The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (37 page)

“Not necessarily,” he said with a smile. “You have to move the dirt to find the treasures.”

She liked that and laughed. “That’s the way to look at it, Mr. Pitney.” She led him through the house to the back parlor, where Miss Clark was sitting on the sofa with what appeared to be a school text, and her father sat in the overstuffed chair reading from a newspaper. The old man grinned up at him.

“Evening to you, Mr. Pitney!” He acted as if he were greeting an old friend and not someone who had been to his cottage only once before. “And how’s the digging? Find any swords or skulls?”

“Only dirt today, Papa,” said his wife. “Come and I’ll help you clean your paintbrushes.”

“Since when do you care about my brushes?” the man grumbled while easing himself up from his chair. Clearly he would have liked to have stayed and chatted. When they were gone, Miss Clark smiled and put her book aside. He could see now that a cat was curled up in her lap.

“She’s asleep,” Miss Clark said in response to his gaze. The schoolmistress wore a gray gown, with narrow blue stripes set about an inch apart, and wore her hair in a loose knot. “Jeanie is twelve years old and rheumatic, so I would rather not disturb her. Would you mind getting Miss Rawlins’ book from the top shelf? It’s off to itself on your right.”

“Of course.” Jacob went to the bookcase on the wall behind her father’s chair and found
The Sandringhams of Longdendale
right away. About a dozen narrow strips of paper stuck between pages fanned out at the top. He turned to hand the novelette to her, but she shook her head.

“You’ll need to see the pages too. Perhaps you had best set it here between us.”

The sofa was an ugly mustard color and, like the two chairs, did not match anything else in the room. But it made up for its lack of aesthetic beauty with comfort, for its cushions were thick and soft.

“Where did she get the name Jeanie?” Jacob asked, seating himself.

Miss Clark scratched gently between the cat’s ears. The animal made a slight movement at this attention but did not open her eyes. “From the song ‘Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.’ My father orders sheet music for his trombone and took a liking to it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.”

Taking the novelette from his hands, she set it between them on the sofa and opened it to the first marker. “Don’t say that in my father’s hearing unless you’re prepared for a concert.”

Jacob chuckled, easily able to imagine Mr. Clark performing with no timidity whatsoever. He found that he rather liked the Clark family, so at ease with themselves and visitors. “A concert would be nice, I should think.”

Smiling, she turned her attention back to Miss Rawlins’ story. “Now in this first chapter, did you understand the significance of the death of the future Lord Sandringham’s governess?”

Jake thought for a minute and then shrugged. “I’m afraid I didn’t. The governess is never mentioned in the story again.”

“That’s true. But because the boy’s parents traveled a good deal, he was very attached to her. It was like losing a mother.”

“Yes, I see.”

“So how would that affect his adult years, do you think?”

Brow furrowing, Jacob replied, “Would that be the reason he was afraid to ask for Miss Webb’s hand?”

“I believe so,” Miss Clark replied. “But please understand that while we can discuss our interpretation of things that happen in the story, we can never know precisely what Miss Rawlins’ intentions were.”

“We can’t?”

“No one can read minds, Mr. Pitney.”

He let out a sigh. “Whatever happened to reading for the enjoyment of it? I dig in dirt every day for things hidden. Why must I dig through pages for meanings that may or may not be there?”

Jeanie the cat had somehow sensed his frustration, for she raised her head to give him an appraising look before climbing off her mistress’s lap. Miss Clark lowered the animal to the carpet, then gave Jacob a sympathetic smile. “The lament of every university student, Mr. Pitney. But don’t lose heart. We can find enough here to impress Miss Rawlins.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

She spent the next forty-five minutes going over foreshadowing, symbolism, and character development with him, so when it came time to take from his pocket the half-crown they had agreed upon, he felt he had gotten quite a bargain.

“I still feel a bit strange…taking money for reading,” she told him as they both rose to their feet.

“You performed a worthwhile service, Miss Clark.” He pressed the coin into her hand. “But are you sure this hasn’t interfered with your teaching duties?”

“The stories aren’t lengthy. And this is a pleasant diversion from drawing up lesson plans.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind reading another?”

“I’ll read as many as you would care to discuss. You can drop it off in the morning if you’d like.”

“I have it here.” With a smile Jacob withdrew
The Marquis’ Daughter
from his coat pocket. “As you said, they aren’t lengthy.”

Setting the book on the arm of the sofa, she led him back through the cottage. Her green eyes had a conspiratorial glint as she turned to face him at the door. “I’m looking forward to hearing what Miss Rawlins thinks of your newfound insight.”

So am I
, Jacob thought on his way home. But even though he understood one of Miss Rawlins’ novelettes, he dared not flaunt that limited knowledge too soon. Memories of how he had made a complete idiot of himself in his earlier attempts still intimidated him.
The more books you understand, the more impressed she’ll be
, he told himself, imagining that grand moment when he would become a veritable fountain of knowledge, and she would look at him with awe.

Bless you, Miss Clark
, he thought.

Chapter 24

Lydia walked to school carefully the next morning over cobbled stones glistening from a late-night shower. Tucked in her satchel was
The Marquis’ Daughter
to read during her lunch break while her students played. As she passed the
Larkspur
’s carriage drive on her left, she saw no signs of the archeologists.
Perhaps the ground is too wet
, she thought. She wondered if Mr. Pitney had had the chance to chat with Miss Rawlins about
The Sandringhams of Longdendale
yesterday evening. She hoped the writer appreciated it. How many other men would take such pains to win a woman’s heart?

You had a man pretend to walk to Shrewsbury to get your attention
, she reminded herself. And into her head popped a shocking thought.
If only it would have been Mr. Pitney instead of Harold Sanders
.

