Page 8 of The Widower Without a Will
Chapter Four
Thenextfineday,Martin ordered the gig to be prepared for a ride around the estate after breakfast.He had taken one tour of Northfield upon his return from London, but it had been cursory, his object to greet people rather than to discover the problems that needed his attention.Now he owed the property a day of tending to its hedges that needed training, fields that needed draining, and buildings that needed painting.
He had debated mentioning the idea to Mrs.Bellamy at supper the night before—which they had taken at one of the small tables in his study in the long light of the summer evening, while discussing inconsequential matters like the art that hung on his walls.They had by now spent several days together, and Martin found himself deliberately keeping the conversation away from anything that might feel meaningful.
He thought too much about that moment when they had clasped hands across his desk.He didn’t want to risk repeating it.
And so the night before he had not invited her to tour Northfield with him.Yet, as he heard the maid clearing away Mrs.Bellamy’s breakfast tray down the corridor, he found himself picturing what she would do in his absence.Would she borrow a book from his shelves?(She had expressed interest in reading his collection of works by Thomas Paine—“Only so that I may understand why they upset everyone.”) Would she catch up on her own correspondence, instead of spending her energy on his?Would she know she could open the garden drawing room windows to let in the breeze?
He remembered her agitation on their first afternoon together when he had suggested she rest.It was not simply the industriousness of a woman used to hard work.If he had learned anything from these few days together, it was that being idle exposed Mrs.Bellamy to the dangers of her own heart.
Martin hated to leave anyone in danger.And besides, as he anticipated the hard bench of the gig, he decided he did not care to spend the whole day apart from his new friend.
He rapped on her bedroom door before he could second-guess himself.In the brief moment before she answered, he realized his awkward position: What if she wore only a dressing gown?
What kind of dressing gown would Mrs.Bellamy own, anyhow?He pictured something well-worn, let out over the years, perhaps with patches at the elbows; it might even be a robe remaining from before her son died, a relic from that happy part of her life that she was not yet ready to release.
The door opened.Mrs.Bellamy looked up at him in her black cotton summer dress.She was missing only two parts of her outfit: the cap that ordinarily covered her silver hair, and shoes.Without the black cap, her face looked fresher, the creases around her eyes and mouth less pronounced, and her cheeks pinker.Martin looked down to discover her feet peeking out from beneath the hem of her dress in nothing but stockings—those were dyed black, grief seizing even her ankles.
He cleared his throat.“I am touring the estate today.If you would like to accompany me, I could use your assistance making note of necessary repairs.”
Her cheeks flushed pink.“I would not be in your way?”
“You would be of great help.However, it will not be as comfortable as a day in the house.If you should like to remain behind and stay cool, I would understand.”
“No, I’ll join you.”She lingered for a moment after saying it, making no move either to shut the door or collect her shoes.Martin found himself pinned in place, too.There was something about moving that would break a spell, and the spell was a good enchantment, the kind that made him feel like smiling.
Friendship.After all, he had always wanted Maulvi to accompany him on tours of the property.Mrs.Bellamy was his new trusted helper.
Nothing more.
Martin cleared his throat.“I’ll go check on the gig.When you’re ready, meet me in the stable yard.”
It was a hot day for that summer, which had so far been remarkably cool.Martin donned a straw hat to keep the sun off his face, yet by the time Mrs.Bellamy joined him in the stables, he had to wipe sweat from his brow.She had changed into her traveling costume—no doubt to keep dust from ruining her day gown—and wore her reading glasses on a leather string like a necklace.He let the groom help her into the gig while he hoisted himself in on the opposite side.
When they had ridden together from Thatcham, Mrs.Bellamy had held herself stiff as a board, careful not to let even her skirts touch him.This time, as Martin negotiated the horse onto the path leading out of the stable yard, she relaxed against the backboard and her dark worsted skirt fanned against the ankles of his sturdy leather boots.
“I have heard Farmer Griffin worry about his wheat this year on account of how cold the weather has been,” Mrs.Bellamy said.“Are you concerned about the crops here at Northfield?”
“One must always be concerned about the crops.”The agricultural societies had published several tracts on the subject of the cool weather; everyone remembered the bad harvest of 1816, which had led to starvation throughout the country, which had led to civil unrest.
Maulvi had always cautioned that Northfield should assume a bad year would follow a good one, and so they must lay in stores to suffer through failed crops.Still, Martin couldn’t help but worry, especially as the rooms at Northfield Hall continued to fill.He added to Mrs.Bellamy, “Our crops this year so far are a little less robust than usual, but we have every hope of a good harvest.”
He drove the gig across the property to the trade village, where a collection of stone buildings housed Northfield’s smithies, masonry, carpentry workshop, and other necessary craft shops.Hopping down from the gig—less of a hop, really, more of a creaking leap at which his knees protested—he hitched the horse to the post beside the well in the center of the village.Then Martin helped Mrs.Bellamy from the gig.Palms on either side of her soft waist.Her hands braced on his shoulders.A whiff of her perfume as her face drew close to his.
From across the common, Mr.Beauchamp hailed him.“Lord Preston!”
Martin summoned patience before turning towards the man.He already knew what this would be about, and he still didn’t have an answer to the question.
“May we offer you a refreshment?Tisane, or perhaps my wife’s chilled apple cider for this fine morning?”
Beauchamp and his wife had been at Northfield almost as long as the Chow family, having fled the French regime as Napoleon seized power.They served as Northfield Hall’s tallow makers, keeping the estate in fresh supply of candles and soap.
Unfortunately, that meant their workshop was the smelliest of the trade village.Martin hated to subject Martha to the experience, especially when he already knew how the conversation would go.
“Thank you, Beauchamp, however, I am afraid we haven’t the time this morning.Have you met Mrs.Bellamy?She is the widow of the late rector of Thatcham and is helping me in Mr.Maulvi’s absence.”
Beauchamp nodded politely.Martin supposed that, since the Beauchamps were Catholic, they had never had much cause to cross paths with the Bellamys.
