Chapter Five #2
“What a joy it would be for you to have so many of your children at home,” Mrs. Bellamy said. This time, nothing about her comment felt compelled from politeness. Her smile for Martin was as genuine as her happiness for him.
Martin grinned back, even though he felt every emotion other than joy as he tried to wrangle his children back into his orbit.
He knew he needn’t explain that to Mrs. Bellamy.
She understood, without him saying, that these relationships with his children who were no longer children were too complicated, just as he knew that as painful as they were at times, they were far less painful than the tragedy she had endured.
“It would be a joy,” he agreed. He turned his smile onto Caroline. “I am grateful that at least one of you has remained nearby so that I need not always beg for visits.”
But this, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. Anger flashed through Caro’s eyes before she could hide it by looking down at her plate.
Perhaps it was too much of a reminder that he had at first tried to push her away so that she would not end up living in a cottage at Northfield Hall married to Eddie. Martin had long since apologized for that—and Caroline said she forgave him.
But she certainly hadn’t forgotten.
“Speaking of letters,” she said, “I have been corresponding with Mr. Mudie, who of late organized the Owenite community at Spa Fields. Their aims are much like yours, Papa, of changing our economy to value labor over money. However, instead of the whole community kowtowing to an aristocratic benefactor, they are made up of working-class men and women who share their labor.”
Martin had, of course, been closely following the Spa Fields group, who called themselves the Cooperative and Economical Society.
He, too, corresponded with Mr. Mudie—as well as Robert Owen himself, the man inspiring labor-based communities as a solution to poverty.
But the way Caroline said it—the words she used—made it clear she meant this to start an argument.
An argument Martin should steer clear of, since it would only drive her further from him instead of proving that he was, in fact, worthy of her trust.
But he couldn’t help himself.
“Kowtow? I do not believe I have ever asked a single person to kowtow to me.” It was a singular word, one printed by observers of the Chinese court and not one that Martin considered favorable. It conjured images of blind obedience—of emperors banishing courtiers for not bowing deeply enough.
It was exactly the kind of accusation Caroline would levy against him, as if his expectation that she marry someone of her own class had proven that he was in fact the devil incarnate.
“Neither do you tell them not to.”
“Did I not just invite Mrs. Chow to dine with us? Find me one other baron who would do so, whether he is related to her by marriage or not.”
“Yet she said no because she finds it uncomfortable. After all these years, she still calls you Lord Preston.”
“It is my title!”
“If you truly do not want people to kowtow, you would do as the Quakers do and instruct us to ignore your title.”
“I did not realize that on top of everything else, you now expect me to become a Quaker. I apologize, Caroline, but as I have sworn to uphold the thirty-nine articles of the Church of England, I’m afraid I cannot make that conversion just for you.”
“I am asking nothing of you, Papa. I depend upon you for nothing.”
And there it was—the ugly truth that always hovered between them. Caroline was happily married to Eddie now, but not because Martin had enabled it. No—she lived in Thatcham and hosted her gatherings and expected a baby because she had been headstrong and her siblings had supported her.
She had never even asked Martin for her dowry.
And because of that, Martin did not dare expect anything from her.
He had to hope she would continue to come to Sunday dinners every now and then, and he had to be on his best behavior lest she decide he was not worth introducing her children to.
He was the father who was neither disowned nor loved.
What would Lolly think, if she could visit him now?
What did Mrs. Bellamy think, trapped at the dinner table as they hurled feral emotions at each other?
Eddie put his hand over Caroline’s again, and she let out an angry exhale. “I’m overexcited. I had better lie down for a little.”
Martin, too, tried to dismiss his hurt and reply like the father he wanted to be. “The beds are all made upstairs. Rest for as long as you need. You and Eddie can both spend the night, if necessary.”
But Caroline, already rising from her chair, shook her head. “I’ll go rest at Mr. and Mrs. Chow’s. I can sit in their rocker chair and enjoy the children while I recover my spirits.”
Martin stood out of good manners. Jacques—who, of course, had heard the whole exchange—waited at the entryway with Caroline’s cloak. Eddie bowed his head—kowtowed?—to Martin. “I’m sorry things got unpleasant. We’ll see you soon.”
And then they were gone, their meals half eaten. Martin looked at Mrs. Bellamy, tried to find some apology or excuse, and found all he could do was let his hands tremble against the table.
Martha didn’t quite know how to hide her shock. In her decade living in Thatcham, she had heard all kinds of gossip about the Preston family, but never had it been suggested they erupted into this kind of violent conversation. It was unseemly; it was lowbrow; it was upsetting.
She couldn’t quite say how it had come to be.
She had expected tension between Lord Preston and Mrs. Caroline Chow, since he had confided in various ways how his relationship with his daughter was fractured.
Yet one minute they were having a perfectly cordial conversation about the family, and the next, Caroline and Lord Preston were trading nasty barbs.
Her heart pounding in equal parts surprise and sympathy, Martha felt helpless as she watched Lord Preston, mumbling an apology for his manners, stalk to the fireplace. There, he took up the iron poker and stabbed at the fire a few times.
