Chapter 6 #2
As Phoebe couldn’t help but agree with that assessment, she didn’t argue the point—even if she did not care for the slight against her staff. “Mr. Godwin wasn’t in a position to host, and thus, never felt the need for a cook, but I assure you that I have already made inquiries.”
Taking a sip from her tea, Mrs. Whitcombe nodded. “Just so. You’ll find it makes all the difference.”
Phoebe reached for her own teacup and let the matter rest with a vague nod in acknowledgment.
“And how are you settling in?” asked Mrs. Whitcombe, glancing about the parlor, which already bore the signs of its mistress’s influence.
“I have yet to explore Kingsmere in its entirety, but what I have seen is breathtaking,” said Phoebe, offering up that sugar to sweeten the conversation.
Besides, it was true enough. “And I am quite pleased with The Parsonage. I’ve spent every free moment exploring the nooks and crannies and coming up with grand plans for its improvement. ”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, setting down her teacup. “The house is perfectly suited as it is. There is no need for improvements.”
“I did not mean that as a complaint,” said Phoebe with a placating smile.
“I adore the house and have no plans to make wholesale alterations. I was merely thinking of adding shelves here and there, painting a few walls, and installing some seating in the garden. Perhaps erecting a wall along the edge. That is all.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s expression puckered tighter and tighter with each word, which was positively ridiculous, as it was not a slight against the property. What woman did not wish to alter such things in her new home? And what did it matter to anyone what the rector’s wife did to her own abode?
Grasping onto a change of subject, Phoebe asked, “I understand Mr. Whitcombe is from home at present, though I have not heard when he is to return.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s mouth thinned, the warmth in the room cooling at a rapid pace.
“My husband’s movements are his own concern,” she said at last, her tone clipped, offering no further explanation as she lifted her teacup once more, and the silence that followed sat stiffly between them, weighted with something Phoebe could neither name nor dispel.
Clearly, that had been a misstep, though she could not see how, but there was no need to dwell upon it.
Turning her attention to the tea service, Phoebe focused on all the little actions required to serve her guest. With a poke of the mote spoon, she unclogged the teapot’s spout, dislodging the loose tea, and poured herself another cup of that perfect blend—and forced herself to refrain from petting the tea caddy like a beloved puppy.
Whatever else this new life demanded of her, there was peace to be found in these rituals and her new role: Mistress of The Parsonage.
***
Shaped by habit more than ambition, Kingsmere was the sort of village whose rhythms had been set long before its current residents were born.
It was the sort of place where people were known by their work as much as their names, where news traveled swiftly with varying degrees of accuracy, and where change arrived slowly, if at all.
The village green lay trimmed and orderly, bordered by shops and houses with windows thrown open to invite what little breeze the day might offer.
Carts moved along the lane at an unhurried pace, their wheels kicking up faint plumes of dust, while the drivers’ voices carried on the air as they called out greetings when they passed.
Roads stretched out from the village center, passing by cottages with laundry strung out to dry and gardens carefully cultivated for both need and pleasure.
Samuel walked the length of the village at an even pace, his thoughts tracking the calls already made and those awaiting him. Mrs. Turner’s roof was leaking again. Mr. Hale’s back was troubling him again. Mrs. Barnaby’s larder was near empty.
The curate from Barton had done well enough in Samuel’s absence, but there was just too much work to be done for a clergyman to manage both his own curacy and the neighboring parish.
However capable Mr. Pike was, Kingsmere required its own shepherd, and Samuel felt the press of that truth settle more firmly with each house he passed.
A quiet sense of rightness settled in him as he gazed out upon his parish. It had been too long, and the simple act of walking these lanes again eased the strain that had settled into his shoulders the moment he had climbed the stage to Haverford.
Raised voices broke through the warm quiet of the afternoon, and Samuel perked, glancing about to see where the trouble lay. His feet pulled him along, moving past the last few cottages at the edge of the village to find Mr. May, red-faced and shouting, his finger jabbing at a stranger.
“That is robbery!” The farmer looked positively apoplectic, and Samuel quickened his pace, determined to calm the fellow before he fell over dead.
“This is the law,” said the stranger, his expression as unchanging as his tone. “It is your responsibility to keep your animals under control—”
“May I be of service?” asked Samuel, inserting himself between the men and subtly moving them back a pace.
Mr. May’s ruddy face turned to him, his mouth opening and closing as though struggling to identify the newcomer, though that quickly passed as he bellowed again, “He stole my pig!”
“That is a serious accusation,” said Samuel, threading peace and calm through his voice. Though a burning glare made it clear that his parishioner did not wish reason to prevail, Mr. May did as bidden and drew in a breath, seeming to get himself under a semblance of control.
Once that was settled, Samuel turned to the newcomer. “I fear we have not met, Mr…?”
“Norcroft,” said the fellow, extending his hand. “I am the Whitcombes’ new steward, and this is estate business.”
Glancing at Mr. May, Samuel’s stomach dropped to the ground, and for all his practice and self-control, he struggled to keep his expression impassive as he considered that revelation.
The new steward.
Saints above.