Chapter 18
The Hoods’ cottage was tiny, and the low ceiling compressed the room until the building felt like a cupboard.
Though boasting a warm hearth and all the homey touches that invited one to linger, Samuel felt like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians, minding every movement lest he step on a child or a makeshift toy.
Mrs. Hood stood near the fire, tending to the pot of cabbage boiling over the flames, and when she turned away from her work, Samuel hurried to help her back to her chair, which sat beside a table in the center of the space that served as both kitchen and parlor.
With a sigh, she folded her hands over the swell of her belly, her fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles showed pale beneath the skin.
Two children hovered nearby. The elder lingered close to the table, playing with a wooden toy, though his attention strayed often to his mother. The younger drifted in and out of motion, circling the room with restless energy before stopping abruptly, as if searching for some new entertainment.
“It is natural to be anxious,” said Samuel, perched on the edge of his seat.
“I’ve lost so many. I don’t know if I can do it again. To spend all these months lovin’ this little one, only to have her torn away from me.” Mrs. Hood’s expression crumpled, and she dabbed at her face with a worn bit of linen. “But you didn’t come to hear me blubber—”
“I came to offer whatever aid I can, even if all I can do is listen to some ‘blubbering,’” replied Samuel with the faintest of humor, which drew an equally faint smile from the woman.
Letting out a shaky breath, Mrs. Hood shook her head, her eyes fixed upon the handkerchief in her lap. “Harry says I’m worryin’ too much.”
Samuel gave a commiserating smile. “I haven’t found an easy remedy for worrying, Mrs. Hood. And you have ample reason to fear. Bringing a child into the world is no easy matter.”
“But no doubt, if I pray, God will ensure everything will turn out right in the end,” she said with the resigned quality of one who had heard those words repeated often enough.
“No, Mrs. Hood,” said Samuel with a heavy sigh.
“If one need only to follow certain steps to ensure prosperity and ease throughout life, faith wouldn’t be required.
Who wouldn’t do the right thing in all circumstances if a blessing immediately followed?
And who would choose wickedness if sorrow descended the moment they acted?
There are plenty of good people who know great hardships in their lives, and ample examples of the wicked who thrive. ”
The woman’s brows rose at that, and Samuel settled his hands on his thighs.
“There is no way to ensure a happy outcome with this child, Mrs. Hood. But I have found the only way to bear up the burdens that eventually come to us all—righteous and wicked alike—is to hold fast to our faith and try our best to be good. But know that whatever happens, I will do what I can to aid you.”
Nodding, Mrs. Hood drew herself up. “That is somehow both disheartening and comforting, Mr. Godwin—”
A knock at the door had the woman shifting to rise, though the groan she gave as she did so had Samuel lifting a staying hand as he rose in her place. Stepping carefully around the children, he opened the door to find the Whitcombes’ bailiff on the doorstep.
“Mr. Godwin,” said Mr. Vincent, his brows raised.
Stepping aside, Samuel motioned toward the woman of the house. “You caught us during a visit.”
Taking the hat from his head, the bailiff stepped inside. “I am sorry, but it cannot wait any longer, Mrs. Hood. Mr. Norcroft insists I collect the rent in full.”
“Another day is all we need,” said Mrs. Hood, forcing herself to her feet. Pressing a hand to her lower back, she sighed as she straightened. “Harry will come home from the market tomorrow, and then we will have the rest. I promise.”
“I am afraid the steward insists. He is keeping a close eye on every payment, and I fear I cannot turn a blind eye on tardy rents any longer,” he said, rotating his hat in his hands.
“They are short because they had to pay for roof repairs,” interjected Samuel. “Had Mr. Norcroft approved the expense when he ought to have done so, then the Hoods would have their rent in full.”
Mr. Vincent shifted from foot to foot. “As their last three payments were tardy, he isn’t required to make repairs the moment they are requested.” Drawing in a deep breath, he hurried to add, “And Mr. Norcroft ordered me to tell you to mind your own business if you interfere.”
Straightening, Samuel glanced between Mrs. Hood and Mr. Vincent, though he didn’t know what more he could do. Pressure gathered behind his eyes, and the hearth crackled softly, indifferent to the exchange, while the small domestic sounds of the cottage pressed in on him.
Samuel’s hand brushed the pocket of his tailcoat without conscious thought, feeling the weight of the coins there. Not many, but perhaps enough to close the gap between Mrs. Hood’s funds and her bills. Enough to quiet the matter, at least for now.
It would be easy. So easy. A gesture made in private, unseen by anyone beyond these walls. The Whitcombes would have what they were owed, and the debt wouldn’t loom over the Hoods’ already anxious household.
But there would be the next family. And the next.
His days were already filled with appeals of varying urgency, each justified in its own way.
A short payment here. A sick child there.
Rent withheld for reasons both sound and suspect.
He could not begin to fill every hollow with his own purse.
His own circumstances were not so secure as to allow him to prop up all the poor in Kingsmere.
Still, the coins weighed heavily, as though their mere presence accused him of miserliness.
Was it wicked to withhold in the face of such need?
What virtue lay in guarding what little he had, when others had so much less?
The answers he had long carried—about boundaries and the proper channels of relief—thinned in the face of Mrs. Hood’s drawn expression and the damp creeping steadily along the cottage walls.