Martha knew what it was to have a child storm out—a child over whom one no longer held dominion.
How many times, in those last few months before he eloped with Lady Imogen, had Lucas run out of the house as if chased by the devil?
How many times had Martha regretted raising her voice or not raising her voice or calling him a brute or not calling him a brute?
How many times had she wished him home so that she could take him in her arms like a babe and promise him that all would be well?
Lord Preston bent over the mantel and cradled his face in his forearms. Martha watched his shoulders heave as he sucked in breath.
The sight of him—a man she knew to be steady and wise—so overcome by emotion snapped her into action.
Turning to Jacques, the footman, who waited on the threshold for direction, she said, “You may clear the table, then take a half day. The rest of the household may take their half day, too.” It was Sunday, after all.
Then, approaching Lord Preston as carefully as she would a skittish horse, Martha said, “Come, sir, let’s retire to your study.”
He didn’t respond immediately, so she dared touch a hand to his back, between his shoulder blades, which still heaved violently.
“Please, Lord Preston, come along.”
At his name, he lifted his head. Martha was relieved to discover he wasn’t crying, just red in the face from catching his breath. He nodded and let her lead him out of the dining room, across the entrance hall, and into his study.
She locked the door behind them and, for good measure, folded her shawl across its bottom. The people of Northfield Hall were good people, but even the best people could be tempted to listen at the door after witnessing such a scene.
Lord Preston seated himself not at his desk but in the little clump of rococo settees near the bookshelves at the other end of the study. Martha joined him there, daring to sit beside him rather than on her own settee. She put a hand on the cushion between them in case he wanted to take it.
“I’m sorry for our terrible manners,” Lord Preston said.
“Come now, I don’t mind. It makes me feel as if I am part of the family.”
“And eager to get out of it, I’m sure.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, as if smoothing out his wrinkles would erase the conflict. “I let my temper get the best of me. I always seem to do that with Caroline.”
Martha wished to touch him again, but she held back her fingers.
Years ago, her sister had counseled her that falling a little in love with a person was not so bad a thing to do, so long as one didn’t act on it.
She could enjoy the excitement she felt in his company and embrace the energy it gave her each day, but as soon as it started tempting her to steal moments with him or to see if she could earn his esteem, then she must recognize the devil trying to lead her astray and resist.
Always before, Martha could rely on her marriage to keep her from giving in.
Whether her petit amour (as she and her sister referred to it) was for the dairy farmer or the schoolteacher or the visiting dancing master, Martha had only to put her hand in Kenneth’s to remember with whom her loyalties lay.
And her heart—she had loved Kenneth, especially during their years in Tolpuddle.
But now he was gone, and Martha had no one to save her from temptation except herself. Which meant that she would not be grateful for this opportunity to sit next to Lord Preston nor relish the chance to earn his esteem.
She would feel only the sympathy of a friend who harbored no secret fantasies. She rebutted his self-rebuke: “I daresay Caroline wanted you to let your temper get the best of you, otherwise she wouldn’t have provoked you so.”
“Still, I am her father. I should be able to remain stalwart, especially when I can see her provocations as clearly as arrows.”
“I did not know a father was not made of flesh and blood. Why, no wonder our government is full of fathers, if you are all able to remain stalwart even when greatly provoked!”
Her mirth earned her a little smile—and his eyes, connecting at last with hers. “All children provoke their parents. It is the parent’s duty not to react.”
“Yes, but when they are truly children, their attacks cannot wound us. Caroline is a fully grown woman now. She can wound just as deeply as any other adult.” Thinking of that last time Lucas had slammed the door in Martha’s face—after she had begged him not to write any more poems about Lady Imogen’s perfect body—she added, “Perhaps even more deeply.”
Lord Preston inhaled slowly, his eyes falling a little away from hers. “I am struck by how strange it is, Mrs. Bellamy, that we have only known each other for a handful of days. You seem to understand me as if we had been confidants for decades.”
It was wicked, how her heart leapt. She forced herself not to beam. “I feel the same, sir.”
“I’m not sure I have experienced such a…” His gaze lifted again as he searched for a word.
Hardly breathing, Martha volunteered, “Connection?”
“Connection. Yes. Have I ever experienced such a connection before?”
His words, meaningful as they were, hardly mattered to Martha, not compared to the way his whole being seemed to lean towards her.
She could not kiss him. She was a widow; he was a baron. This was the devil trying to tempt them into something that could never be.
But she could wallow in its gloriousness as it hovered between them like a possibility.
“I find myself afraid of saying the wrong thing,” Lord Preston confessed.
Martha slid her hand a little closer to him on the cushion. “Perhaps we can count ourselves lucky for such a connection, sir.”
“Lucky.” He smiled. “Yes.”
“And call ourselves friends,” Martha dared add.
“Friends. Yes.”
“And need not question it beyond that.”
“Yes.” At last, he took her hand in his. A soft grip, not unlike what any friend would offer another, except his touch made her whole body come alive. Lord Preston smiled. “Friends.”
Martha wasn’t sure she could have been more satisfied even if they had kissed.