The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (73 page)

He voiced the question to Vicar Phelps, who replied, “It all depends upon you, Paul. We have to assume that if you begin seeing her again, it could lead to courtship and perhaps even marriage, if she feels the same way. But can you forgive her past?”

“Don’t you mean
forget
her past?”

His friend shook his head. “While God can and does forget, and it’s noble for you to attempt to do so, I don’t believe it’s possible for a man to totally expunge such a thing from his mind. What I’m asking is if you can forgive what she did.”

“But it’s not my place to forgive sins that weren’t committed against me,” Paul responded, perplexed. “She didn’t even know me back then.”

“If you should happen to marry Miss Somerville one day, then they will have been committed against you. As well as herself and God, of course.” Vicar Phelps’s hazel eyes were serious, almost grave. “Our sins all too often affect the people in our futures. The woman who frivolously marries a drunkard sins against the children she will bear one day, who will suffer having him as a father. The man who gambles away his inheritance steals from his unborn children, who will grow up in poverty.”

“What will she have taken from me?”

“Total peace of mind, Paul. There will be times when you will have to struggle not to think about what she has done. And if you have not forgiven her completely, it will cause a breach between you that can only widen over time and possibly break your family apart.”

Paul nodded understanding. He had been in the ministry long enough to discover that most people’s unhappiness was a result of seeds planted years earlier. Above anything else on earth, he wanted a home one day filled with harmony and love. “Have you ever witnessed a successful marriage in such a case? Where one partner has had to forgive the other for something of that nature committed in the past?”

“Yes,” Vicar Phelps replied, smiling warmly. “And that family is a joyous sight to behold. But I will offer you the same counsel I gave to one of the partners—in this case, the young woman—before they married.”

“Please do.”

“Repentance is only the first step on a spiritual journey. It is not wise to assume that the person who has turned abruptly from his or her sin has immediately become a mature Christian.”

“Of course,” Paul agreed. He too had witnessed short-lived
rededications
.

“Then I would advise you to give Miss Somerville a little time to grow spiritually before you consider courting her. For her sake as well as yours. Your courtship will be on a more solid foundation, and you won’t have given away your heart prematurely.”

That made perfect sense, but Paul couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Yet he had not sought counsel just to ignore it if it didn’t suit him exactly. “I’ll do that,” he promised.

“Very good.” Vicar Phelps glanced at the clock on the chimneypiece. “It’s almost ten. This would be a good time to pay her a call at the library. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“But you said…”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t be friends, Paul. Julia and I were friends before we began courting. You don’t want Miss Somerville to forget who you are
while
she’s growing spiritually, do you?”

In the back room, Noelle read aloud the last page of
The Story of Little Sarah and Her Johnny-cake
to the three women in chairs—one holding a baby—and seven children seated cross-legged on the rug of a rich sapphire blue:

The ploughman he ploughed, and the grain it was sown,
And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown;
It was ground at the mill, and again in her bed
These words to young Sarah the grandmother said:
“You shall get me a Johnny-cake—quickly go make it;
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.”

Holding up the final page, Noelle allowed her small audience a look at the picture. “And so now Sarah finally has all she needs to bake her grandmother’s cake,” she told them.

“The story don’t say nothin’ about eggs,” Mrs. Kerns, a cheese factory worker’s wife wearing a faded yellow calico, said in a worried tone as she jiggled her baby boy lightly on her knee to keep him from fussing. “She won’t be able to bake a decent Johnny-cake without eggs.”

“Mayhap she keeps chickens,” Mrs. Draper, whose husband worked on a dairy farm, offered as the children began getting to their feet.

Her six-year-old son asked Noelle through two missing front teeth, “Will you read the one about the bluebird again, Miss Somerville?”

Mrs. Draper shushed the boy, but Noelle smiled and put a hand up to her throat. “I’m afraid story time is over, James. I have to save some voice for next week. But you may bring it home with you if you like.”

With an eager face he turned to his mother. “Not this time,” she said with a shake of her head.

“We have a new policy,” Noelle mentioned casually, so as not to embarrass any of the women. “One storybook per child may be checked out at no charge. If you return it within the week, you may choose another and so on.”

It had taken all her reasoning abilities to talk the squire into that one. “But subscriptions are necessary to keep the library selfsupporting,” he had argued. “And we already have the lowest rate in the county.”

Noelle’s point of view was that very few children’s books were checked out anyway, so the loss would be minimal. Most people with means purchased books for their children and handed them down among siblings. And while those with limited means were willing to invest a half-farthing for a thick novel, they considered it wasteful to spend it on a picture book that could be read in a half hour. It was a shame to have such a wonderful children’s collection sitting mostly undisturbed upon a shelf. Books were no good to anyone unless they were read.

The Wednesday morning story hour was another of her ideas. Illiterate adults who normally would be too intimidated to step foot into a library—such as the three women present—needed an incentive to encourage reading in their children. Mr. Jones had spread word as he delivered mail, and today’s meeting, the second, had double the attendance of the first.

