Page 10 of The Widower Without a Will
Even more likely, he had a mistress tucked away in some respectable neighborhood, paid a generous sum and treated like a wife in every way except sacred matrimony.
Martha would not judge him for it.The man was a baron: he couldn’t marry just anyone that he fell in love with, especially not when he had to keep a sterling reputation for his coalition in Parliament.Yet he was such a feeling man.He deserved the love of a good woman—or, Martha supposed, of a woman who loved him back, since a mistress who accepted such terms could hardly be agoodwoman.
In any case, she was quite sure her breathless excitement each time they were within reach of each other was exclusively on her part.It did not dull Martha’s feelings that he would not be dazzled in return by her, an old woman.The sensation of bubbling like champagne because he was near, the habit of collecting observations throughout her day and imagining how he might respond, the primping in front of her looking glass to make sure her hair was just right—Martha was enjoying it all.She hadn’t been consumed by such frivolity since Lucas died, and therefore had assumed it was a part of her life she would never get back.She hadn’t evenwantedit, especially not with Kenneth constantly reminding her she had to behave properly or else bring the scorn of Thatcham down upon them.
Who could have guessed that at sixty-two, she would be riding in a gig next to a gentleman hoping that their arms might bump together?
It was enough to make her feel alive again.
The ride from the trade village to the women’s dormitory did not take long—and provided no fateful tilts that would have slid her down the bench into Lord Preston’s lap.Which was just as well, since Mr.Spencer Chow was there to observe her girlish foolishness.Still, Martha waited as primly as a fine lady for Lord Preston to help her down from the gig.When his hands framed her waist, she allowed herself to press as close to his shoulders as she needed.
Their cheeks almost kissed.
And then the ground was under her feet and she had to let go.Still, joy bubbled through her, and Martha curled her fingers to try to keep the memory of his body inside them.
She shifted her attention to the task at hand: the dormitory.It was a brick building several hundred feet long and four stories high.Its façade was redder than that of Northfield Hall, its shingle roof newer.For a single woman, it must be a fine place to live.
“Would you be so kind as to go in and inquire whether there is anyone about who would be disturbed by Spencer and me entering?”Lord Preston asked her.
Part of her feelings for him were simply that he made her feel useful.Martha tried not to preen as she answered, “Certainly.”
Inside, the building smelled of lumber and coal fire.The ground floor featured a staircase where she entered, a long hallway of rooms, and another staircase on the other end.Martha knocked on a door or two and, getting no reply, called out, “Is there anyone about?”
For good measure, she climbed up to each floor and called out the same, never getting a reply.As she did, she noted the whitewashed walls, the well-tended fireplaces, the clean smell of the place.It had none of the marks of dilapidation that she had noted around the great house—whose wallpapers were stained and scarred, whose carpets were beginning to show patches, and whose windows seemed to jam more often than they opened.To Martha’s eye, the grounds of Northfield Hall received much better care than the house in which the Preston family lived.
A little breathless from the exertion of climbing four flights of stairs, Martha returned to where Lord Preston and Mr.Chow awaited her.“It seems everyone is at work.”
“Thank you.”Lord Preston beckoned Mr.Chow inside.His voice adopting the low, melodious tone he used when explaining, he said, “We have only one vacant room at the moment, and in the last year, we have had at least three new women presenting themselves every month.While single men tend to stay at Northfield Hall for six months or a year as they bide a bad season, the women who come tend to stay, and I never want to turn anyone away or ask them to leave.With a little ingenuity, Spencer, do you think we shall be able to add rooms to the existing floorplan?”
Mr.Chow replied with a thoughtful grunt and tilted his head at the corridor.
Together, the three of them walked the length of the building.Lord Preston and Mr.Chow discussed various ideas: Could a room fit underneath the stairwell?Could the larger rooms be split in two and still provide a reasonable living space?Could one of the staircases be removed entirely and replaced with an extra set of rooms?
Martha trailed a few steps behind them at all times, reading glasses on as she jotted down their ideas in the traveling notebook she had brought along.She also wrote down the things Lord Preston seemed to take for granted: that each room should have a window, so that every individual had access to daylight; that the fireplaces must remain, so that the building would not get too cold in the winter; that no two people must be required to share a room, even if it could fit two ticks, because each laborer deserved some small space of their own with a door they could shut.
They were dignified requirements.They were radical requirements.Hearing him list them as if they were as basic as that every person should eat a meal each day filled Martha with admiration.This was why everyone in Britain knew his name—and why his correspondence was full of strangers asking him for advice, for help, for money.Lord Preston saw the world differently than the rest of their leaders did, and he made a person want to join him in that vision.
Unfortunately, there was no clear solution for adding rooms to the dormitory.When they had exhausted their inspection of the inside, Spencer led them out to examine the strip of land beside the building, onto which they could add a second wing or a separate building entirely.Yet to expand, either a farm field must be cleared or a narrow, boggy patch of land must be tamed.
“Could be a better place to build,” Spencer offered as they returned to the gig.
“Yes,” Lord Preston agreed with a sigh, “there must be.”
The carpenter walked himself back to the trade village while Martha and Lord Preston moved on to review the textile works.These, too, were in better condition than the great house, yet the barn roof required repair and its walls needed repainting.And Mrs.Shayler, the supervisor of the looms, warned, “We’ll have less surplus to sell to London this year, my lord, since we’ve got that many more people to clothe here on the estate.”
Lord Preston didn’t sigh this time, but Martha noticed his lips compress as he accepted the news with a nod.
“You are no doubt noticing the pattern, Mrs.Bellamy,” he said as they set off in the gig back towards the great house.“There isn’t enough of anything this year.Not enough crops, not enough space, not enough linens…”
“Quite enough people, I should say.”Martha meant it to cheer him up, but she feared it sounded like a reprimand.“You are to be commended for welcoming so many of us in our darkest hours.”
He relaxed against the back of the bench.“I hope not everyone is in their darkest hour.Some people present themselves simply because they have heard Northfield is the very best place to be.”
“Then I hope they are worthy of your generosity.”
His lips—those handsome lips that she couldn’t stop watching!—compressed again.“I struggle with that philosophy.”
“Which philosophy?”
