The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark Read Online Free Page A

was unthinkable. They were exceedingly blessed in that wise investments made during his earlier years made it possible for him to take long stretches of rest, even to retire if he wished. This welcome interlude would last until February of next year, when he was committed to begin rehearsals for Byron’s Sardanapalus at the Princess’s Theatre.
    “But what will you do while I’m away?” she asked. “Sit at this window all morning?”
    “No, of course not.”
    “Well, I’m relieved to hear—”
    “I may move to the other window.”
    Frowning, Fiona said, “Ambrose…” He chuckled, a welcome sound to her ears.
    “Or rather, I’ll dress and see if Mr. Durwin is up to a game of draughts, seeing as how his wife will be away as well.”
    A knock sounded at the door. “That will be Mr. Herrick,” Fiona told him. She kissed his forehead again and left, looking back once from the doorway just to reassure herself that his urging her to go had not been just a noble act. Had there been tears shining in his slate gray eyes, she would have stayed, but he was smiling with his hand lifted to bid her farewell.

     
    Andrew spent almost an hour with Mrs. Ramsey and Mrs. Cobbe, then returned to Market Lane and headed north. While passing the Larkspur , he set the basket down over the wall to be collected on his way home. His next visit would be with Mrs. Perkins, who was recovering from an attack of ague. He paid attention only to the lane directly in front of his steps, grateful that no passersby were out with whom he would have to stop and make small talk. Why didn’t you simply tell her where the bread came from? he asked himself. Lies told by omission were just as sinful as those spoken aloud.
    He had just raised a lethargic fist to knock upon Mrs. Perkins’ cottage door when his left ear caught a series of dull raps and a male voice shouting something that sounded suspiciously like an oath. Andrew stepped back into the lane and peered toward the stone bridge over the River Bryce. The Sanders wagon sat motionless, still hitched to the pair of speckled drays, and listing to the left where a familiar figure was bent over a wheel, banging at it with a hammer.
    “Thank you, Father!” Andrew muttered as he hurried up the lane with fists balled at his sides. At least he would have the opportunity to give Harold Sanders the rough side of his tongue for all the trouble he had caused! But that righteous indignation began to fade with every step. One of the consequences of spending hours each week in Bible study was that scriptures having to do with returning good for evil and turning the other cheek now nudged themselves into his mind uninvited. He unclenched his hands, and when he was within hearing distance, he called out, “Broke again, did it?”
    Harold twisted his body only long enough to send a scowl over his shoulder, then raised the hammer again. “It’s a piece of rubbish, this old wagon!”
    Stepping closer, Andrew could see the problem. The wheel had apparently hit a rock, which caused the seam in the iron rim to separate, breaking the wood felly and two spokes. “Couldn’t have happened in a better place, you know.” When Harold looked at him again, Andrew motioned toward a stone cottage and wheelwright’s shop at the entrance to Worton Lane. “Mr. Mayhew’s. I don’t see how you can fix it yourself without the proper tools.”
    Harold’s scowl grew even more sour. “Can’t take it there.”
    “Why not?”
    “My papa—” he began, then shrugged.
    It was easy for Andrew to supply the rest in his imagination, for it seemed that either Willet Sanders or one of his older sons had feuded with every man in Gresham. Even easygoing Mr. Trumble had banned Harold’s brother, Dale, from his shop for several months for insulting one of his customers.
    “Well, if you’d like to unhitch one of the horses and go home for help, I’ll stay with the other one.”
    “Can’t. My papa and Dale are in Grinshill