The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (20 page)

“It’s Somer-
ville
,” she corrected.
How in the world does he buy clothes?
Motioning toward the train, she said, “My trunk?”

“I vill attend to that as soon as you are safely in the carriage.”

He was the only person she knew in the whole of Shropshire, excluding Mr. Treen, who was well on his way by now, so she had no choice but to follow—close enough to keep sight of him when he occasionally wove around knots of people, but far enough away so as not to give those who stared the impression that she was with him. At least the landau was impressive, black and polished, behind a pair of well-groomed red cob horses.

“Frau Herrick has packed some sandwiches and lemonade, in case you are hungry,” he said after he had provided a step and an outstretched hand to assist her into the landau. “I vill return to you shortly.”

Noelle noticed the large cloth-covered basket on the seat beside her and wondered if this Frau Herrick had mistakenly assumed the dwarf was fetching four people instead of one. And then the name registered in her mind.

“Didn’t you say your name was Herrick as well?” she asked just as he was turning to leave.

He turned back to her and nodded. “
Ja
, Frau Somerwheel. She is my vife of twenty-three years and the
Larkspur
’s cook.”

“Is she…like you?” A small chagrin came over her after she allowed the blunt query to escape her lips.
But someone who gets stared at surely is used to personal questions
, she told herself. And besides, he was only a servant.

Still, she was somewhat relieved when he gave her an understanding smile. “She is not like me, Frau.”

“Indeed?”

“She is English, and I am German.”

With that he left for the platform, leaving Noelle wondering at the glint in his brown eyes just before he turned away. After a few seconds she dropped the matter and took a sandwich from the generous basket. It was roast beef, cooked just the way she liked it with a hint of garlic, spread with a deliciously tangy mayonnaise. At least the meals would be adequate, if this was any indication. She settled back into her seat, dabbed a bit of mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth with the cloth, and watched people and trunks being loaded into other carriages and coaches. Presently the dwarf returned, directing a porter pulling a loading truck to the boot of the landau. He then climbed up into the driver’s seat and turned to nod at her before he took up the reins.

Soon the streets of Shrewsbury gave way to a long macadamized road. Noelle looked out at thatched-roof farmhouses and barns, along with pastures seamed with hedgerows in which black-and-white cattle grazed. Her heart sank as even these signs of civilization grew farther apart.
What have you done to me, Quetin?

Chapter 13

Noelle breathed a little easier when the wheels of the coach touched cobbled stones again. This Gresham wasn’t London or even Shrewsbury by any stretch of the imagination, but it wasn’t a cave somewhere either. Cottages were clean and well kept, with budding gardens. In the shaded streets she caught sight of signboards on shops—only a handful, but enough to reassure her that the inhabitants did not barter animal pelts or pouches of corn by way of commerce.

Soon the horses were pulling the landau into a carriage drive between a large building of weathered stone and some stables. “Velcome to the
Larkspur
, Frau Somerwheel,” the dwarf said after jumping from his seat and coming around to assist her.

“Thank you,” Noelle replied. She had the feeling it would be useless to continue correcting his pronunciation of her name. From her beaded reticule she withdrew two shillings and offered them to him.

He looked at her palm and spoke with a dignity disproportionate to his small stature, “That is not necessary, Frau.”

“Very well.” She shrugged and dropped the coins back into her reticule.

“If you vill come vit me, please,” he said with a nod toward a courtyard. They had only taken a couple of steps when a voice, as dry as a bundle of sticks, hailed her.

“Are ye Mrs. Somerville?”

Noelle stopped and looked to her right, where two white-haired women who looked as old as Christmas nodded at her from chairs in a garden across the lane. Oddly enough, they both held what appeared to be cushions in their ancient laps.

“The Verthy sisters,” the dwarf said in a low voice in response to her puzzled glance. “They spin lace.”

He did not move, which made Noelle realize he was waiting for her to answer the woman’s query. “Yes I am,” she called back politely.

