Chapter Twelve
The inevitable news arrived by a farmhand who raced on a horse to tell Northfield: Mr. Maulvi had died.
Martin had known this was coming. Maulvi was fifteen years older than him and in declining health, and the Widow Croft had been keeping their visits shorter and shorter because Maulvi got tired from even the easiest conversation.
The news stole his breath nonetheless. The farmhand delivered it from the threshold of the study while Martin sat at his desk, reviewing a potential contract for the eastern farm, and Martin had to put his forehead to the paper to keep from being overwhelmed.
Maulvi. The man who had guided Martin since he was a child. Who had spoken honestly when Martin’s ideas had gotten ahead of him. Who had overseen every little detail of the Northfield estate while Martin envisioned grand change.
Who had been kind, funny, firm, caring—who had single-handedly kept Martin rising from his bed after Lolly died.
Maulvi was gone.
Mrs. Bellamy, who had been at work on a letter to the London housekeeper about repairs to a broken step, thanked the farmhand and draped her arm around Martin’s shoulders. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask anything of him, didn’t weep herself, didn’t do anything except keep her body close to his.
Martin had the urge to go ask Maulvi what would happen if he fell in love with her.
But Maulvi had died in the night, his breath rattling on no more, and any wisdom he had for Martin had evaporated with that last exhalation.
And how selfish was Martin to need something of Maulvi even in his death? Just one more way that he had failed his old friend. If he even had the right to call him a friend.
He pulled himself together, reining in first his thoughts, then his spine, and finally shrugging off Mrs. Bellamy’s hand. “I must go to the Widow Croft,” he said, straightening his papers. “There is much to arrange.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You needn’t come—”
She interrupted firmly, “I am going for Becky Croft, not for you, sir.”
Which reminded Martin of how he had failed Mrs. Bellamy, too: already, he had reduced her in his mind to a fantastic creature made for his loving and forgotten that she was a woman in her own right. A woman who had in her lifetime, no doubt, comforted a hundred widows at their husbands’ deathbeds.
He was being self-indulgent. Shaking off his thoughts, he focused on tasks instead of judgments: ordering the carriage readied, changing into boots, giving instructions for six men to begin digging a grave in the family plot.
Mrs. Bellamy wore her cape as she climbed into the carriage with a hamper of food.
At the last minute, Martin called for his cloak, though it delayed them by nearly a quarter hour.
Widow Croft’s home was abuzz with activity when they arrived.
Someone had already draped the windows with black bombazine; two women and a boy sloshed a tub of water into the street as Martin helped Mrs. Bellamy from the carriage.
When they reached the upstairs bedroom, Widow Croft sat by the bed, where the body was wrapped in a white linen shroud.
Everyone quieted when Martin entered. He crossed to Widow Croft, knelt beside her, and took her spare hand. “He was the dearest man alive to me. The world is the poorer for losing him.”
“And you were the dearest man alive to him,” she replied. Martin was surprised by how she could smile—not a tear in her eye!
Even though Lolly’s death had been long coming, too, Martin had shattered when finally she was gone. Widow Croft seemed in almost the same mood as during his visit the week before.
Was he weak for being so crushed when those around him died? Or was Widow Croft more unfeeling?
He shouldn’t judge, not at a time like this.
Standing, he waited for Mrs. Bellamy to make her remarks to the widow before introducing the topic of arrangements.
Maulvi had discussed his requests with both Martin and Widow Croft, so they knew exactly what he wanted: to be buried as soon as possible in the family plot at Northfield, beside his parents, turned on his right side and with his head pointing to the east—towards Mecca.
“That sweet Mr. Zaman has already washed him and said the special prayer,” Widow Croft reported. “Oh, I hope you won’t tell Mr. Sebright, Mrs. Bellamy, though of course I’m already out of favor with the church for being a common-law wife all these years.”
“That is between you and your conscience, and I tend to think the Lord must make allowances for situations like these,” said Mrs. Bellamy kindly.
Rising, Martin asked as delicately as he could, “Would you like to ride in the carriage with us as we take the body to Northfield? I have men readying the grave so that we may honor dear Maulvi’s request for immediate burial.”
