Authors: Cecilia Grant
“Charming, to be sure.” Mrs. Kendall was a little dormouse of a woman, bright-eyed and quick in her movements. “Just the word I was going to choose.”
Miss Leigh, tall and thin as a sapling, made one more sweeping survey. “Did you manage the decorating?”
“Oh, no.” Martha poured hot water to rinse the teapot. Really,
charming
was the last word she should choose for this ornate cavern. “Someone in my husband’s family did that. It’s after the style of Robert Adam, I’m told.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Canning inspected the ceiling afresh. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
“Well, the plasterwork, I suppose. The decorated walls. These arched tops to the doors and windows, perhaps, and …” Her words trailed off as she swirled water in the pot. She looked up. “To be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea.” She poured out the water. “I grew up in a plain country house, and should never have heard the name Robert Adam—or Capability Brown, for that matter—but that I married and came to live here.”
This admission seemed to put the ladies at some ease, thank goodness. Condolences were exchanged for Mr. Russell and Mr. Canning, though the latter proved to have departed some great while ago, and recommendations were given on the best ways for a widow to pass the early part of mourning, while Martha measured tea from the caddy into the pot, filled it with boiling water, and put on the lid.
“You live in town, I collect?” Eight minutes for the tea to steep meant eight minutes in which she must find more right things to say. One wished again for Mr. Mirkwood’s easy manners, for his quick light tongue. “I’m afraid I’ve spent little time there and of course I cannot now venture abroad. I’m sure there must be so many opportunities to do good in town too.”
Indeed there were. The three ladies had strong opinions of what could be improved in town, from the vicar’s overly expressive sermons to the landscaping on the green to a young man or two who’d been stringing a young lady along and ought to hurry up and come to the point.
“I cannot approve of that conduct.” It wasn’t her business, of course. But the other ladies had brought it up. “If a man doesn’t mean to offer for a lady, he ought to withdraw his attentions and let her move on to other prospects. I’m sure I should say so to any young man who presumed to trifle with one of my tenant-daughters here.”
“I’m all but resolved to say something myself, at our next assembly.” Mrs. Canning lifted her chin and delivered this fact in a tone of royal decision. “If young Nelson and young Warrender haven’t come up to scratch by then, they may count on hearing from me between dances.”
“Very good.” She picked up the strainer and teapot. “I doubt such careless young men even recognize the grief they may cause. To point it out to them must be a kindness.” What sensible, sensible women. The young ladies in town were lucky to have their patronage.
“We should be glad to see you at an assembly one day.” Mrs. Kendall spoke with sudden shyness as she accepted her tea and a plate of cake. “They’re quite respectable. The gentry do come sometimes.”
“Mrs. Rivers and Miss Atcheson have sat down to cards more than once.” Miss Leigh, too, took tea and cake.
“Perhaps next year.” Mrs. Canning eyed Martha as though fitting her for a new gown. “You’ll be in lavender then, I expect, and looking both distinguished and presentable.”
“I’m sure I should like that. Thank you.”
Distinguished and presentable
. One would like to be thought of that way. One felt oddly touched by this kind invitation, and one felt an utterly unsuspected hunger, too, for the chance to take one’s place among these matrons at a humble town assembly, conferring over which young man or lady must be pulled aside for a judicious word, and furthermore scheming ways to better the public landscaping, and inspire the vicar toward subtlety.
The conversation continued more sensible by the minute. What odd quirk of whimsy should have brought them to call on her, a perfect stranger with only her widowhood to recommend her? But she would be grateful for whatever quirk had done the deed.
“My son is in the infantry, you know, and we’re daily hoping to hear of his return home.” Mrs. Kendall chased the last crumb of cake about her plate. “Do you hear anything of when to expect your brother?”
She paused, cup halfway to her lips, and felt color coming to her face. Only one person in Sussex knew that Will was a soldier. Only one person even knew of that brother’s existence. Her quirk of whimsy took a shape, tall and fair-haired. She dropped her eyes to the cup, and set the cup in its saucer. What question had the woman asked, exactly?