If he crossed this line, this single kindness would expand far beyond his means. Secrets spread. They always did. And then, half of Kingsmere would line up at his door, begging for relief from their generous rector.
Samuel drew a slow breath and held firm to his resolve, though questions refused to leave him be.
Where was the line between greed and caution?
How much was too much? Ought he to rid himself of all his worldly goods and live like the poorest of his parish?
Was having anything more than his neighbor unneighborly?
Reaching into a tin, Mrs. Hood pulled out a few coins. “This is what I have.”
Mr. Vincent counted it out, his expression grim, but before Samuel could think what to do, the woman ushered the clergyman out the door.
“My thanks, Mr. Godwin, but this is our trouble, and we will sort it out one way or another,” she said. “Thank you for calling.”
“Do send word should you require anything,” he insisted. “No matter the time of day.”
Mrs. Hood nodded and shut the door behind him, leaving him on her front steps as the door closed with a soft finality.
The sunlight outside felt thinner than it had a fortnight ago, bright but sharp-edged as autumn dispelled the warmth of summer, and the leaves rustled in the treetops as he stepped onto the lane, their dry sound oddly insistent.
Setting off at last, Samuel plodded along, absently nodding at passersby as he wound his way through the village, his feet steering him toward home before he knew what they were about.
He had more calls to pay, but the prospect of discussing needs he could not meet weighed on him more than he could bear.
The Parsonage came into view sooner than expected, and Samuel slowed as he reached the gate, resting his hand there for a moment before passing through.
What he wanted most was a closed door. A chair drawn close to a window that overlooked the garden.
Silence enough to gather himself again. A little respite before he resumed the work that awaited.
Just as Samuel was hoping he might slip by his wife, a clatter came from the parlor, and he ducked inside to see Mrs. Godwin righting a basket that had fallen from the sofa as she berated herself under her breath.
Squatting down, he scooped up the contents, all of which appeared unharmed despite the fall, and the lady jerked with surprise when he handed her the basket.
“I didn’t think you would be home until dinner,” she said, straightening.
The observation didn’t seem to require an answer, yet Samuel found himself offering one nonetheless. “I decided to come home for a bit of quiet.”
And whatever else he may find at The Parsonage, quiet was usually in high supply.
Mrs. Godwin nodded and took hold of the basket, settling it into the crook of her arm before gathering up two others, shifting them about until she was able to get all three in hand. Then she turned away without another word, making her way to the door he had just come through.
“Where are you going with those?” he asked.
Pausing, the lady glanced back at him and then down at her baskets.
“We have a few things that are going to spoil before we can eat them all, so I am going to take the extras to two of the families in the parish. The third basket is for Mr. Colby. He is alone this afternoon, and I thought he might like some company, so I am bringing him some sweets. Mrs. Broad takes good care of him, but he loves Mrs. Johns’ spice cake and shortbread. ”
Samuel’s gaze followed the baskets rather than her face, taking in their weight, the way the handles bit into her fingers as she adjusted her grip. It seemed he was not going to find a moment’s peace at home, after all.
“Give them here,” he said, nodding at her burdens.
Mrs. Godwin straightened, the silence that followed growing weighty as she stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Give me the baskets,” he repeated, barely keeping the confusion from his tone. It wasn’t a difficult request to comprehend.
“You made it abundantly clear that I must do something for the parish. You shouted it, in fact, demanding I do anything other than lie about, and now that I am, you are going to forbid me from doing it?” she asked in a voice that was quiet but not calm.
“That is not—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. The day’s frustrations crowded in at once, jostling for expression. “I am to accompany you—”
“And how am I to be useful if I am not allowed to go about on my own, sir?” she asked, struggling to adjust her hold on the baskets. “You never speak to me, unless it is to scold—”
“Saints above, woman!” he barked, the pressure of the past few hours forcing out the words. “I wasn’t chastising. I was offering to carry the baskets. It is painful to watch you struggle with all three of those at once.”
Mrs. Godwin’s mouth was already open, ready to retort before he’d finished—but instead, she stilled. Shoulders falling, she considered him, seeming to weigh his words for a long moment before her posture eased.
“You mean to help me,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he replied, just as quietly. “That was my intent.”
Straightening, Samuel forced himself to try again. “Mrs. Godwin, may I please assist you with your baskets? Though I know it may not seem so at first glance, I am capable of being a gentleman when I put my mind to it.”
The silence that followed was different from the one before—less brittle, though no less charged.
“Was that a jest?”
There was such genuine puzzlement in her question that Samuel couldn’t help but reply in a monotone, “I wouldn’t dream of it, madam.”
Considering him, she replied, “I wasn’t aware you had a sense of humor, Mr. Godwin.”
“Was that a jest?” he parroted.
“Take it as you will.”
That retort held a note of the Phoebe Voss he’d met in Haverford before thoughts of bankruptcy had dimmed her smile, and he was happy to see it return. Even if it was at his expense.
Samuel reached out, lifting the three baskets from her without waiting for permission, and when she tried to keep one for herself, he leveled an unrelenting look at her, and Mrs. Godwin sighed, nodding to the front door.
“My thanks, Mr. Godwin,” she murmured. “They are heavy.”
Nodding in acceptance, Samuel followed her out of the house.