“We would’ha gone inside a half hour ago, but we wanted to get a look at you.”

“Well, now you see—”

“You’re from London, aren’t you?” asked a much more pleasant voice, coming from the woman on the left.

Noelle glanced longingly back toward the inn. She had awakened earlier this morning than she had in years, in addition to getting little sleep the past two nights. Every inch of her being longed for a glass of sherry and a bath. “Yes, I am.”

“We’re Iris and Jewel Worthy.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Well, good—”

“Perchance you know our niece, Lucille Forster?”

“No, I’m afraid—”

“Her husband’s name is Roderick Forster,” said the raspy-voiced woman on the right. “He’s a tailor, and they live on one o’ the main streets—Picolo-dally, I believe.”

“I’m certain you mean
Piccadilly
,” Noelle corrected, though she didn’t know why she took the trouble. She motioned to the caretaker that she would like to go inside.

But before setting out again the man raised an arm to the two women. “Good evening to you, fraus.”

“And to you, Mr. Herrick…Mrs. Somerville,” both voices responded. Behind her Noelle could hear a mild argument break out—one woman saying something to the effect that a picolo was a flute-like instrument, and the other insisting that it was a relish one ate with fish. She followed Mr. Herrick across a flag-stoned courtyard, shaded by an enormous oak, then to the heavy wooden door. Turning to give her a nod, the man opened it for her. Noelle stepped into the corridor, took five steps, then nearly collided with a body nipping around the corner.

“Oh! Excuse me,” apologized a girl clad in the black alpaca, white apron, and lace cap of a servant.

“That’s quite all—”

“Would this be Mrs. Somerville?” the maid asked Mr. Herrick while peering owlishly at Noelle through thick spectacles.

“
Ja
. You vill show her to Mr. Jensen?” There was relief in the man’s voice, as if he was glad to be shed of her.

Noelle resented being discussed in her presence as if she were mute and cleared her throat. “And who is this Mr. Jensen?” she demanded. She heard the sound of the door closing behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Herrick was gone.

“Why, he manages this place, ma’am,” the girl answered. She dipped into a curtsy. “I’m Georgette. The
Larkspur
belongs to Mrs. Hollis—I mean, Mrs. Phelps—but since she married the vicar, she don’t live here. But Mr. Jensen was in the hall, last time I looked. Shall I fetch him?”

“No, just show me the way,” Noelle replied wearily. She followed the girl around the corner down a longer corridor, heard kitchen sounds behind a closed door on her left, and caught the aroma of food being prepared. Soft piano notes grew in volume as she passed a staircase on her right, and on her left was an open door through which she could see a long dining table.

Finally the maid paused at an arched, open doorway and turned to her. “This is the hall, ma’am.”

“Well, go on.”

She followed the girl into a room as large as her whole flat—where she would give anything to be at the moment. At the piano sat an elderly woman playing a tune Noelle recognized from
Don Carlos
, one of the tedious operas Quetin insisted upon having her attend with him. A braid of white hair draped over one shoulder, and from her ears dangled a pair of turquoise and silver earrings. Lips were pressed in a straight line, as she was concentrating on a sheet of music before her and had not noticed Noelle.

Which was fine with her, for the aged sisters outside had been enough for one evening. Noelle did not consider herself a snob, but she found old people depressing reminders that beauty and youth eventually faded, and there was nothing she could do about it. And judging from countless parishioners who had sat to tea in the vicarage parlor as she was growing up, they seemed to have a morbid fascination with their own and with each other’s aches and pains.

A sound from one of two facing sofas caught her attention, where a white-haired man and woman were engaged in conversation with a man seated facing them. Noelle could not see his face because his back was to her, but the strands of iron-gray hair combed over a pink scalp indicated he also was elderly. In fact, besides the maid, Noelle had not seen any person since the carriage drive who looked to be under fifty years old.
I’ve been sent to a pension home
, she fumed. She hoped Mr. Radley was enjoying a good chuckle from this, for she certainly intended to wire Quetin in the morning and tell him about the cruel joke his solicitor had played.

