told me about your mistake.”

Unable to meet the appraising violet eyes, Noelle replied, “It wasn’t a mistake, Mrs. Clay. I knew full well what I was doing.”

“And that’s what I needed to hear,” her visitor said in her soft Irish brogue. She stepped forward to take Noelle’s hand. “And so it’s all forgotten, Miss Somerville.”

But that wasn’t enough. Noelle forced herself to look up at her. “Am I forgiven?”

“Of course.”

“Please say it,” Noelle whispered.

Her hand was squeezed as the actor’s wife smiled. “I forgive you.”

When Mrs. Clay was gone, Noelle had to sit in her chair for a little while. She felt drained of strength, but in a good way. Like a laborer who can finally sit by his fireside after a fruitful day of work. It was the same way she had felt after organizing Mr. Trumble’s shelves.

Completely forgiven
, she thought on her way downstairs to lunch. She returned the smiles from the dear aged faces at the table, the Clays, and the maids at the sideboard. Had she allowed her impulses free rein, she would have embraced everyone as well.
Except for Mr. Clay
, she told herself and was even able to smile about that.

The next morning she walked across the green and told Vicar and Mrs. Phelps she would be pleased to accept the position at the lending library. That having been done, she went back to the room that would be hers only until the end of June and wrote a brief letter to Mr. Radley.

Mr. Radley,

Please inform Lord Paxton that his support, while appreciated in the past, is no longer necessary.

Noelle Somerville

Yet something inside her still wasn’t quite right. She realized what it was that evening. All the lodgers and Mr. Jensen were gathered in the hall and in especially good spirits, querying Mrs. Clay about her trip to Ireland, and expressing excitement about the debut of the new pulpit in Saint Jude’s in two more days.

“I’m so glad your knee is healed, Mrs. Somerville,” Mr. Ellis told her. “It would be a shame for you to miss church on such a special occasion.”

There was a chorus of agreement that pricked her heart. For she had not yet set straight the falsehood she had told on her first day in the
Larkspur
. And as long as she allowed them to address her as
Mrs
., she was perpetuating the lie.
You may as well do it now and save yourself some sleep
, she told herself when tempted to push the thought aside until later. She lowered her crocheting to her lap when there was a lull in the conversation. “If you please, I have something to tell all of you.”

“What is it, Mrs. Somerville?” Mrs. Dearing asked, smiling. “Have you some marvelous secret to share?”

“Not marvelous, I’m afraid.” Noelle pulled in a deep breath.
Just say the words
. “I’m not a widow. In fact, I was never married.”

“Never married?” Mrs. Durwin blinked. “But your husband was a hero…”

“He was completely fiction.” To Mr. Jensen’s concerned look, she quickly added, “I’ve confessed the same to Mrs. Phelps.”

“But why, Mrs. Somerville?” Mr. Durwin asked.

“That would be
Miss
Somerville,” she corrected tactfully. “I was told that sympathy would secure me a place here more easily.” She restrained herself from pouring out her whole sordid past, because though it was an offense against God and herself, there was no wrong committed against any of them. “And now I must ask your forgiveness.”

“And you have it, Miss Somerville,” Mr. Clay was the first to respond. Others murmured agreement, and Mrs. Clay smiled across at her. Only Miss Rawlins, seated in a chair next to Mr. Pitney’s, looked crushed.

“I was going to base a character on him,” the writer said.

Noelle gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

“But surely you still can, Miss Rawlins,” Mr. Ellis told her. “You write fiction anyway.”

“I suppose so,” Miss Rawlins said, then sighed. “I might have known it was too good to be true. There just aren’t many romantic men around anymore.”

The smile she then gave to Mr. Pitney made it obvious that she considered him an exception to that statement. Noelle smiled to herself at the happiness on the archeologist’s face and thought how glad she was that he had found love. Perhaps she would find it herself one day, but for now, forgiveness was more than enough.

Chapter 42

“You must’ve left the coffee beans in the wagon yesterday,” Mrs. Winters said to Oram when the Sanders males were all at the table for lunch that same Saturday.

Oram swallowed the beef stew filling his cheeks. “I forgot to get some, Mrs. Winters.”

She shot him a vinegary look. “You forgot, did you? And me already havin’ to dig in the bottom of the crock!”

“I’m sorry—”

“Not half as sorry as you’ll be if I have to drink watered-down coffee all week!”

“I’ll go,” Harold offered. But not because he wanted to spare Oram, who was no better than the rest of them and surely wouldn’t jump in to spare him a tongue-lashing. As long as he had to deliver the afternoon milking to the cheese factory anyway, he might as well put off returning to chores as long as possible. And there was always the chance he might happen across Miss Clark.

“Two Sanders in two days?” Mr. Trumble greeted him from behind his counter.

“Oram forgot Mrs. Winters’ coffee beans, and she’s fit to be tied. If we don’t wanter eat porridge all week, I’d best bring her a sack.”

“He didn’t forget ’em. I told him I was out but would get more in this morning. Didn’t he tell her?”

“Nope. But next to Oram, I’m a generous.”

The shopkeeper’s walruslike mustache twitched. “A what?”

“You know, one o’ those real bright people.”

“I see. But what you mean to say is a
genial
.”

“I do?”

Tapping a temple, Mr. Trumble explained, “I’ve read through Mr. Johnson’s dictionary twice now, so’s it’s all stored up here to stay.”

Harold walked across the lane to chat with Mr. Pool’s gardener, Abe Worthy, for a little while, hoping Mrs. Clark would come along. But then Abe started acting as though he wanted to get back to work, so Harold gave up and went back to the wagon. He wondered if he should drive down Walnut Tree Lane past the Clark cottage, but as everyone in town knew he had no reason to do so, he decided against it. Empty milk cans rattled about in the wagon bed as the team neared the Bryce. He happened to look to his right and saw Lester Meeks standing near an oak at the edge of the green. A girl sat near him on the ground, her arms wrapped around the head she had propped against her knees. Pulling Dan and Bob’s reins, Harold hopped down from the wagon.