Chapter 9
Heat settled over Kingsmere with a stubborn persistence, refusing to yield to cloud or raindrop; day after day, the sun climbed into a pale, unblinking sky, leaching the color from the hedgerows and gardens.
The fields beyond the village, once lush with promise, grew dull and brittle at the edges as dust lingered in the air, clinging to boots and cart wheels.
From a distance, the village still wore its familiar face with its tidy cottages and shops, but there was a tension beneath the calm that strengthened with each rainless day.
Kingsmere would endure. It always did, and that knowledge granted a modicum of peace.
Yet as the season pressed on with quiet insistence, the threat of a lean winter hung over the village.
Samuel shifted in the saddle, his eyes tracing the horizon as his mount held true to her name; Creeping Jenny’s hooves plodded slowly along the path, but his thoughts careened about with all that would need to be done during the coming months.
Poor harvests meant starving villagers, and the vestry council needed to prepare.
His mare knew the path home better than he did, so Samuel gave her her head as he considered just how different his life was from that which he had imagined when stepping onto the clerical path.
Of course, there had never been a question as to what profession Father would choose for him; while his eldest son was destined to follow in his sire’s footsteps, Uncle Bertram’s connections within the church had made it the logical choice for the secondborn.
Thankfully, it suited Samuel as much as it suited the limits of his family’s finances and influence.
Then again, when he’d begun this journey, his young mind had imagined hours of study and reflection, sermons and rites.
One would assume that the foremost duty of a cleric would be seeing to the spiritual needs of his flock, and yet, their worldly well-being occupied far more of his time.
Whether bolstering low spirits or aiding them in times of financial trouble, more of his attention was fixed on this earthly plane, rather than the spiritual.
With so much of their work happening behind closed doors, it was little wonder that most viewed clergymen as mere religious scholars who only bestirred themselves on Sunday (if that).
And it didn’t help matters that a great many of his brethren were in the profession solely for the income, rather than inclination or skill; far too many were content to hire a curate to manage the bulk of the work, leaving the lofty rector or vicar free to do as he pleased.
Gazing up at the clear expanse before him, Samuel listened to the grasses rattling in the breeze and couldn’t help but wonder how much more peaceful his life would be if he followed their example.
No more politicking and social maneuvering.
No more bearing others’ trials and tribulations.
No more obligations. Simply a book and a comfortable chair whilst a curate managed the rest.
Heaven knew there were a good many young men desperate for a curacy (however meager the income), and Samuel could afford to hire one. And a rector couldn’t be removed from his position, no matter how much he neglected his duties.
But that was a ridiculous and entirely worthless thought. If Samuel could so easily abandon his responsibilities, he wouldn’t have married a near stranger.
Creeping Jenny moved along slowly enough to nibble on bits of grass as they passed, and Samuel was happy to let her do as she pleased.
As his visit to the Willards had concluded quicker than anticipated, he had time enough to meander before he needed to return home and ready himself for the Sunday services.
A flicker of movement ahead drew his attention from the fields to the line of trees beyond.
Samuel narrowed his eyes against the light, and his heart gave a small, weary drop as a familiar figure rode by in the distance, his seat too comfortable and posture too straight to belong to a farmer out on his rounds. Especially on Whitcombe land.
Mr. Norcroft. Of course it would be.
Instinct prodded him to turn Jenny away and take the longer lane to preserve what little peace the morning had granted him, and though that thought lingered for a heartbeat, the dry fields warned him that winter was coming, regardless of whether he ignored the trouble at his doorstep.
This friction between them would only make matters worse, and if he must make allies of difficult men, then it was best to have at it. Delaying would not help matters.
Samuel drew in a slow breath and set his shoulders, angling his horse to intersect the steward’s. Raising a hand to the fellow, he waved him down.
“Mr. Norcroft, good morning to you.”
The steward accepted it with a bow of his head that was reminiscent of his employer. “I am surprised to see the rector out and about on a Sunday morning. I would think your time is better spent preparing for the services.”
A scoff echoed in his thoughts, and Samuel refrained from replying that an extra hour or two would do little to save a rector who wasn’t fully prepared by Saturday evening.
Of course, there were plenty in his profession who simply read purchased sermons rather than write their own—a fact that Samuel both loathed and loved as their laziness infuriated him whilst the sermons he sold to them fetched a pretty penny.
Perhaps he ought to feel guilty at enabling their sloth, but it wasn’t as though those gentlemen would suddenly change their ways and apply themselves, and at least their parishes would receive some spiritual enlightenment with Samuel’s assistance.
But that was neither here nor there.
“The Sabbath is a good time to pay calls,” said Samuel, offering up the only explanation he could give.
Forcing that witless grin to his face, he added, “I am very pleased to see you out and about, Mr. Norcroft. Being the steward of such a grand estate must be very taxing, and I know you’ve been very busy familiarizing yourself with all your duties, but we’ve hardly seen you at our services. ”
“As you say, I am quite busy, though I always ensure that I attend,” said Mr. Norcroft.
Oh, yes. Mrs. Whitcombe would never tolerate her highest-ranking member of staff neglecting his spiritual duties, but that did not preclude Mr. Norcroft from arriving just as services began and slipping away the moment it was over.