The maid approached the man with the iron-gray hair. “Mr. Jensen?”

“Yes, Georgette?”

“Mrs. Somerville is here,” she said with a motion toward Noelle.

The man turned to look over his shoulder at her, then rose to his feet. “Mrs. Somerville,” he said, walking around the sofa. He carried himself with the erectness of a palace guard but smiled warmly. “Welcome to the
Larkspur
.”

“Thank you,” Noelle replied but did not offer her hand. He was, after all, just the manager. But since she couldn’t in all fairness fault him for Mr. Radley’s incompetence, she did manage a strained smile as the piano grew silent behind her. “May I see my chamber now?”

“Why, of course.” He sent an uncertain glance back toward the couple on the sofa, who watched her with curious expressions. “But wouldn’t you care to meet—”

“Later, I’m sure that would be lovely,” Noelle said, sweeping an apologetic smile around the room.

“Very well, Mrs. Somerville.”

They were only a couple of feet from the doorway when Noelle felt a hand touch her lightly upon the back of the shoulder. She turned to find the piano player standing there, her face wreathed in a smile.

“We’ve been so curious about you, Mrs. Somerville. That’s the only reason those two are sitting down here enduring my piano practice.”

“Now, that’s not true, Mrs. Dearing,” the man protested from behind her.

“You play lovely,” said the man’s elderly companion.

Mrs. Dearing winked at Noelle, as if to indicate she realized she was being flattered. She thrust out a hand, which Noelle had no choice but to take. “I’m Blanche Dearing. Forgive my bluntness, but we certainly didn’t expect you to be so young.”

And I didn’t expect everybody to be so old
, Noelle thought, even as she shook hands and returned the smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Dearling….”

“Forgive me, but it’s Dearing,” the woman corrected in a pleasant tone.

“Mrs. Dearing. And now if you’ll forgive—”

“Mrs. Somerville?” This came from the woman on the sofa, who was now being helped to her feet by her husband. Heart sinking, Noelle had no choice but to wait for their approach. The woman, who had pleasant enough gray eyes, came barely to Noelle’s chin, while the man was tall and looked surprisingly fit for his advanced years. “We’re Mr. and Mrs. Durwin. We gathered the periwinkles you’ll see on your bureau up on the Anwyl.”

Noelle had no idea what the Anwyl was, nor did she care. There was no way on earth she could consider staying in a place like this until August, no matter how hospitable its inhabitants. Again she stretched her lips into a smile, though the effort was becoming wearisome. “Thank you. I’m sure they’re lovely.”

“Oh, they’re more than just ornamental,” the man said with a knowing nod at his wife. “Periwinkle, or
Vinca major
, if you will, is of great medicinal value. A fresh leaf inserted into the nostril will stop a nosebleed immediately.”

“How…interesting.” Noelle thanked the couple and turned to follow Mr. Jensen out of the room and to the staircase she had passed in the corridor. He allowed her to take the steps first, and they climbed in silence. She was grateful that he wasn’t fawning and prone to smalltalk. On the first landing, he motioned toward an open door.

“This is the sitting room,” he told her, taking a step toward it. But Noelle shook her head.

“I’ll see it later, please. I would rather go to my room now.”

“Right away, Mrs. Somerville.”

But he did not stop walking. Noelle heard him speak to someone inside the sitting room, and then a rounded woman, with graying dark hair drawn back into a knot, accompanied him out into the corridor.

“This is Mrs. Beemish, our housekeeper,” Mr. Jensen said.

The woman dipped into a quick bob. “Welcome to the
Larkspur
, Mrs. Somerville.”

“Thank you,” Noelle replied with what she considered heroic restraint.

“Mrs. Beemish will assist me in showing you to your chamber.”