The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (39 page)

“Very well,” she said, waving him away. It was a simple task, actually, and gave her something to do besides pace the floor. She just had to move aside the merchandise already on the well-dusted shelves, arrange the newer items behind them, and place the older in the front again. To reach the two highest shelves she used the footstool and resignedly stepped aside twice whenever Mr. Trumble waited on patrons.

The first, a middle-aged woman purchasing a spool of thread and card of buttons, sent so many curious glances in her direction that Noelle finally smiled brightly and held up the jar that was in her hand. “Would you care to buy some
Beetham’s Glycerin and Cucumber Lotion
, ma’am?”

“Ah…no, not today,” the woman replied and did not look at her again.

The second customer was a man of dubious hygiene and stubbled cheeks who bought several items. He stared boldly at her, and after returning to the shop to heft a sack of oats upon his shoulder, he went over to where Mr. Trumble had resumed sorting mail. Stacking tins again, Noelle could not hear the question the man murmured to the shopkeeper, but her ears prickled at Mr. Trumble’s reply.

“She’s a widow, Mr. Towly.”

“And content to stay one!” Noelle snapped so that the odious man was sure to hear. She did not turn to see his reaction, but a few seconds later the bell over the door jingled, followed by a hearty slamming noise. She sent a sharp look over to Mr. Trumble, who shrugged.

“He asked if you was married. What was I to say?”

“You could have told him I was a nun.”

The shopkeeper chuckled. “You could do worse. Mr. Towly makes a decent living.”

“Then
you
marry him.” Noelle went back to stacking tins. But when the task was halfway finished, she stepped down from the stool again and folded her arms. “You know, you have no order here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Making a sweeping motion with her hands, she told him, “Tins of tooth powder standing next to tins of beets, matches shoved in here beside lard…”

He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at her with injury across his round face. “But it’s all stacked neat.”

“It’s chaos, Mr. Trumble. I don’t see how you ever find anything.” Giving a sigh, she asked, “Are you about finished there?”

“Not quite.” The injury in his tone matched the look he had given her. “I’ve had customers, you recall.”

Staring up at the shelves again, she asked herself,
What else have you to do today?
She sighed again. “Well, I’m just going to have to put some order here.”

“Order?”

“Clearly this place needs a woman’s touch. I should wonder why your wife hasn’t complained.”

“My—”

“Please get on with sorting the mail, Mr. Trumble.” Noelle motioned him back toward his postal counter. “Trust me, you’ll be glad I came by today.”

Pursing her lips, she scanned the rows of merchandise.
Tinned foods should have a shelf of their own
. She had shown heroic patience with the local people’s lack of urban sophistication but now felt compelled to bring some light into the darkness. She picked up a tin of stewed apples and mused, “Now let’s see. We should start with fruits. Alphabetically, of course.”

The project required more stamina then she had imagined, especially with her having to move aside every time Mr. Trumble assisted a customer. “I cannot find anything, Mrs. Somerville,” he complained an hour later, surveying with a dazed look upon his face the tins and jars and boxes that covered every inch of his counter.

“Well, I haven’t finished.” But Noelle was running out of steam and wondered whatever had possessed her to begin in the first place. “And what about the mail?”

Now his expression grew fearful. “I’m sorry—there’s no letter for you.”

That was enough to sap her strength completely. She sat back on the stepladder, propped her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. “I just don’t understand…”

“Mrs. Somerville?” Mr. Trumble came hurrying around the counter. “Are you all right?”

Looking up at him through blurry eyes, Noelle muttered, “May I have some privacy, Mr. Trumble?”

“But this is my shop.”

“Oh, very well.” She rose to her feet and waved him aside. “If you’ll be so kind as to give way.”

“Give way?” He blinked several times, his mouth gaping. “Mrs. Somerville, you can’t leave me like this.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m in no condition to finish. But I’ve gotten you off to a good start, so—”

“A good start?” Pink spots rose in his cheeks. “I asked you not to go tearin’ apart my shelves, Mrs. Somerville. But now that you’ve started, you’ll have to finish.”

She could hardly believe he was speaking to her this way—and with her heart broken from the disappointment of no letter.
After I spent all that time trying to help him
.

Before she could remind him of that fact, he drew in two deep breaths that sounded like bellows. “Mrs. Somerville,” he said afterward with surprising calm.

“You’re still in my way, Mr. Trumble.”

He moved aside. “I aim to be a gentleman at all times, Mrs. Somerville. But if you don’t put my shelves to order again, I’ll not allow you back in my shop.”

“But I’m your best patron.”

“Patrons spend money, Mrs. Somerville! All you’ve done since you moved to Gresham is come in here and imitate me, day in and day out.”

Noelle was opening her mouth to argue when his words registered in her mind.
Imitate?
The picture that came to her mind was so ludicrous that a little chuckle escaped her.

“And what’s so funny?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Nothing, Mr. Trumble.” She suppressed her smile and picked up a jar of pickled beets. It was rather cruel of her to leave him to finish alone, she supposed.
And he’s likely to pile everything up there every which way
. Besides, she had not thought to brood during the time she had already spent on the task. That in itself was reason enough to continue. Meekly, she asked, “Will you at least help me?”