“I am glad our paths have crossed, Mr. Godwin, for I wish to speak with you concerning a serious matter,” said the steward, shifting his grip on his reins as his mount fidgeted in place, though Jenny was quite content to avail herself of the feast at her feet.
“It has come to my attention that you are assisting members of the parish with the fees they incurred with Langley Court.”
“It is the church’s duty to assist those who are struggling financially,” said Samuel. “The vestry council is following procedure and assisting when needed. Should you wish to see the workings of the council, you are quite welcome to attend the meeting—as your predecessor did before you.”
“I plan on doing so once I have a firmer grasp on the workings of the estate,” said Mr. Norcroft. “However, I am certain Mr. and Mrs. Whitcombe would not look kindly upon the parish’s funds—a majority of which come from Langley Court’s coffers—being given to pay fees owed to the estate.”
Samuel’s smile did not falter. “I am certain you are correct, sir. Though we spoke only briefly before, I was struck by your intelligence and insight. I am most concerned that our funds be used appropriately, but with so many fees levied against the parish at present, it has been difficult for many to pay those and their rent.”
“The parish treats Langley Court as though it is public land, and though the previous steward was happy to turn a blind eye, I will not be derelict in my duty to my master and mistress,” said Mr. Norcroft.
“These fees are right and proper, and your interference is hindering the lesson that needs to be learned.”
Samuel felt the familiar tension coil in his chest but kept his expression mild. “I assure you that not a single farthing of parish funds is being given to your bailiff. However, if people are unable to feed their families because of financial hardships, it is our duty to intervene.”
“And by doing so, they do not fear the fees,” Mr. Norcroft replied, his tone hardening. “My duty is to the estate’s solvency. Yours is the care of souls. When those lines blur, everyone suffers. I would advise you to remember where your authority ends, Mr. Godwin.”
Giving his mount a nudge, the steward took off at a quick pace, causing Creeping Jenny to straighten, though she quickly returned to her morning repast. Samuel watched Mr. Norcroft ride off, the man’s back straight and unyielding, and felt the tight coil in his chest snap; he drew in a slow breath through his nose, then let it out again, sharp and controlled, lest the frustration spill over into something unbecoming.
Saints above.
Power exercised without care did not teach.
It crushed. Encroaching on private property was wrong, and the village needed to respect those boundaries, but this was punitive.
Mr. Sherwood may have been too lenient at times, too willing to look the other way when a gate was left unlatched and a pig strayed, but he’d known the impact an estate like Langley Court had upon a village, and he respected it.
A strong partnership between rector and steward helped to ensure the proper balance—something that had been clear to Mr. Sherwood, whilst Mr. Norcroft was determined to draw boundaries between their duties, guarding those walls as rigorously as he guarded Langley Court.
Jenny lowered her head again, tugging at a stubborn patch of green, and Samuel let her, his hands tightening on the reins as he stared down the lane Mr. Norcroft had taken.
Winter loomed, the fields were already showing the strain of a poor summer, and now they had a steward who was more interested in proving his authority than preserving the fragile balance that kept Kingsmere whole.
Samuel set his jaw and nudged his horse forward at last. Nothing would be solved at this precise moment, and matters would only grow worse if he were tardy to the Sunday services.
The rhythm of Jenny’s gait ought to have soothed him.
It usually did. Hoofbeats on hard earth, the familiar bends of the lane, the hedges slipping past in their usual order, yet the farther Samuel rode, the tighter his thoughts drew, circling around Mr. Norcroft’s words, his tone, and the ease with which he had dismissed the hardships levied against the villagers.
Samuel tried to set it aside. No amount of preparation would save a sermon given in anger, and that was far more important than simmering in righteous indignation.
But the worry would not be quieted. Every consideration led to the same conclusion: this would not end with a single exchange on a country lane, and if he did not gain control of the situation, the very people Samuel was called to guide and uplift would be crushed beneath it.
Though heaven knew what Mr. Samuel Godwin could do about it. His power was limited to his parishioners, and the Whitcombes were a force unto themselves.
By the time the rooftops of Kingsmere came into view, Samuel’s jaw ached.
He drew in a breath and forced his teeth to unclench.
The last stretch of his journey passed in a blur.
Samuel dismounted at Langley Court without ceremony, passing his horse into the capable hands of a groom.
The walk to The Parsonage passed quickly enough, and soon the house came into view; he ought to have felt relief at the sight of it, but the tightness in his chest lingered, refusing to loosen its hold.
Inside, the quiet enveloped him, and Samuel crossed into the parlor to find his wife seated near the window, her attention fixed upon a letter. Sunlight caught in her hair as she read, her attention so wholly claimed that she didn’t notice his arrival.
The sight stirred an unexpected prickle of irritation before he cleared his throat, and when the lady did not look up, Samuel said in an even tone, “We ought to dress for services. We need to leave shortly.”
Mrs. Godwin murmured something in reply—agreement, perhaps, or acknowledgment—but did not rise or set the letter aside. Samuel paused, waiting for her to do or say something, and turned away when the quiet pressed in close.
So be it.
Huffing, he turned away and took the stairs to their bedchamber. Samuel didn’t have the strength or inclination to herd his wife about.