“I’m so sorry.” She could hear Mrs. Kendall leaning forward. “He’s not in any danger, is he? I shouldn’t have brought it up, if—”
“Oh, no. Not at all.” She looked up and forced a smile through her confusion. “Indeed with Napoleon imprisoned at Elba I expect we should see him before very much longer. His regiment is at Antwerp, I believe, just waiting for orders. And your son?”
Something was said of Mrs. Kendall’s son. There followed a number of remarks, some of them even contributed by herself. Other things came under discussion. The tea and cake, almost certainly. The weather, perhaps. But if someone had asked her, a minute or an hour or six hours later, to tell what they’d spoken of, the last ten minutes of that call, she could not have done so to save her soul.
S
HE SAT
on the foot of the bed when he came in that night, cross-legged in her nightrail, with a plate of lemon cake and a fork and an impossibly radiant smile.
If only she’d inoculated him with more frequent smiles, he would not lose all his conversation. But she was sparing with her smiles, so often holding them back or hiding them with an artfully placed hand, and the result was he had no more defense against one than he would against some fever from the wilds of farthest Feejee. He stood wordless, smiling back at her just as though he knew the cause of her pleasure. And then, all at once, he did know.
He took the cake from her upraised hands and stepped back away from her radiance. “Well,” he said, forking up a bite. “And what worthy things did you accomplish today?”
“I didn’t accomplish a thing.” Her smile deepened, sweet and bracing as a bite of lemon cake. “I had callers.”
T
HE CLASSROOM
, clearly, was Mr. Atkins’s element. Here he did not make speeches that went on a bit too long, but came every few sentences to a question, and delighted in coaxing or prodding an answer from his flock. He moved about, now at a map, now at a great sheet of copperplate lettering, and often down the aisle between the tables where the pupils sat. Martha sat in an empty place at the back where she’d been the last half hour, listening to the industrious squeak of slate-pencils on slate.
Everything was turning for the better. Everything. The passage of a few months might see the school’s enrollment double, with the addition of children from Mr. Mirkwood’s property and—one must be hopeful—the presence of older girls. She might, given time, shepherd a dairy into being on the very next property and then turn her attention to all the good she could do in town. If only things fell out so that she remained at Seton Park, the days and years ahead could be gratifying indeed.
Today, while Mr. Atkins made himself known to the first of the laborer families at Pencarragh, she would work at befriending Mrs. Weaver. Somehow or another, she must.
The curate’s high spirits lingered even after he’d dismissed the pupils and taken the reins of the pony cart. For the entirety of their drive he spoke of this child or that, praising one’s quick perception or furrowing his brow over another’s disinclination to sit still. On the walk from their cart he turned his attention to laborer children, and what differences, if any, he might encounter in teaching them. One suspected he couldn’t be more pleased if he were granted a living of a thousand pounds a year.
The Weaver cottage, as they approached, was all in disarray, with men on its roof, straw thatch thrown down in the yard, and seemingly half the furniture dragged out to the open meadow. Small Weavers raced back and forth with small children from another family. Larger children sat clutching plates, eating their fill of what appeared to be roast fowl and potatoes. Baby Job sobbed on the shoulder of a laborer wife she didn’t know. From habit she looked for the pig and found it stationed at the foot of the ladder, its head canted up as though to keep careful surveillance of the interlopers above.
Mr. Granville, sitting among the other adults with a mug of ale, rose at the sight of them and waved them over for introductions. “Is Mr. Mirkwood not here?” she said, once she’d made the acquaintance of Mr. Weaver and Mr. and Mrs. Quigley. “When he invited us I assumed he would be present.”
In answer the man flung an arm up and out, directing her gaze back to the half-undone roof.
He sat atop the very ridge, bareheaded, his hair brilliant as an unspent shilling in the sun. His back was against the chimneypiece and one knee bent up before him, foot planted on the ridge tree as though he were relaxing on a riverbank somewhere. In his coarse-gloved hands he held a bunch of split branches. While she watched he twisted one, bending the ends near together. Then he swung himself down the slope of the roof to hand the implement to one of the roofers, who used it to secure one bundle of straw to another. Surefooted as though he’d spent most of his life on rooftops, he scaled a rafter back to the ridge.
