Page 13 of The Baron Without Blame
“Let’s see that list, then.” It was a ledger of all the tenants who worked his fields as well as the known households in Thatcham who relied on the Northfield commons for pasture. Martin wanted to know precisely whom he would be cheating if he ever decided to take Turner’s advice.
He tried to concentrate on it. He recognized most of the names, though he couldn’t conjure faces for every family. His father had preferred Martin to stay in London and curry favor with the younger set of lords than to join in visits to the tenants. Martin couldn’t even say for sure whether his father had done the visits himself or handed them off to Mr. Maulvi.
If he didn’t know even that – something so simple – then perhaps Maulvi was right. “What kind of example do you set, then?”
Maulvi blinked at him. Martin had always envied the man his dark eyes, for it was almost impossible to tell whether his pupils widened in alarm or remained staid as ever.
“You charge that I do not know you,” Martin pushed. Perhaps he shouldn’t. He certainly wouldn’t with any other servant. But Maulvi wasn’t a servant, not precisely. Not in Martin’s heart, anyway. “So tell me. What don’t I know?”
Maulvi cleared his throat. “I have a sweetheart. In the village. The Widow Croft.” He paused, as if expecting Martin to recognize the name. Martin tried to keep his expression completely neutral as he nodded cooperatively, although he had never heard of the woman. “We wanted to marry. But the vicar refused, since I am not Christian.”
Martin hoped he showed no external reaction. He knew of Maulvi’s religion, of course. Maulvi’s parents had been brought back from India by his own grandmother along with a Manipuri pony, on account of Maulvi’s father being an excellent horse trainer, and the little family had remained Muslim despite everyone’s best attempts to baptize them. Martin hadn’t guessed that a Christian woman might take up with a Muslim man. If he was being honest with himself, he had never much considered whether or not Maulvi wanted a wife of his own, no more than he wondered that about Mr. Hewett or the footman.
And yet he claimed to consider Maulvi family.
“Neither of us wants to convert to the other religion, and so we live in sin. Have done for seven years.”
Martin had to look away. He simply couldn’t keep a smile from his face, trying to imagine Maulvi arm-in-arm with a woman. It felt absurd and wrong; and that, itself, stacked bricks of guilt in his stomach.
He did consider Maulvi a family member. Then did this rude reaction indicate that Martin was a bad family member, or that Maulvi’s circumstances truly did shade their relationship?
He realized something. “You and Widow Croft live in sin here at Northfield Hall?”
“No.” Now Maulvi himself laughed. “Have you not seen me walking in every morning? I live with her at Thatcham.”
Martin had seen Maulvi on the drive at godawful hours of the morning – right when Martin was stretching out of bed – but he had assumed the man was surveying the grounds. “You walk? That’s more than five miles.”
“I am used to it.” He said this with the quiet confidence he usually used. Its return was the only reason Martin realized it had disappeared. For a moment there, Maulvi had been grinning, his voice exuberant enough to carry across the room.
Martin hated to see that version of him go. Particularly since he had only just discovered it. He thought of his father’s horse, a fine thoroughbred standing around the stables all day. “Take Theseus today. And every day. Consider him a wedding present.”
“My lord…” Maulvi stared at him. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but he seemed to find no words.
“We are alone, Mr. Maulvi. You may call me Martin, or Preston, or Ashforth. You may even refer to me as Fool. But not ‘my lord.’” When the other man still gaped, Martin said with finality, “As I said, we are family.”
“Thank you. Martin.” They both looked away at how strange it sounded. “You are too kind.”
They returned to the list. Martin still couldn’t quite concentrate. He would do better by Maulvi from here on out. He would put actions to his words. Show Maulvi just how much Martin valued him, not as a steward but as a person.
Now he kept thinking of Maulvi and the Widow Croft. It wasn’t hard to imagine, once he accustomed himself to it. He was glad that Maulvi had someone lovely to go home to. Someone who put that foolish grin on his face.
And that led him back to Lolly. He should have smiled at her as they parted. There had been a moment – no longer than an instant – when he saw horror fill her eyes. Not because of the kiss, but because of how he reacted afterward. He shouldn’t have behaved so. He shouldn’t have kissed her, but neither should he have hurt her.
Martin didn’t know how to fix it. And, with her jilting him, with her looking so delectable, with him knowing just how wonderful it was to kiss her, Martin didn’t know if he should even try.
Chapter Seven
Martin didn’t look at Lolly all throughout supper. She knew because she kept stealing glimpses of him. As she forked more roasted pike onto her plate. As she turned her head to respond to Louisa. As she nodded at the footman to refill her wine glass. And every time she did, his attention was fixed elsewhere. His conversation, too, remained stubbornly upon her father, coaxing out of Papa increasingly louder opinions on correcting the Poor Man’s morals.
“It is not enough to force them to church. We have seen that over and over again. The only way the poor will ever learn is to fine them. Money is all the poor man seems to care about, God help us.”
Lolly reached out to fix a candlestick to cover her look to Martin. He stared down at his plate, his jaw tense.
She had a rejoinder for Papa, one that would open the conversation towards Martin’s general direction of thinking, but she hardly considered the man worthy of her help. So she returned her attention to the potato pie.
“Ah, Preston, I forgot to mention earlier that we have a surplus of clover seed at Macarius Abbey. I will have my man send some over so that you can start it on your fields. I vow, in no more than two years, you’ll see your profits triple.”
It was embarrassing, now that Lolly knew how much Martin disagreed with her father, to hear Papa spouting these theories. Worse was that Lolly agreed with Martin, though she knew so little about the topic. The profit her father spoke of would come at the expense of the villagers – and the tenants who couldn’t keep up with the new crops. The very people that the barony was supposed to ward.
