Chapter 13
“When I suggested you marry, I didn’t think you would make such a mess of it,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, gazing up at Samuel from her armchair like the throne it was. “It was meant to be a boon to you and our community.”
It wasn’t difficult to imagine how Mrs. Godwin would scowl and scoff at the lady’s choice of words, for the edict had not been couched as a “suggestion” by even the broadest of definitions.
The moment was etched into his memory, and it bore an odd familiarity to this moment: Samuel Godwin summoned to her court to stand quietly as she leveled her judgments upon him.
“Good heavens, man, what were you thinking with such a choice?” asked Mrs. Whitcombe. “Mrs. Godwin is entirely unsuited to this life.”
Just as she was unsuited for the life that had stood before her, but that was neither here nor there. Not in Mrs. Whitcombe’s opinion, at any rate.
Studying the lady’s tone and expression, Samuel considered the seriousness of the situation and what was required.
A bit of teasing? Though it might cajole her into a better mood, he feared the answer was the self-same one that threaded through so much of his life.
Drawing his resolve close, he tried to ignore the other ladies gathered nearby; Langley Court’s parlor was palatial, but not large enough for this conversation to remain private, and there was nothing to be done about it.
“I wasn’t overjoyed when you suggested I marry,” said Samuel.
“However, when I considered the possibility, I realized that no man’s life is complete without a woman at his side, and that mine would be all the poorer if I continued in my ways.
Men are all thumbs—so to speak—without a lady to guide them, and only a fool would ignore your sage advice, madam. ”
For the briefest of moments, Samuel wondered if the compliment was too overt, but Mrs. Whitcombe’s eyes sparked, a faint smile softening her lips.
“Perhaps my choice was hasty,” he continued.
“But I did not wish to neglect my duties to you and the parish. Lady Cecilia spoke so highly of Mrs. Godwin, and I refused to question her invaluable opinion, which pointed my attention in that direction. And you, yourself, suggested I find a bride of good breeding—”
“A family whose name is blackened by scandal is hardly a good field to harvest.”
How to proceed? Wracking his brain, Samuel considered how to rouse Mrs. Whitcombe’s sympathies without prodding at old wounds.
“And I agree wholeheartedly,” he said with a bow of his head, “but even the best of families have the occasional burden that falls upon the younger generation to bear. Children are at the mercy of their parents’ choices, after all, and she had no say over her father’s poor decisions.
However, Mrs. Godwin had much to recommend herself, despite that unfortunate detail. ”
Stiffening, Mrs. Whitcombe turned her gaze to the window and considered the world beyond, hopefully considering her own marriage of necessity in which the impoverished youngest son of a viscount had found it necessary to sell off his daughter in matrimony to a self-made man, whose family tree was as common as common could be.
“Perhaps my heart is too tender for such things,” he continued. “But I could not ignore a lady in need of rescue.”
Mrs. Whitcombe gave a slow nod. “Your concern does you credit, Mr. Godwin, and I applaud you for your sensibilities. However, no good comes from allowing them to run rampant. The manner in which Mrs. Godwin speaks is troubling. If not for your reassurances, I would be certain she is a radical, come to upend our way of life.”
Hiding a laugh, Samuel shook his head. His wife may be outspoken, but she didn’t have a revolutionary bone in her body.
If anything, the troubles that had arisen between her and Mrs. Whitcombe sprang from how deeply-rooted Mrs. Godwin was in the social hierarchies, not because she wished to tear them down.
“Not at all, madam. My wife simply forgot herself. With her father’s passing and the ensuing troubles, the lady has suffered greatly of late. Being so newly married—”
“It has only been a few short years since the streets of Paris ran red with the blood of the innocents,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, her eyes widening and her voice lowering.
“No doubt, you were too young to comprehend the madness that swallowed France, but I lost family to the guillotine and knew many others who escaped only by abandoning their homes and the land they loved.”
“Such a pity,” said Mrs. Painter with furrowed brows, proving that their conversation was not private.
“Positively monstrous,” added Mrs. Lynch. “Nasty business, that.”
Mrs. Whitcombe straightened, her voice rising, “And what has it given them? Chaos, bloodshed, and corruption! For all that rebels fight ‘for the people,’ those who rise to power are often the quickest to turn on their own. They care only about their own interest, which you can see plain as day with that man snatching up power amidst all that upheaval.”