“I’ve no choice, have I? If I want to close up shop by suppertime, that is.”

“We’ll have it done by then,” she promised.

They were finished by half-past six. In silence she and the shopkeeper stepped back to survey their work. Noelle had always considered it a matter of pride that she had never spent a day of her twenty-one years laboring with her hands. She had never even swept the floor of her own flat. But the pride she now felt as she looked at the orderly rows of merchandise was inexplicably satisfying.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked Mr. Trumble, whose face wore no expression that she could recognize.

He turned to her and smiled. “It’s some change, Mrs. Somerville.”

“Does that mean you like it?”

“I like it fine. I’m going to fetch Mrs. Trumble right away, in fact.”

“Tomorrow you’ll tell me how she liked it?”

“Wouldn’t you care to wait and see for yourself?”

Noelle shook her head. “I’m a little tired now.”

“Then I’ll wait to tell you.” Still smiling, he walked her to the door. “I hope you get your letter tomorrow, Mrs. Somerville.”

The glow of accomplishment stayed with her all through supper, tempering her disappointment over Quetin’s failure to write. She even sat with the others in the hall. But when the discussion drifted over to a book circulating throughout England, written by an American named Charles Russell and stating positively that Christ would return in 1874, she excused herself for her room. Such talk was terrifying—it was easier to store in the back of her mind the notion that one day Quetin would make an honest woman of her and she would reconcile with God. The last thing she wanted to think about was facing Him in the near future.

Oh, Quetin, I need to be with you
, she thought, biting her lip as she took pen and vellum paper from her writing table. She needed his soothing assurances that she wasn’t a bad woman just because she loved someone.

Dearest Quetin,

It has been two weeks now, and I so long to hear from you.

And then because she knew he would become irritated if she dwelled upon her misery too much, Noelle forced herself to inject some lightness into the letter. She told him of coming to the aid of the vicar and his wife in Shrewsbury, of the May Day auction, and helping Mr. Trumble organize his shelves. She even described the lodgers and the servants at the
Larkspur
.

In closing, Noelle could not resist one more plea.

It’s not knowing what to expect in the future that casts a shadow over everything. Is Averyl living in London now? When do you expect I can come home? Will you visit soon? I realize that your Parliamentary duties consume large portions of your time, Quetin, but please respond to this letter as soon as possible.

With undying affection,
Noelle

She folded the pages and was about to put them in the envelope when a more practical matter caused her to pick up her pen again and add a postscript:

Forgive me for calling attention to this matter, but I am almost completely out of money.

The words looked so pathetic, even in her practiced flourishing script, that she felt her eyes begin to burn again. Hastily she folded the letter and stuffed it in the envelope, lest a tear blur the words and give Quetin evidence of how truly desperate she was. Then she recapped the ink and rested her head on folded arms upon the table. Like the proverbial eggs in one basket, her whole emotional and material well-being was in the hands of one person—one who certainly wasn’t as dependent upon her.

Late the next morning, Fiona accompanied Ambrose to the vicarage, bringing a pan of Mrs. Herrick’s butterscotch custard. Though Andrew’s cheek was still quite swollen, he was in good enough spirits to sit out in the garden and even told them of a parishioner in Cambridge who had once brought him a cherry pie.

“She was proud of her baking ability and rightly so,” he said. “But in this case she forgot to remove the pits. My cook feared one of us would choke or break a tooth, so all we could do was consign it to the dustbin.”

Julia slanted a mock suspicious look at him. “I suppose she was one of your pursuers?”

“She was twenty years my senior and happily married, my dear.”

“Did I hear
one
of your pursuers?” Ambrose asked with raised brows. “And wouldn’t that be pursueresses?”

Giving a crooked swollen grin, Andrew replied, “Two would be more accurate, though I venture if either could catch sight of me now, she would be happy for her lack of success.”

“Did the lady who gave you the pie ever ask about it?” Fiona asked the vicar.

“The very next Sunday. And with me standing in the doorway of the church. Of course location has nothing to do with the gravity of a sin, but you can understand that I was at a loss for words.”

“What did you say?” asked Julia.

“I finally told her, ‘A pie like that doesn’t last long at our house.’ ”

Ambrose chuckled over it again as they strolled arm in arm across the green an hour later. Four women were gathered at the pump, one holding a chubby infant who cackled with delight every time someone worked the handle. “Do you believe laughter is a gift from God, Fiona?”

“Oh, most definitely, Ambrose. And so are tears, I think.” Fiona smiled at him. “But I enjoy the laughter most.”

“So do I,” he agreed.

We’ve had both in our marriage
, Fiona thought. Laughter that could spring from the smallest occurrences, simply because they experienced them together. And prayerful tears—hidden from her husband—during some of his darkest moods. Still, she was content.

They met Mr. Jones opening the letter box at the
Larkspur
’s gate. “Shall I bring those inside?” Ambrose asked with a nod toward the envelopes in his hand.

“Very well, sir.” The postman handed them over and touched the bill of his hat to Fiona. “Jolly keen weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”