Page 6 of The Widower Without a Will
She presented herself precisely as the clock in the hall chimed nine.She wore a different set of widow’s weeds, and Martin realized that what she had worn the previous day had been a traveling costume.This gown was better suited to summertime—in fact, he suspected it had been recently dyed black from some charming color like sky blue or grassy green, either of which would suit Mrs.Bellamy well.Even black, its cut flattered her curves, its modest neckline highlighting the sweet plumpness of her cheeks.
Feeling awkward, he asked, “Was your breakfast satisfactory?”
“It was delicious, thank you.”She hovered on the threshold from the main hall, and Martin realized he hadn’t invited her to enter.
In his mind, they were already familiar enough that she need not stand on such ceremony.He waved her in.“This is your desk.”It was not as grand as his, which stood in the light of the great bay window catching the morning sun.Her desk was half as wide, with a wooden surface long since scratched by letter openers and pen knives.Martin withdrew the top drawer to display the writing utensils.“If you run out of ink, which you shouldn’t anytime soon, Mrs.Chow has it made monthly and can retrieve it from the storeroom for you.”
She ran her fingers over the row of pens.They were cherry wood with pale inlaid whirligigs beneath a shining lacquer.A gift from his daughter Ellen when she had first mastered woodworking.She now made him a new set of pens every year for Christmas; the latest featured silhouettes of each of her children.
Mrs.Bellamy’s hands were rough and sturdy, evidence of a life without many servants.Yet as they brushed against those pens, they looked gentle.Tender.Caring.
Martin stepped away from the desk.“I have fallen behind on reading the mail since I returned last week.You may begin with that.I should like to see the letters from my family or regarding matters of Parliament.Everything else, set aside.We can review them later this afternoon so you can learn my various standard replies.”
“Very well,” Mrs.Bellamy said in that handsome voice of hers.
“I’ll be right here—” Martin gestured to his desk, only three feet away “—if you have any questions.Which I expect you shall, so please do not be shy in asking them.”
She nodded.Once he sat down, she pulled out the heavy desk chair—old wood upholstered in leather—and set a pair of reading glasses on her nose.Martin could see only her profile, yet he had to stop himself from staring: the spectacles made her look at once a decade older and a hundred times more interesting, as if magnifying those hazel eyes illuminated a dozen mysteries for him to solve.
A strange thought to have.To brush it away, Martin picked up a letter from his daughter Sophia.She wanted money, as she often did, and he would have to decide whether to indulge her or remind her she had chosen to live as an accoucheur’s wife and now must live within her means.
He hated each time he had to make that decision.He asked Mrs.Bellamy, “How would you compare Thatcham to your previous situation?You were somewhere near the southern coast, I believe.”
“Tolpuddle.”
Martin was not familiar with the town.He waited, running his eyes over Sophia’s letter, until Mrs.Bellamy elaborated:
“We had a living ten miles or so from where I grew up.I used to see my sister nearly every week.It was a good living, too.Not grand, but we brought in enough through the tithes that I could keep a proper household.I even hosted a duchess for tea once.”
The words were nice, yet Martin heard a restraint in her voice, as if she used each sentence to plug a dam that was about to burst.He gave her an opportunity to change the subject: “I regret that my family never came to tea at the rectory.I am afraid I often neglect polite company.”
“Mrs.Caroline Chow has called several times since her marriage,” Mrs.Bellamy said, turning ever so slightly so that her hazel gaze could reach him.
Of course Caroline had visited.She was a Thatcham villager now.
Mrs.Bellamy turned back to the stack of letters.“I loved my life at Tolpuddle.But it came to an end, as all things must, and Thatcham has been good to me.All things considered, people have been very kind.”
All things consideredreferencing her son.Her only child, as far as Martin knew.The son had, at the age of twenty-two, eloped with an earl’s daughter; when, within the year, she died of fever because he could afford neither a physician nor medicine, he had shot himself in the head.
It was a story Martin had first read in the newspapers.Later, when the archbishop asked Martin to appoint the vacant Thatcham living to Mr.Bellamy, he had heard it in a hushed explanation of why the grieving parents needed somewhere new to live.Then, when they had arrived, everyone between London and Thatcham had wanted to inform him of exactly what kind of family he had just appointed to be the spiritual stewards of the village.
And when Caroline had first run off with Eddie Chow—oh, how the story had loomed in Martin’s heart.
He would not burden Mrs.Bellamy by asking her version of the events.Instead, he said, “You have been very good to Thatcham.Although I am not a regular attendee of Sunday services, I have always heard how good you are to the people of the parish.”
“They do not need much compared to Tolpuddle, and that’s because of everything you have done at Northfield Hall.”
It was true that, with so many people living on his estate and those who lived in Thatcham kept in steady business because of Northfield, the poor rolls of the parish were all but empty.Martin looked back at his letter.“Enough congratulating each other, then.If we want to keep things going well, we’ve got to maintain our work.”
Mrs.Bellamy—he discovered when he shot a glance her way, to ensure that she didn’t take his words as an admonition—smiled to herself in reply.
They worked together companionably for an hour or so, with only a few exchanges as Mrs.Bellamy asked about this letter or that.Martin had started a reply to Sophia—granting her ten of the twenty pounds she requested for traveling to Northfield Hall that Christmas, since after all, she was only coming from London and could make the trip on five pounds—when Mrs.Bellamy asked, “Would you like me to put this letter from your solicitor in the stack of correspondence about your family?”
She held the letter carefully in her two sturdy hands.It was folded open, its seal hanging downward towards the desktop, indicating that she had read it.
His solicitor could have been writing about any number of things.However, their main project at the moment was to decide how Martin should distribute his savings at the time of his death.Which meant Mrs.Bellamy had most likely just read a very sensitive letter answering his questions about who could legally receive the money.
Instinctively, Martin reached out for it.“I’ll take it now.”
