Chapter Six #2
“The horses need to stay in shape,” Lord Preston replied, but from the way amusement crinkled around his eyes, Martha didn’t believe him. This was a display of power—unusual in a man who spent most of his life trying to diffuse that power.
Inside, the carriage was even grander than Martha had imagined.
The benches and walls alike were upholstered in fine wool—with a detailed pattern that depicted the facade of Northfield Hall—and cushioned so that she barely noticed when they started moving.
From underneath the bench, Lord Preston withdrew a gleaming wooden box upon which she could rest her feet, as they didn’t quite reach the floor.
She discovered that it opened to hold a warming brick for winter rides.
As they rode to Thatcham, they discussed his recent correspondence with the Anti-Slavery Society about how to get votes for a bill to make slave trading piracy and why it would allow Britain to take even swifter action against the foreign ships they encountered carrying shipments of people to the Americas.
Martha asked a question that risked making her sound of the opposite view as him: “Why do we spend so much of our resources on chasing down slave traders of other nations? Wouldn’t it be better to spend that energy abolishing slavery completely throughout the empire?”
A week ago, when she had first arrived at Northfield Hall, she would have kept the question in for fear of revealing her ignorance.
But that was before they were friends. She knew Lord Preston would not hold her question against her, as Kenneth might have done, to remind her in a month or three that she had wondered such a thing.
For Lord Preston, asking the question was far better than remaining in silence, pretending she understood.
“If only humans were guided by doing the good rather than the bad, then we could do that. Or rather, we wouldn’t need to.
Unfortunately, when we first abolished the slave trade, many British slavers started outfitting themselves as Americans or Spaniards to continue their business, not to mention all the establishments in Liverpool and Bristol that supply the slave trade who continue to participate in the shadows.
If we do not make it impossible for everyone, then no one will quit the trade. ”
He accompanied the reply with a patient gaze, like a teacher gauging whether his pupil followed along.
Martha was distracted by those eyes—and how near he was on the opposite bench of the carriage, much closer than he ordinarily was across a table from her! Her heart was beginning to leap at each jostle of the carriage, few though they were, in hopes that his legs would knock against hers.
She tried to pin her thoughts to the topic at hand. “Do you think we shall ever succeed in abolishing slavery, even if we must continue languishing in the fight against the slave trade?”
On a sigh, Lord Preston looked out the window.
“I have been fighting to abolish slavery since I came back to England in 1787. I thought it would have been long done by now. Still, I must believe it will be done. We must always keep fighting for what we know to be right, even when it seems impossible.”
Martha imagined him saying such a thing in a London drawing room, surrounded by women who regularly rode in coaches like his, and how those ladies must covet him.
Why had he never remarried?
And what did he think of someone like her, who was too busy holding her own little life together to fight for anything larger?
When the carriage arrived at the rectory, which sat on a nice acreage a half mile off Chapel Street, dread settled around Martha like a winter cape. Lord Preston handed her down to the yard which used to be her yard. Boyle knocked on the door that used to be her door.
She had never loved this home, which felt more like a tomb where she and Kenneth awaited their final judgment.
It had not been the place of casual visits, like the ones she received daily in Tolpuddle, nor did it hold happy memories to carry her back to better times.
Yet returning to this rectory reminded her that she still did not have a home to replace it—and she might never have a house to call hers again.
Would she ever grow accustomed to how life could crumble from its foundations in an instant?
A housemaid—one whom Martha didn’t recognize from Thatcham—answered the door. She blushed ferociously at the sight of the liveried coachman and carriage. “M-m-may I help you?”
“Lord Preston and Mrs. Bellamy for Mr. and Mrs. Sebright,” Boyle intoned as imperiously as if they were calling upon a duke.
Martha wanted to object that all this pomp was unnecessary. But the farce had already begun, and it was too late to close the curtains.
“Won’t you come in?” the housemaid said, ducking out of the doorway. “Oh, I shall see if they are at home to visitors.”
