Chapter Three
The curious thing about life was how quickly it could change. The previous morning, as Martin had dressed in the clothes laid out for him by his valet West, he had expected a solitary day in a string of solitary weeks as he waited out Parliament’s recess at Northfield Hall.
This morning, he rang for West to help him find a better waistcoat than the one he had been wearing of late. He was not wandering the estate on his own anymore, nor was his socializing limited to a visit to poor Maulvi. He could do Mrs. Bellamy the courtesy of wearing clothes without patches.
They were to convene in his study at nine after breakfasting separately.
From all the available apartments—of which there were four on the family floor and three above—Mrs. Bellamy had selected the bedroom two doors down the corridor from his.
He had suggested it, since its window offered a lovely view straight down the driveway and it did not burden her with an extra chamber for a lady’s maid; yet now, he wished he had left the matter entirely to Mrs. Chow so that he wouldn’t know the precise location of Mrs. Bellamy at all times.
He didn’t know what was the matter with him.
He had hosted guests hundreds of times over the years, and never had he second-guessed their room assignments.
Just last year, he had, without any of his daughters present as hostesses, entertained two members of the House of Commons and their wives for nearly three weeks.
And while he had certainly worn his good waistcoats, he had not spent the early morning straining to hear signs of life from their bedrooms.
What did it serve him to know if Mrs. Bellamy was yet awake?
Martin supposed it was because there was no strategy behind her visit.
As practiced a host as he might be, Martin only ever invited people to stay at Northfield Hall for a purpose—usually one related to politics.
Martin had no aims for Mrs. Bellamy’s visit other than to do his duty by a woman under his umbrella of responsibility.
If yesterday he hadn’t known how to treat her, then this morning, he didn’t know how to feel about her.
Was she intruding on his peace?
Or was she a welcome distraction from his solitude?
He took a simple breakfast of fresh berries and cream and went to prepare his study for her invasion.
The truth was that he had never before had a private secretary.
At the time he inherited the role of baron, King George III had managed all of his correspondence himself, and Martin had decided to follow that example.
But Mrs. Bellamy had looked so bereft at the idea of having no duties at Northfield Hall.
The offer of the role of secretary had sprung spontaneously from his lips.
It would be a help to have someone managing his correspondence so he could spend that time reading reports and planning his strategy for the next round of battle in London.
His coalition had accomplished much this year—reducing the number of crimes eligible for the death penalty and transportation, as well as gaol reforms—but, as always, there was still so much to do.
Through his son Nate, Martin knew that the African Institution was preparing to publish a report recommending that slave traders be treated as pirates, and he wanted to gather support for legislation to that end before he returned to London in the winter.
Too, he wanted to propose another bill to abolish slavery in the empire entirely.
And then there were the Corn Laws, which he attacked every year, and the Irish Insurrection Bills, which kept getting renewed to keep the poor country in terror.
And besides all of that, Martin still had to finalize his will.
He was glad Mrs. Bellamy would be assisting him. Yet it also required him to instruct her on what to do and how to do it.
She would be discreet. But she had helped Mr. Bellamy with parish matters.
How would she react to the many letters Martin received from the needy and poor and desperate, asking for help he could not give?
How would she handle the reports coming in from around the empire recording the terrible conditions of slave plantations and Indian factories?
Martin would limit her to his social correspondence, if he could.
Yet he did not write witty letters to grand dames nor engage in prolonged personal exchanges with friends.
If he wrote to someone—if someone wrote to him—it had a purpose, and that purpose most likely was more complex than the dilemmas Mr. Bellamy had ever faced.
Martin reminded himself that he was no doubt ruminating so much that everything seemed harder than it was.
He would begin by asking her to sort his papers.
Ordinarily, his study was relatively orderly, but he had only returned from London the week prior, and he had brought a crate of records which he had so far left untouched on the secretary’s desk.
It was a simple task that would help both him and Mrs. Bellamy get accustomed to her new role.
