The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (76 page)

Like almost all inhabitants of the late nineteenth century, Jacob Pitney appreciated the innovations that made life more convenient. He especially appreciated railway transportation, for had he to rely upon coaches, the distance to Dover would severely limit the opportunities for visiting his family.

But today it took all his reasoning to keep from feeling that the
Severn Valley Railway
had acted spitefully toward him, for the train carrying his parents on the last leg of their journey had left Birmingham two hours behind schedule. A cracked wheel-bearing was the cause, his father had explained at the Shrewsbury depot while Jacob hurried them to the barouche that Squire Bartley had insisted upon providing. Fortunately the squire’s driver understood his haste, and the team of Cleveland bays had pounded the roadway from Shrewsbury to Gresham.

It was only when Saint Jude’s steeple was in sight that Jacob realized, to his chagrin, he had not asked the name of his sister’s baby. But not because he blamed his new niece for taking her time about being born. Indeed, he had wired his parents last week, telling them to stay until the baby arrived to be with Gloria, who was rightfully pampered by the whole family, even though she was grown and married. Everyone would have ample opportunity to meet Lydia after school was out for the summer, when he would take her on a delayed honeymoon to include Dover.

“They named her Lydia Rose,” Jacob’s mother, seated on his right, replied when he voiced the question.

Jacob was both pleased and perplexed. “Lydia?”

“After your Lydia,” his father raised his chin from the warmth of his muffler to supply unnecessarily from the facing seat.

“But they’ve never even met her.”

His mother patted his arm, while a smile creased her rosy cheeks. “But we all love her already—just from your letters. And Gloria figured your Lydia must be close to a saint, since you waited so long to pick just the right woman.”

Or rather, God saved me from my own stupidity
, was Jacob’s wry thought. But he smiled at his parents. “You’ll love her even more when you meet her.”

“Should I lower the veil now?” Lydia asked while feeling with a gloved hand for the first tier of lace flowing back from the comb at the crown of her head. Surely Mrs. Phelps would be in any minute to signal time for the walk up the aisle.

“I suppose so, daughter.” There were tears in her mother’s eyes as she looked up from her diminutive height. “But it’s a shame to cover such a beautiful face.”

Smiling, Lydia leaned down to kiss her mother’s soft cheek. Of course she was just being kind, as was Jacob when he told her she was beautiful—which seemed to be every time they were together. But it was always nice to hear. The sanctuary door opened and Mrs. Phelps came through it, accompanied by the vicar and Lydia’s father.

“What is wrong?” Lydia asked, for all three faces wore the same anxious expression.

“What time was that train to arrive?” her father asked.

“Eleven. Isn’t Jacob here?”

Somberly he shook his head, and Vicar Phelps asked if he should send Luke to see if something was the matter. A tiny seedling of doubt entered Lydia’s mind, but she forced herself to dismiss it before it could take root. The man who had charged the road to Shrewsbury on horseback to ask her hand would be here.

And sure enough, the heavy door leading from the outside flew open, and Jacob walked through the doorway. He wore his dark suit and a flush across his face. “Forgive me, Lydia, but the train was late,” he explained as he held the door for the elderly couple with him.

“You’re not to be looking at her, Jacob!” Lydia’s mother cried, standing on tiptoe to cover Lydia’s face with the veil.

Though she entertained no superstitions, Lydia assisted her mother and covered her face. She said to Jacob’s parents while their son closed the door, “I’ve so looked forward to meeting you both.”

Jacob’s mother, a tall, pleasant-faced woman with white hair peeking from under a silk bonnet, crossed the small vestibule with her husband following. The older woman embraced her carefully, so as not to crush her gown. “And we’ve looked forward to meeting you, Miss Clark.”

“Please, call me Lydia,” she said, then turned to her parents and the Phelps. “And I would like you to meet—”

“Why don’t we get the two of you married and then we can sort out all the new relatives?” Lydia’s father blurted.

Heat rose to her cheeks, making Lydia glad for the veil. She was startled and relieved when her soon-to-be father-in-law began bobbing his gray head. “That sounds like a fine idea to me.”

Over his father’s shoulder, Jacob winked at Lydia just before a smiling Vicar Phelps took him by the arm. “Shall we conduct a wedding, then?”

The room emptied of all but herself and Mrs. Phelps as the vicar led Jacob away, and the two sets of parents left for their front-row pew.

“I’ll take good care of her,” Mrs. Phelps assured Lydia’s mother, who clearly would have preferred to stay.

Presently Mercy Langford’s clear voice drifted through the door, singing “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling” to the accompaniment of the organ and violin. “Are you nervous?” Mrs. Phelps asked, holding Lydia’s hand.

“A little,” Lydia confessed. “But mostly grateful.”

The vicar’s wife smiled. “God’s gifts are good, aren’t they?”

Lydia nodded, smiling through the lace obscuring her face. “Yes, so good.”

And in this fourth decade of her life, she had learned that those gifts which seemed a long time in coming were the most precious of all.

“Are you ready?” Julia whispered, easing open the door at the final notes of Mercy’s solo.

“I’m ready, Mrs. Phelps,” the schoolmistress replied in a voice thick with emotion.

The organist began softly playing Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” with the violin accompanying. Julia nodded. “It’s time, then.”

Miss Clark’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and she began taking measured steps past her and through the doorway. Not wishing to accompany the bride up the aisle, Julia waited several seconds before easing the door closed and slipping into the back row. Finally she allowed herself a little shudder. She didn’t think Miss Clark had even noticed the chill of the vestibule.
Come to think of it, there was an occasion when you didn’t either
, she reminded herself, thinking back to a certain December wedding over two years ago.

She grew misty eyed at the joy on Jacob Pitney’s handsome face as he stared at his approaching bride.
How dramatically their lives have changed
. What would Mr. Pitney have thought if someone had told him just months ago, when he was too timid to speak to women about anything that didn’t involve archeology, that he would soon be standing in front of the village exchanging marriage vows?

And Miss Clark, who had devoted her life to the children of other people. Could she have foreseen at this time last year that she would soon be starting a family of her own?

A snippet of verse from the book of Habakkuk crossed her mind.
I will work a work in your days which ye will not believe, though it be told you
. That not only applied to the couple at the altar, she realized as she glanced around the assemblage in the pews before her. Would Fiona have believed, back in the days when she was scrubbing floors, that she would become the real-life leading lady of a famous actor? Or Miss Somerville, that she would become a respected village librarian? She thought about Mrs. Kingston-Bartley finding love in her advanced years. And Jonathan Raleigh becoming a schoolmaster and new father. Who would have thought a former convict, Seth Langford, would become a successful horse farmer, or Harold Sanders a new believer, churchgoer, and family man?

Her next thoughts turned inward. During her fourteen years as a naive, sheltered London housemistress, she had not so much as daydreamed of becoming a woman of business and then marrying a vicar.
Perhaps it’s best you don’t tell us these things, Father
, she prayed as her beloved Andrew began the marriage ceremony.
We would lose our sense of awe and gratitude if we could predict everything
.

Another passage of scripture came to her mind and caused her to smile.
I will sing unto the Lord, because He hath dealt bountifully with me
.

“Bountifully,” Julia whispered.