Her accent was a lovely lilt, probably from the Irish community in Bristol, from whence the Sebrights had relocated.
Martha busied her mind thinking about that instead of noticing they had moved her furniture around in the drawing room so that now the old chairs sat in corners while the settee hogged the space directly in front of the hearth.
Lord Preston did not sit, so neither did she. He withdrew the bill of dilapidations from his coat and lifted it to the light of the window to review it one more time.
Martha half wished she had never shown it to him. No, she couldn’t pay it—but could she bear to have Lord Preston in this house, taking up a fight that wasn’t his, simply because she was a weak woman who had not managed life properly?
Perhaps last week she would have welcomed his help, but now that she knew him—now that she craved his esteem—Martha wished he did not have so close a view of the true her.
Mr. and Mrs. Sebright rushed a little breathlessly into the room.
When Martha had met them a week ago, they had been dressed in traveling costumes that had struck her as unnecessarily grand, and now Mrs. Sebright came in wearing a fine muslin day gown that could not possibly bear up to any kind of housework.
They did not truly rely on the living of the rectory, then—or they were willing to go into debt to swan about like a lord and lady.
Mr. Sebright bowed in greeting. “Lord Preston, I do apologize for keeping you waiting. We did not know to expect you. How honored we are to welcome you to our home.” Belatedly, he nodded to her. “Ah, I’m afraid Betsy neglected to tell us about your companion.”
Martha was so astonished that he didn’t recognize her that she forgot her manners and could only gape at the man.
Lord Preston said, “I believe you had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Bellamy when you arrived in Thatcham.”
“Mrs. Bellamy, of course!” crooned Mrs. Sebright, diving forward to take Martha’s hand as if they were the best of friends. “Please, sit, and we shall ring for tea.”
The whole thing was too disorienting. Martha sat on the settee because someone put her there; she answered questions about the weather because she did not need a brain to do so; she pretended she was not there about the bill of dilapidations because they were pretending they had never sent it.
Across the hearth, on a sofa that had never belonged to Martha, Lord Preston seemed to be pretending, too.
He even let them go through the trouble of presenting a tea set imported from China before saying, “No tea for me, thank you. I do not consume anything imported from beyond the isle of England.”
Mrs. Sebright’s cheeks flamed—as they should, since Martha had known that about the Preston family even when she lived in Tolpuddle.
“None for me either,” Martha said, which she might not have done had they remembered who she was.
They declined the sugared biscuits, too, though Martha salivated a little at the sight of the sugar crystals baked on top.
Mrs. Sebright, fussing, sent back the tea tray and called instead for warm milk and bread and cheese.
“A rustic afternoon snack is good for everyone now and then, isn’t it, Mr. Sebright? ”
Rustic, when Martha and the rest of Thatcham regularly called such an offering a meal.
Lord Preston placed the bill of dilapidations on the table where so recently the decadent tea set had sat. “While we wait, perhaps we can discuss this bill that you sent to Mrs. Bellamy.”
Mr. Sebright straightened beside Martha.
He was a large man and took up most of the settee; with his posture erect, he loomed over her.
He directed his words to Lord Preston. “As I’m sure you know, sir, it is a regular matter between the new rector and his predecessor’s family.
We ask nothing out of the ordinary, only for assistance in paying for the wear and tear on the rectory since Mrs. Bellamy moved in.
” At last, he looked at her, his red moustache twitching.
“I’m sure Mr. Bellamy made similar negotiations with the Thistlemans when he first arrived in Thatcham. ”
Martha hadn’t the slightest idea. That had been a year and a half after Lucas’s death; she had thought herself on the other side of grief, but she knew now that she had still been slogging through fog.
It wasn’t until he had been gone five years or so that she finally began noticing sunlight again.
When they had arrived in Thatcham, she had merely gone through the motions of unpacking her belongings, introducing herself to her new neighbors, and finding a hundred things to do so that at any moment she could be useful.
