Read The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark for Free Online Page A

caution upon her oval-shaped face. “Why not real theatre! After all, one of our parishioners is a famous actor. And his one-man show two years ago was the talk of Gresham.”
    The muffled claps were louder this time, intermingled with excited chatter. Intercepting Fiona’s panicked look, Julia raised a hand for attention.
    “Ladies…” she said when silence finally arrived. “I must remind you that Mr. Clay is here for a much needed rest.”
    Mrs. Bartley was the first to retract. She had once been Ambrose’s walking partner and felt great affection for the man. “That’s true,” she declared. Resuming her chair, she sent Fiona a look filled with regret. “I quite forgot myself.”
    “It was a good idea, Mrs. Bartley,” Fiona replied calmly, smiling to show that she understood.
    A moment or two of collective thoughtful silence had lapsed, when Mrs. Latrell had a suggestion. “We auctioned box lunches on May Days back in Faversham. You know, for the unmarried couples? Couldn’t we do that here as well?”
    This plan was seized upon eagerly. Mrs. Bartley was nominated, seconded, and then voted unanimously to head the project. When the business part of the meeting was concluded, Julia slowly made her way over to Fiona. Every woman she passed complimented her on her husband’s sermon yesterday or asked about Elizabeth, and it would have been rude not to linger and chat for a minute.
    “How is Ambrose?” Julia asked her friend when they finally had the opportunity for private conversation. She wasn’t quite sure when friendship between the Phelps and Clays had evolved into a first-name basis, but it seemed perfectly natural to her now.
    Taking her hand, Fiona replied, “The same. Thank you for coming to his rescue. He insisted that I attend today.”
    “I assumed as much. Your happiness is so important to him.”
    “I would have been just as happy to stay with him.” She flashed a guilty glance to the nearest circle of chatting women. “Not that I’m not having a lovely time.”
    “I understand,” Julia assured her.
    “Anyway, he mentioned challenging Mr. Durwin at the draughts board. And Mr. Bancroft from London has asked him to read a couple of plays to keep in mind for the future. So at least he has things to do with his time besides stare out the window.”
    “And besides pamper his wife?” Julia asked with an affectionate squeeze of her friend’s hand.
    A spark warmed Fiona’s violet eyes. “We wouldn’t want to get too carried away, would we now?”

     
    “And so who can give us an example of iambic pentameter ?” Lydia Clark asked the seven girls and five boys at their desks, students of the Octavia Bartley School for Advanced Learning . As usual, Helen Johnson’s arm shot up immediately, while other students rustled through the pages of their anthologies. Lydia simply sent the girl a smile that said, Let’s give someone else a turn this time, shall we?
    “Ben?” she said after an appropriate amount of time had passed.
    The wheelwright’s son looked up from his text. “Uh… The Eve of Saint Agnes ?”
    “A very good example. John Keats used iambic pentameter more than any other form. Read us a line, please.”
    Ben, whose dream was to be an architect in a big city, cleared his throat. “ The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold .”
    “Can you hear the five soft and strong rhythms?”
    Twelve heads nodded, and Lydia stepped over to the blackboard. “For this next exercise, I would like you to pretend you’re writing the body of a letter to a friend, using iambic pentameter. It should be at least eight lines.”
    The faces of all five boys filled with panic, as if she had asked them to prepare a dissertation in Latin. “It isn’t that difficult once you get in the habit of thinking in rhythm,” she reassured them. “You may even enjoy it.”
    If any believed that, it didn’t show by their expressions. Billy Casper’s arm shot up, prompting Lydia to add, “An imaginary