Chapter Two #2
Up until now, Lord Preston had been so genial that Martha had thought him perfectly engaged in the conversation.
But at the question, he lit from within, as if he had swallowed the summer sun wafting in through the open windows.
Leaning forward, he set aside his teacup to enumerate his points with his fingers.
“If we were to end our consumption of tea, then we would no longer be in debt to China. If we were to end our consumption of coffee, we would no longer support the plantations worked by African slave labor. If we were to end our consumption of sugar and its byproducts rum and molasses, then the slave plantations in the West Indies would have no reason to exist, and we could emancipate all those people. The East Indies sugar production is no better, by the way, and so we must not substitute our purchases but end them entirely. Same with cotton: whether it is coming from the fields of South Carolina or Bengal, it is coming from forced labor.”
Martha knew he could have kept going: the American South also grew rice, indigo, and tobacco with slave labor; from Calcutta came cotton and opium of dubious labor practices; from Portugal’s colonies in Brazil came mahogany wood tainted by slave labor.
What she wanted to know was whether Lord Preston really believed that Britain could turn its back on these items, or whether, like Eve, once the apple was bitten, there was no returning to Eden.
She should not ask that question, especially not while taking tea—tisane—in his drawing room as his houseguest. Yet as Lord Preston leaned in, the posture of good manners replaced by enthusiasm for his topic, Martha could not help feeling that he would invite the question.
So she took a chance and asked it: “After all these decades of avoiding imports at Northfield Hall, do you think it has made a difference?”
He nodded once to acknowledge the question and retreated backward in his chair.
His eyes lifted to a spot behind Martha—to the portrait of his late wife with her children, which hung above the mantel.
“Since my marriage in 1788. Which means we have avoided imports for…thirty-five years. Strange to calculate it; so often, I still feel we are at the very beginning of this project.”
Her marriage had been longer: she had been twenty-two on her wedding day, and they had been only a month away from their fortieth anniversary when he died.
Of course, Lord Preston’s marriage had ended when Lady Preston succumbed to a wasting disease, sometime before Martha had moved to Thatcham.
The lady had been gone for at least ten years, perhaps fifteen, yet the look Lord Preston sent the woman in the picture was one of a husband still in his first years of grief.
Martha wished her heart were loving enough to feel that way about Kenneth.
She returned her thoughts to Lord Preston’s great project. “Have you achieved what you hoped to by avoiding the import-export economy?”
“My chief aim was to die with a clean conscience,” he replied, “and in that respect, I hope I have been successful. The rest of Britain may have a terrible stain on its soul, but I do think that setting an example here at Northfield Hall has made others consider their purchases. Had you thought about where your cotton came from before you moved to Thatcham?”
She had—but only with regards to its quality. “I haven’t stopped purchasing cotton when I need it, however.”
He smiled kindly. “Not everyone has the luxury of building their own textile works.”
The reply sounded—not rehearsed, but perhaps experienced.
He had thirty-five years of people informing him they could not join him in avoiding imports, and therefore he had thirty-five years’ worth of replies to repair the conversation so no one would leave with great injury to their dignity.
Martha couldn’t help wondering what his true response was.
In his heart, did he judge her for being small-minded?
Did he rage that no one appreciated his ingenious vision?
Did he grieve that he had been unable to sway the average Briton to care more for the principle of abolition than for their own purse?
Most likely, she reminded herself, he wrote her off as an old woman with a narrow mind who could never have made much of a change in the world even if she wanted to.
“You mustn’t feel you need to keep me company,” she said, pouring more mint tisane into her teacup even though she had barely sipped it.
“I shall be happy if you treat me as you would a governess or some other servant of the family. In fact, if I may do any work at all, please put me to use. I do not know how to be idle.”
Lord Preston blinked, that sunlight disappearing from within him, and Martha realized she had rather abruptly changed the subject. Perhaps she was even being indelicate in assigning herself a role for which he was not hiring.
Let him think her rude. She couldn’t bear to pretend for one moment longer she was some great lady whom he must entertain with drawing room debate.
“You are my guest, Mrs. Bellamy.”
“Surely there is something I can do to be helpful. Perhaps some mending, or polishing the silver.”
“I have a whole household of servants to see to such things. Now that I am the only one living here, I’m afraid none of them have enough to do.” He pulled out that kind smile again. “No doubt there will be plenty for you to do when you move to your niece’s. Embrace this as your season to rest.”
Rest. Martha’s least favorite activity. “You haven’t any open positions? If I had shown up today as a stranger seeking refuge, you would have nothing to offer me and would turn me out?”
“If you were a stranger seeking refuge, we would put you in the lodging house and find some position for you. But, Mrs. Bellamy, you are not a stranger. You are the esteemed late rector’s wife, a woman who has already done your share of work for the community.
I have invited you here as my guest, and I would not ask you to work in the kitchen or mind the laborers’ children. ”
She almost argued back—but realized, as her mouth opened, that he might be trying to politely remind her that no one wanted to get too close to her, in case Lucas’s ending had been not merely a scandal but also a curse.
Lord Preston said apologetically, “The only position I have open at the moment is that of Mr. Maulvi—the steward.”
“No, I wouldn’t know the first thing about that,” she agreed. Then, buoyed by his kindness, she offered, “Do you already have a secretary? I helped my husband with his correspondence all our life. My lettering is better than his.” She corrected herself: “Better than his was.”
The baron measured her with his heavy gaze. “A secretary position requires some discretion, as I correspond on matters of sensitivity to both Northfield Hall and the nation.”
Hope allowed Martha to meet him eye for eye. “A rector’s wife must be either the biggest gossip in the village or the best at keeping her mouth shut.”
His lips curved upward. Martha realized what it was that made them so attractive: when they moved, so did his face, and when he smiled as he did now, it felt as if he were unveiling a secret emotion, just for her.
“Then perhaps, Mrs. Bellamy, you would be so kind as to assist me with my correspondence while you await word from your family.”
“Sir,” she replied, “it would be my honor.”