Lord Preston waved aside the idea that Kenneth might have sent the same bill to the grieving family of Mr. Thistleman. “I am sure you are a fair man, Mr. Sebright, and do not mind reviewing each charge with us.”
The man squirmed in his seat. “Certainly, sir, though I must admit I find it highly irregular for a person such as yourself to take an interest in the matter. My cousin’s husband, as you may know, is Lord Harewood, and he leaves such concerns as property negotiations to the parties involved.”
A bold statement from a man who had been so eager to impress Lord Preston just moments ago.
Martha’s breath caught in her lungs. But Lord Preston only quirked his lips into a little smile.
“As I’m sure you have heard by now, Mr. Sebright, I am unlike my peers.
You will find I am very interested in the wellbeing of every person in the neighborhood.
” He leaned forward, his eyes drifting to Martha.
“At the moment, of topmost priority is Mrs. Bellamy.”
She had to look away or else surely the Sebrights would see that her interest far exceeded whatever was appropriate between a rector’s widow and her patron.
The Sebrights reluctantly took them on a tour of the house to review each item in the bill. Even though she had studied the letter at least three times, there were items that Lord Preston asked about that she hadn’t even noticed—such as retiling the hearth and reupholstering the furniture.
“As you have brought your own furniture, surely you would prefer to allow Mrs. Bellamy to take hers with her rather than require her to pay for you to keep using it,” Lord Preston said as they debated over the settee by the hearth.
“It is not hers,” Mr. Sebright insisted, “as by leaving it here, she indicated it was part of the rector’s household.”
Lord Preston looked to Martha. “Was it yours before you came to Thatcham?”
“Yes.” It had been a wedding gift from her wealthy aunt, but Martha didn’t like to think of all the memories associated with it. “I haven’t any need for furniture now, so I left it behind.”
“If you intend for us to use it, then it needs to be reupholstered,” Mr. Sebright said.
“If you intend to make use of the gift donated to your household, then you may choose to reupholster it yourself,” Lord Preston countered. “Otherwise, I know there are many families in Thatcham who would be happy to take it.”
They looked at each patch of stained wallpaper, each uneven floorboard, even the scratch in the wood of the bedstead she had left behind, though they had moved it from the primary suite into a little attic room.
Martha was equal parts charmed by Lord Preston’s insistence that she not pay for anything beyond the necessary and horrified that he was making such an inspection of her life.
How could she be worthy of his notice now that he saw that only the mantle of rector’s wife separated her from the poor farmers trying to eke out livings across the countryside?
She wasn’t worthy of his notice. He gave her his friendship, nothing more. After all, she was an old woman. If he hadn’t remarried one of the glittering women in London who could ride in his carriage without excitement, then he certainly wouldn’t take up with a dusty old thing like herself.
In the end, she agreed to pay to replace the wallpaper, rethatch the roof, and fix the back door that didn’t latch. Everything else would be the Sebrights’ responsibility, if they wanted to make such improvements.
“I must confess I am surprised by this welcome,” Mr. Sebright said as he walked them out to the carriage. “I have always been greeted with much ceremony and gladness when I have moved to new neighborhoods before, and then I was only a vicar. As your new rector, sir—”
Lord Preston cut him off. “You are not my rector, Mr. Sebright. You are the village’s rector. They are under your care spiritually as they are under mine legally. As surprised as you are by this welcome, I am equally surprised that you are placing your own needs so high above someone else’s.”
The words were so cutting that Martha gasped aloud.
Lord Preston held out a hand to Mr. Sebright. “I do not mean to be harsh. Let us begin again in a few weeks on new footing.”
Mr. Sebright glowed red, but he shook Lord Preston’s hand.
Lord Preston waved Boyle onto the driver’s seat and placed a hand on Martha’s back to assist her into the carriage. The horses took off racing almost as soon as he shut the door. He let out a sigh, looked Martha in the eye, and shook his head.
“I’m sorry I let my temper get away from me like that. I hope you do not have to pay the consequences.”
Strange, how it was the apology that, more than anything, stung Martha’s eyes with tears.