Page 35 of The Widower Without a Will
She was his mother.She should have had that right.
Of course, even if anyone would have allowed it, she didn’t get the chance.By the time she and Kenneth got the news, Lucas had already been buried at the crossroads.
Martha had done her best to remain a good rector’s wife, and so she did not beg to attend any burials.When they moved to Thatcham, however, she discovered she could stand just behind the rectory’s henhouse for a view down onto the parish cemetery.On burial days, she wrapped herself in her black mourning shawl and stood in her spot, imagining that each coffin was Lucas’s coffin, that each mourner was someone who loved her son offering him forgiveness as he descended to his final resting spot.
It never quite gave hercomfort, but it didn’t make her feel worse, either.When Kenneth died, she had slipped out—despite hosting a dozen women in the parish house that very moment—and imagined him falling through a bottomless grave to find Lucas.Kenneth was a good man who had done his best; he deserved to go to Heaven, but Martha secretly hoped he had gone to keep their son company until she could join them.
If only she could have accepted Lord Preston’s invitation to attend Mr.Maulvi’s burial.To stand by a graveside as it happened—to smell the freshly dug dirt and see the sweat on the gravediggers’ brows—Martha yearned to know every detail so that she could pretend she had been at Lucas’s burial.But if Mrs.Croft didn’t want to go, then Martha certainly wasn’t going to.She knew death well enough to know that her duty—any woman’s duty—was to the living.
Hearing Mrs.Croft and the others emerge into the common room from the bedroom where Mr.Maulvi had expired, Martha gave herself a stern shake and rejoined the group.Caroline sat beside Mrs.Croft on the worn sofa while everyone listened to the boy recite the multiplication table.When he got to “Ten by ten equals one hundred,” Mrs.Croft broke into applause.“Ah, how proud Mr.Maulvi is—was—of you, Billy!”
Martha didn’t belong to this group of people who knew each other so well.She forced herself to claim the other side of the sofa anyway.It wasn’t as if she had anywhere to go.
“It’s very kind of you to comfort me, Mrs.Bellamy,” said Mrs.Croft, “especially as you are still in the midst of your own mourning.”
“I did not know Mr.Maulvi well, but I was always glad to meet him.”
“And he you, I’m sure.He told me after Lord Preston’s last visit that he was glad you are at Northfield Hall to be a friend to his lordship.”Mrs.Croft said this without any malice, yet even Martha was struck by how strange a sentiment it was for Mr.Maulvi to have shared.
She feared what Lord Preston might have said to him about their friendship.
On the other side of Mrs.Croft, Caroline lifted an eyebrow.
“I am grateful I can be of use to his lordship while I wait for word from my family.”The words scraped a little against her soul as she said them, since in fact shedidn’twant to hear from Georgina, but Martha had long since learned how to say the right thing instead of the true thing.And in this case, the right thing was anything that might quell rumors.“Mr.Bellamy always said my penmanship was good enough to be a secretary’s, and I am glad to prove him right.”
“Our lost ones remain with us in those ways,” Mrs.Croft said with a sad little nod.
“I think your idea of a charity ball in Mr.Maulvi’s honor is wonderful.Will you tell me how I can help?”
“Oh, Mrs.Chow here has offered to do most of it.”Mrs.Croft patted Caroline’s hand.“You must let Mrs.Bellamy assist, as well as anyone else who offers.It is their way of sharing their grief.”
Caroline accepted this advice with a placid smile.What she said next, however, sent icy foreboding down Martha’s spine: “I know exactly where to find you, Mrs.Bellamy, so expect that I shall visit my father soon with ideas of how you might help.”
Chapter Thirteen
Astrangebusinessitwas,putting one’s friend in the ground.Maulvi’s religion called for no coffin, only a white shroud, and so Martin watched the shape of the body descend into its hole.He had to resist the urge to rush forward and peel the cloth from Maulvi’s face to confirm his friend hadn’t resumed breathing.A crowd of men from Northfield gathered to pay their respects; a Bengali weaver led them in prayer as they each tossed in three handfuls of dirt.When the gravediggers—groundskeepers who themselves wept as they saw to their task—started piling the freshly dug dirt back in, Martin looked at the markers of Maulvi’s parents for comfort.Soon, his friend’s grave would be covered in soft grass like theirs, adorned with flowers that Widow Croft or Mrs.Chow or he himself placed.
He wished he could cry.He had cried at Lolly’s graveside, and it had been a great release of grief that let him survive the following days.But Maulvi’s burial was something of a shock: he had only just died!There had been no service, no wake, none of the customs to which Martin was accustomed.His tears weren’t ready yet.
He remained at the graveside as long as it took them to fill it up, which was to say hours.When he grew chilly, he took a shovel from one of the younger men and threw in dirt until his back protested.A soft, gentle rain began to fall, one that didn’t soak his wool cloak but collected on his eyelashes like tears, and Martin was glad that at least whoever controlled the heavens above felt the same as him in this moment.
At last, the grave was full—and Maulvi gone.
Martin was moved to say a silent, final prayer, one that came from his heart instead of a book:Let him live in joy for eternity.
He walked back to Northfield Hall alone.He had remained in the soft rain long enough that his cloak was at last wet and rivulets dropped from the rim of his hat onto the back of his neck.His boots were a muddy mess.When he entered the side door, he took them off immediately and proceeded down the back corridor in damp stockinged feet.
Strange, how one was expected to go on living when the people you loved disappeared from the world.
He was halfway up the stairs when he heard Mrs.Bellamy from below: “There you are!”
She stood in the threshold between the foyer and the study, her hand on the doorknob as if ready to pull it shut at his direction.Her silver hair caught the candlelight and made it hover, almost like a halo.
Martin’s heart surged into his throat in relief at seeing her.
“I made a plate of food for you.It’s in here if you want it.”She beckoned him to the study.
“My clothes are wet,” he said stupidly.
