Page 33 of The Widower Without a Will
Theinevitablenewsarrivedby 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 toneedsomething 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.”