Scoffing, she wrinkled her nose. “France is no more a republic now than it was under King Louis, and that man will not content himself until he has the whole country under his boot. And now, he threatens our shores—”
“I hardly think Napoleon will trifle with foreign wars when France has only just found peace,” said Samuel, hoping it might keep her from growing truly agitated, and though Mrs. Whitcombe paused, the incredulous expression on her face was hardly comforting.
It was that of a headmaster questioning the intelligence of his pupil.
“Do not be a fool, Mr. Godwin,” said Mrs. Whitcombe. “France and England cannot leave one another be, and I fear their ‘revolution’ may finally make its way to our shores. When structure fails, anarchy ensues, and I shan’t allow anyone to destroy Kingsmere’s peace. Not even the rector’s wife.”
Bowing, Samuel said, “Your concern does you credit, madam. I understand the depth of your fears, and I wish to assure you that had not your niece recommended Mrs. Godwin so favorably, I would never have considered her. But my wife has suffered many difficulties of late and is still sorting out her place in Kingsmere. I assure you she has no thoughts of sedition.”
Saying the words felt so ridiculous that Samuel yearned to laugh. The whole situation was ridiculous. Mrs. Godwin didn’t suffer fools, but she was hardly a revolutionary. Yet the fear in Mrs. Whitcombe’s eyes was genuine, and the strain in her features made it clear these weren’t idle concerns.
“Marriage is meant to be a boon to both husband and wife,” said Mrs. Whitcombe, sloughing off the moment of weakness as she met his gaze with that steely strength once more. “You are such a skilled rector, and I wished this blessing upon you to help you reach your full potential.”
“It is far too early to say my marriage is a failure,” said Samuel, though he hoped more than believed those words. “Regardless, the choice has been made, and there is no undoing it now.”
Mrs. Whitcombe’s gaze turned to the window once more, and she whispered, “No, there is not.”
The room settled into stillness, the moment stretching thin between them.
Samuel followed her gaze to the glass, where the light fell pale and indistinct, offering no comfort beyond its constancy.
Fears and disappointments layered one atop the other, etching themselves into the lines of her face, and Samuel couldn’t help the twinge in his heart at the sight.
Flawed and foolish she may be at times, but Mrs. Whitcombe was human like all the rest, driven by the very sensibilities she warned against.
Drawing in a breath (and drawing her attention once more), Samuel nodded. “I can only hope that with our guidance, Mrs. Godwin will find her way.”
Eyes flicking to the ladies standing round about, Mrs. Whitcombe considered all the listening ears, and a flash of color so faint that it could easily be mistaken for a bit of rouge crossed her cheeks.
But just like his marriage, wishing this conversation had taken place in private was a matter that could not be undone.
Straightening, the lady glanced at her audience. “I am certain we all wish to welcome our rector’s wife and enfold her in the arms of the parish, so we will do our best to aid and assist as she finds her footing in Kingsmere.”
Murmurs of assent echoed throughout the room, and Samuel hoped he hadn’t unwittingly ushered in new troubles to plague his wife—and him by extension. Bowing once more, he gave his farewell and strode from the parlor, his duty fulfilled.
The walk home did little to settle him. Though the path was familiar, his mind would not ease into the gentle bends, and Samuel’s pace did not slow until Langley Court was well behind him; even then, his stride remained brisk, his boots striking the earth with a determination he did not feel.
“Marriage is meant to be a boon to both husband and wife.” Or so Mrs. Whitcombe had said.
Thoughts drifting back to Mrs. Godwin’s proposal (for she had proposed to him), Samuel considered the manner in which his bride-to-be had described their marriage.
Two people brought together out of necessity, living parallel to one another and intersecting only when it was “a boon.” Nothing more.
That was precisely what he needed. Wanted.
His work as the spiritual and emotional guide of the parish had stripped him of any romantic notions, for marriage troubles vexed his parish more than anything else.
Even financial hardships paled in comparison, for though they always led to matrimonial acrimony, there were plenty who suffered from poor marriages and healthy coffers—such as his dear patroness.
His university education had not prepared him for that aspect of his profession. They taught about sermons and doctrines, but it was the counseling that occupied the majority of his time, be it financial, spiritual, or spousal in nature.