Three weeks and two days now since she’d first seen him. Not long enough for a lady to truly know a man. That obstacle still stood. The objections of her conscience, too, had not grown any less valid. And as to admiration—Her thoughts fled suddenly as he twisted and caught sight of her. Of her and Mr. Atkins. He grinned like a boy looking down from a treehouse, one hand making to lift his hat before he remembered he didn’t wear one.
“I believe I’ve finally got his measure.” The agent was at her elbow, looking up. “If you take the
duty
and
responsibility
out of a thing, and give him a way to get his own hands on it, he’s entirely willing to learn. I confess I took him for an idler at first.”
Mr. Granville wasn’t the only one guilty of that. “Even the duty and responsibility may come in time, I think. He’s young yet.”
“To be sure. And then, he might choose a wife strong in those qualities, and she might shore him up. Altogether I have every hope of his turning out well.”
Mr. Mirkwood was down the ladder by this time, his branches given over to one of the thatching-men. He stepped nimbly round the pig and climbed over the fence to greet them. “Sit down, won’t you, and have something to eat.” He waved to a table laden with dishes. “I put my cook to a great deal of trouble. And someone was asking after you,” he said to her. “One of these girls.” He looked about him. “Ah—there you are. No more hiding behind your sister. Here is Mrs. Russell, just as you demanded. Now come sit by her and tell her all about your cat.” With something very near a wink he left her, vaulting over the fence to go back up on the roof.
Little Carrie had much to say of the kitten, who was apparently equipped with a full repertoire of such antics as were common to kittens and delightful to those who cared for that kind of thing. She was a charming child indeed, and would surely benefit from the broadening effects of education. Once or twice Martha felt Mrs. Weaver’s eye upon them, but when she turned to smile, hopeful of inviting her into their conversation, the woman’s glance had gone elsewhere.
Mr. Weaver, however, presently took his daughter’s seat, consigning her to a place on his knee. He was a great boulder in human form, Mr. Weaver was, with formidable knuckly hands and a heavy, low brow. “It was a handsome thing to do,” he said of the cat. “He’s killed a mouse already and the child’s taken him to heart.”
“I’m so pleased to hear he’s been of use. I wonder if more families here might be in need of one. We have a surfeit, altogether. I could probably supply as many as were wanted.”
“Mrs. Russell lives at Seton Park,” the child put in.
“So I heard, Mischief.” Affectionately he tugged one of the girl’s plaits. “My Livia worked there for a time. Has she mentioned it?”
“Mrs. Weaver, do you mean?” She swung about to look at the woman, who had turned her back. “Why, no. I had no idea she was ever even in service.” Could that pinched, haggard figure really have once worn a starched cap and apron, and bustled about managing things?
“She was. Before she married me, of course.” He was watching his wife as he spoke, and suddenly she threw him one sharp look over her shoulder. He sighed, and boosted the child from his lap. “Run along and play with the others now. I’ll have to get back to work presently. Mrs. Russell,” he said when Carrie had gone, “you’d do me a kindness if you didn’t try to speak to Mrs. Weaver on that subject. I suppose I oughtn’t to have brought it up.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I, entirely. Only we disagree over what should and shouldn’t be told.” He tipped his hat and stood, and shortly thereafter he and Mr. Quigley went back to whatever work they had in the field that day.
The sun crawled steadily westward while people had second helpings of fowl or moved on to cake and fruit. She sometimes spoke to the people near her, sometimes settled back to watch others speak. Mr. Mirkwood came down from the roof again and played at boxing with some of the boys. Mr. Atkins told a story, with goats and giants, to three small children and the eldest Weaver girl. A ball of sorts was brought out from somewhere and even Mr. Granville was dragged from his place to join the children and the younger men in kicking it about.
Martha patted baby Job, who’d finally found his way to her shoulder and into sleep. She and the other women sat in peaceful silence as the shouts and laughter of the ballplayers rang out over the field. Repeatedly, though, her sidelong glance went to Mrs. Weaver. For the husband’s sake, she said nothing that even remotely referenced the forbidden topic. But it clung like a cobweb at the back of her brain.