“It is the custom of his people, and he never wanted to turn his back on them,” Widow Croft explained to Mrs. Bellamy. To Martin, she replied, “For myself, I’m an Englishwoman through and through, and it’s not for me to be at the graveside.”
Her voice wavered a little with emotion. Martin took her hand again. “You may count on us to do our duty by Maulvi.”
She looked at the shrouded body. “He said the best way to honor him was with acts of charity in his name. We agreed I would host an assembly in a month’s time to raise funds for the Lascars.
My Maulvi was always reading about the plight of those poor fellows.
I think that will be a nice way to say farewell, don’t you, sir? ”
It was certainly a singular way to say farewell. Martin was saved from finding a reply by Caroline’s arrival.
Martin hadn’t seen her for a few weeks, and he was startled by how much larger she had grown, the baby making itself known even under the loose drape of her dress. She rushed to the widow and pulled her into a warm embrace. “Aunt Croft, I don’t know what we’ll do without Uncle Maulvi.”
“He is out of his pain at last,” the widow replied, patting Caroline’s back fondly. “I take consolation in knowing that he is free of mortal burdens. Perhaps he is even now learning the answers to the eternal questions that always intrigued him.”
“Oh yes, or at the very least, I hope he is finding out whether pigs really do ever fly.” Withdrawing from the embrace, Caroline turned to Martin. “Papa, it is so sad.”
“Uncle Maulvi loved you very much,” he said, hoping they were the right words.
Her eyes shone bright with tears. “He always knew exactly the right advice to give, didn’t he?”
“He took great joy in being a mentor to you and your siblings.”
She nodded, frustration sneaking into her expression, though Martin couldn’t imagine why. Was he not agreeing with everything she said? And was this not Maulvi’s deathbed—couldn’t the man have peace from Preston dramatics now, if not in life?
“And you loved him,” Caroline prompted.
“Yes.” Martin looked at the sheet covering the body of the man who was his closest friend. “I am glad to have been able to visit him since returning from London. We had some good final conversations.”
He discovered he wasn’t quite able to get the words out, for they provoked a terrible wave of sadness that closed his throat. Instinctively, he turned away. Mrs. Bellamy touched his elbow. “Mr. Maulvi meant the world to his lordship.”
Her fingers seared through his jacket. Of course, Martin wanted to lean into her arms, but the gesture—the words implying she had private knowledge of his feelings—made his heart stutter with horror. She might as well have tried to kiss him right there in front of Caroline and the Widow Croft.
He withdrew from her touch. Summoning centuries of decorum, he returned to practicalities: “Caroline, would you please write to inform your siblings? Mrs. Croft will host an assembly to honor Mr. Maulvi in a month’s time, and she hopes they may join us there.”
His daughter looked at him with some new, terrible emotion in her eyes.
Horror, no doubt. He did not concern himself about it.
That had always been Maulvi’s advice: let them feel what they were going to feel, whether they were his grown children or the peers of the realm.
So long as Martin was honest and true, he could not worry about the judgment of those who did not understand him.
And, his affair with Mrs. Bellamy excepted, he remained honest and true.
“Yes, Papa,” Caroline said, “but first I shall sit with Aunt Croft for a while.”
“Fine.” Martin suddenly couldn’t stand to be in that room full of women—women, and Maulvi’s body. “I shall find some men to move the…to move...Mrs. Bellamy, will you return to Northfield in the carriage?”
She should not come, not after that display, yet he could not help hoping she would say, “Yes, indeed, I must return with you.” Otherwise, he would be alone in the carriage with Maulvi’s body. He might forget that he was still alive.
But Mrs. Bellamy had good sense. She had stepped away from him already, and she did not even look at him as she replied, “No, sir, I’ll stay here with Mrs. Croft.”
Which meant Martin had no choice:
He left her behind.
Martha did not like how Lord Preston took his leave. She did not like the way he jerked away from her touch as if her fingers were hot irons; she did not like how he and Caroline had almost erupted into another argument; and most of all, she did not like being left behind at Mrs. Croft’s.
It was her duty to be there—as much in her role as Kenneth’s late wife as in her own right as a community member. When a person died, Martha was one of the people who swooped in to keep their household running through their grief.