Noelle had no idea where this passion to promote reading in Gresham came from. She still found it difficult to settle her busy mind long enough to become absorbed in a novel. Yet she did enjoy telling stories to her little group, watching their eyes grow large at times, such as when Jack’s giant searched for him, and hearing their giggles when Old Mother Hubbard’s dog danced the jig. Even the mothers had smiled over that one.

As the women lingered in the reading room to chat, and the children looked through the collection of books she had carried in there with her, she excused herself to see if any patrons waited to be assisted in the main room. She started at the sight of the tall man facing her on the other side of the doorway.

“Good morning, Miss Somerville,” greeted Vicar Treves, smiling down at her.

Many times over the past month Noelle had wondered how he had taken the news about her past from Vicar Phelps. While she did not think he had it within him to judge her harshly for the past of which she had repented, she was positive he would have no more interest in seeing her socially. As was within his rights, she had also reminded herself several times.

“Vicar Treves,” she said with a polite smile. She did not offer her hand, as it would devastate her if he showed some hesitation in taking it.

But his blue eyes were warm. “I hope you don’t mind my lurking about in here. I enjoyed hearing you with the children. What a grand idea—using a library to promote reading.”

“Why, thank you.” The compliment truly surprised her. But why was he here? Surely there was a lending library in Lockwood. The group from the back came chattering into the room, and she excused herself to move over to her desk to check out books for the children.

“We can come again next Wednesday?” Mrs. Kerns asked.

“
Every
Wednesday,” Noelle replied, happy for the question. They left presently, the children turning to wave just before walking out onto the stoop. When Noelle turned away from the doorway, Vicar Treves was walking from the back with a chair hooked on one arm.

“You’ve changed the place a bit since the last time I was here,” he remarked, placing the chair facing her desk. “I like the rug.” He went around to hers and pulled it from the desk for her. “May we? I won’t detain you from your duties for very long.”

As she was getting used to sleeping soundly at night, Noelle figured she might as well hear what he had to say instead of worrying herself with speculation. “I’m very surprised you’re here,” she told him when they were both seated.

“I needed some time to think and pray. You understand, don’t you?”

How well she did. Aware that her past misdeeds were on both their minds, shame threatened to well up within her.
My Father has forgiven me
, she reminded herself and quenched the hateful thoughts.

The door opened, and Helen Johnson, the baker’s daughter, came for a book Noelle was holding for her. The girl handed her a small bundle in brown paper, and after dipping a quick curtsy to Vicar Treves, she apologized for having only one chocolate strasse inside. “My mother thought you might like a treat before your lunch.”

“Please tell her it was very thoughtful.”

“I will.” Helen looked pleased but still lingered with a preoccupied expression even when the book was in her hand.

“Is there another book you would like to see?” Noelle finally had to ask.

Twisting a dark braid, she replied, “Miss Clark says I have a very good reading voice, with lots of expression. Do you think I could help you on Wednesdays until school starts?”

“Why, I think that’s a delightful idea. That way we could take turns, and I could see about the desk every now and then.”

“Oh, thank you!” the girl gushed.

When the door closed behind her, Vicar Treves smiled again and said, “I can recall your misgivings about being here when we first met on the train. But you’ve made a place for yourself in this community, haven’t you?”

“They’ve made a place for me,” Noelle said, returning his smile. She asked if he would care to share the pastry.

He shook his head and apologized for staying longer than he had promised. “I’ll get to the reason I came so you can enjoy your treat without me staring across at you.”

There was affection in his eyes that should have pleased her, for she had shed her prejudice against ministers as husbands and fathers—even if her own parents had yet to write. And she had learned that contentment and peace of mind could make having only a few material belongings seem like great wealth. But everything within her cried that she wasn’t ready for a new romance just yet. She was still in the process of discovering things about herself she never knew and talents she never realized she possessed. If she allowed herself to fall in love, she feared that would again become the primary focus of her life.

But how many times could she discourage the man across from her without his losing all interest? She certainly didn’t want that to happen.
Father, I don’t even know what to pray for
.

“Miss Somerville, I was wondering…” he began.

Noelle held her breath.
Just please don’t let me ruin everything
.

“…do you think we could establish a friendship?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have feelings for you that refuse to go away. And frankly, I don’t want them to. But I’ve been made to understand that rushing into courtship isn’t always wise.”

Tension began draining from Noelle’s neck and shoulders. “That makes sense.”

“It does?” he asked with a surprised expression.

“Yes. I do enjoy your company. And I’ve never had a close friend who was a male.” She made a face. “Actually, until just recently I’ve had very few female friends.”

“This is new for me as well, Miss Somerville,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ve never had a close friend who was a woman.”

“I can see we both have a lot to learn. How should we go about this?”

“Well, we could write.”

“Letters, you mean?”

He nodded. “You could tell me all about your workdays, and I could tell you about mine. Our thoughts on different subjects, and so on. We really know so little about each other.”