She presented herself precisely as the clock in the hall chimed nine.
She wore a different set of widow’s weeds, and Martin realized that what she had worn the previous day had been a traveling costume.
This gown was better suited to summertime—in fact, he suspected it had been recently dyed black from some charming color like sky blue or grassy green, either of which would suit Mrs. Bellamy well.
Even black, its cut flattered her curves, its modest neckline highlighting the sweet plumpness of her cheeks.
Feeling awkward, he asked, “Was your breakfast satisfactory?”
“It was delicious, thank you.” She hovered on the threshold from the main hall, and Martin realized he hadn’t invited her to enter.
In his mind, they were already familiar enough that she need not stand on such ceremony.
He waved her in. “This is your desk.” It was not as grand as his, which stood in the light of the great bay window catching the morning sun.
Her desk was half as wide, with a wooden surface long since scratched by letter openers and pen knives.
Martin withdrew the top drawer to display the writing utensils.
“If you run out of ink, which you shouldn’t anytime soon, Mrs. Chow has it made monthly and can retrieve it from the storeroom for you. ”
She ran her fingers over the row of pens.
They were cherry wood with pale inlaid whirligigs beneath a shining lacquer.
A gift from his daughter Ellen when she had first mastered woodworking.
She now made him a new set of pens every year for Christmas; the latest featured silhouettes of each of her children.
Mrs. Bellamy’s hands were rough and sturdy, evidence of a life without many servants. Yet as they brushed against those pens, they looked gentle. Tender. Caring.
Martin stepped away from the desk. “I have fallen behind on reading the mail since I returned last week. You may begin with that. I should like to see the letters from my family or regarding matters of Parliament. Everything else, set aside. We can review them later this afternoon so you can learn my various standard replies.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Bellamy said in that handsome voice of hers.
“I’ll be right here—” Martin gestured to his desk, only three feet away “—if you have any questions. Which I expect you shall, so please do not be shy in asking them.”
She nodded. Once he sat down, she pulled out the heavy desk chair—old wood upholstered in leather—and set a pair of reading glasses on her nose.
Martin could see only her profile, yet he had to stop himself from staring: the spectacles made her look at once a decade older and a hundred times more interesting, as if magnifying those hazel eyes illuminated a dozen mysteries for him to solve.
A strange thought to have. To brush it away, Martin picked up a letter from his daughter Sophia. She wanted money, as she often did, and he would have to decide whether to indulge her or remind her she had chosen to live as an accoucheur’s wife and now must live within her means.
He hated each time he had to make that decision. He asked Mrs. Bellamy, “How would you compare Thatcham to your previous situation? You were somewhere near the southern coast, I believe.”
“Tolpuddle.”
Martin was not familiar with the town. He waited, running his eyes over Sophia’s letter, until Mrs. Bellamy elaborated:
“We had a living ten miles or so from where I grew up. I used to see my sister nearly every week. It was a good living, too. Not grand, but we brought in enough through the tithes that I could keep a proper household. I even hosted a duchess for tea once.”
The words were nice, yet Martin heard a restraint in her voice, as if she used each sentence to plug a dam that was about to burst. He gave her an opportunity to change the subject: “I regret that my family never came to tea at the rectory. I am afraid I often neglect polite company.”
“Mrs. Caroline Chow has called several times since her marriage,” Mrs. Bellamy said, turning ever so slightly so that her hazel gaze could reach him.
Of course Caroline had visited. She was a Thatcham villager now.
Mrs. Bellamy turned back to the stack of letters. “I loved my life at Tolpuddle. But it came to an end, as all things must, and Thatcham has been good to me. All things considered, people have been very kind.”
All things considered referencing her son. Her only child, as far as Martin knew. The son had, at the age of twenty-two, eloped with an earl’s daughter; when, within the year, she died of fever because he could afford neither a physician nor medicine, he had shot himself in the head.