“Enough of such foolishness,” Lydia murmured, hastening her steps to leave the
Larkspur
’s vicinity, lest Mr. Pitney come around the wing and see her thoughts written upon her face.

At the schoolhouse, she glanced immediately at her desk upon opening the door—as was becoming a habit. She was grateful to see it was just as she had left it yesterday. Perhaps having to ride in the back of the wagon and being asked to tend children had put a damper on Harold Sanders’ enthusiasm after all.

The students began arriving three-quarters of an hour later. Phoebe’s eyeglasses did not cause the stir Lydia had feared, simply because the girl wasn’t wearing them. By midmorning she felt compelled to usher the girl into the cloakroom.

“Where are your eyeglasses?” she asked in a low voice so the others wouldn’t decide that eavesdropping was more interesting than the arithmetic word problems in their texts.

“In my lunch pail, Miss Clark,” the girl replied. Quickly she added, “Thank you for buying them for me.”

“You’ve already thanked me, Phoebe, and you’re welcome. But I want to know why you’re not wearing them.”

“You haven’t written anything on the blackboard yet.”

“Has someone teased you about them?”

“No, Miss Clark.”

Of course not. She would actually have to wear them first
. Lydia sighed. “Phoebe, patterning your life around others’ opinions is nothing more than slavery.”

Now confusion came to the short-sighted eyes. “Ma’am?”

Sending up a quick prayer for wisdom
and
patience, she explained, “There are eleven other students in this classroom. Each one of them has family, chores, schoolwork, sports, music lessons, and so on. The amount of time that any of them would spend thinking about your eyeglasses is minuscule. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl replied after a thoughtful hesitation.

“Then why spend most of the day uncomfortable, just for the sake of what someone may think of you in those few seconds?” She gave her a moment to mull this over, then asked, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Grateful that her point had been made so easily, Lydia smiled. “Now, go on back to your desk and finish your assignment. With your eyeglasses on, please.”

The girl did as instructed, but tucked them away in her lunch box again during the noon break. Passing where Lydia sat on the porch steps with Miss Rawlins’ novelette, she explained, “I don’t want anything to happen to them.”

Oh yes, you do
. She didn’t reprimand the girl, for one of her father’s favorite homilies about leading a horse to water came to mind. Just before dismissing her students that afternoon, she reminded them of an upcoming assignment. “May twentieth is less than two weeks away, and I’m looking forward to seeing your maps.”

The bas-relief maps of the British Isles were assigned shortly after the Easter recess. Her ears caught the sound of a low groan—decidedly male—but she pretended not to hear it and even smiled inwardly. How she had made nearly perfect marks during her schooling years never ceased to amaze her, for she had spent so much time reading novels that she was forever playing catch-up with other assignments.

It was Philip and Aleda Hollis’s turns to help tidy up the classroom. “What will you do with these this summer, Miss Clark?” Aleda asked as she sprinkled meal over the goldfish bowl.

At her desk, Lydia looked up from fastening the catch to her satchel. “I had planned to take them home. But Mrs. Bartley has offered her pond.”

“For the summer?”

“I’m afraid it would have to be for life. They would soon outgrow their bowl after living in a pond.” She got to her feet and walked over to where the girl stood. Gently tapping the side of the bowl, she said, “I can’t help but think they would enjoy having a lot more space.”

Philip came inside holding a broom and wearing an uncertain expression. “Uh, Miss Clark?”

“Yes, Philip?”

“Mr. Sanders is coming up the lane.”

“No,” she whispered, then held her breath to listen. She could hear wagon wheels—a dreadful sound.
There are more than one Mr. Sanders in Gresham
was the first hopeful thought she could muster. And as most of the village’s pastureland was leased from the squire, this person could have some business at the manor house.

Philip walked over to the window. “He’s holding some flowers, Miss Clark.”

“Oh.” There was nothing Lydia could do but send Philip and Aleda home. And since propriety wouldn’t allow her to invite a man into the schoolroom, even to stress to him that she wanted to be left alone, she walked out on the porch with the two. In the lane Harold Sanders sat in a new-looking wagon behind a team of speckled drays.

“Hullo, Miss Clark,” the man called, wearing his May Day suit of clothes and holding up a bouquet of violets as proudly as a flag-bearer displays his colors.

“Good day, Mr. Sanders.”

“Shall we stay with you, Miss Clark?” Philip whispered at the bottom of the steps.

From the boy’s other side, Aleda suggested, “Philip could stay while I fetch Papa or Luke.”

She gave them both a grateful smile. “Thank you, but I should speak with him.” When they looked doubtful, she added, “He’s quite harmless. At least around women and children.”

Lydia walked over to the wagon as the Hollis children—with several backward glances—cut across the school yard to the north. “Please stay in your wagon, Mr. Sanders,” she said when he started looping his reins around the whip socket.

“I just thought you’d wanter ride…”

“I’m quite content to walk, thank you.”

“…in my papa’s new wagon,” he finished lamely, his heavylidded eyes seeming to glaze over.

She didn’t have the heart not to make some comment. “It’s a fine wagon, Mr. Sanders. But as I said, I will be walking home. And shouldn’t you be fetching your brothers anyway?”

“They got archery practice.” He shrugged and held out the bouquet to her. “But I brought you some flowers.”

The faint pleading in his voice made Lydia feel sorry for him again. She had no experience with these things but sensed there was a delicate line between nipping a romance in the bud and destroying a man’s pride. And so she took the flowers and thanked him. “For the students,” she made it clear. “They’ll enjoy looking at them.”