Page 19 of The Widower Without a Will
Martincouldhavekickedhimself for how poorly he had managed the afternoon.
He had envisioned it as a great triumph, one in which he would school Mr.Sebright in generosity while also displaying his prowess in negotiation to Mrs.Bellamy.Instead, he had insulted the Sebrights at least twice and now made Mrs.Bellamy cry.
Well, tear up.She was far too fastidious a woman to sob in his arms.
He didn’t know why he had failed so spectacularly.This negotiation was nothing compared to the compromises he had supervised just this past year to reform the penal code.Yet in this, Martin had let fly the cold words that he ordinarily managed to keep from jabbing at his adversaries.
Perhaps it was because Mr.Sebright was such a pompous ass—and unlike the dukes in London who had their positions whether Martin liked it or not,Martinwas the reason Sebright had the living.Thatcham was saddled with a rector more interested in tea sets than sermons becauseMartinhad done a favor to Lord Harewood without researching the man’s character.Mrs.Bellamy was suffering such humiliations as being asked to pay to reupholster her own sofa for someone else’s use becauseMartinhad failed to find a worthy rector for Thatcham.
And then, as they were leaving, Mr.Sebright had been so presumptuous as to reprimandMartinfor his behavior.
Martin didn’t want to be the kind of man who was insulted when an inferior acted out of turn.He didn’t want to be the kind of man who believed in superiors and inferiors.Yet this was the world they lived in, and hewasSebright’s superior in every respect, and Sebright dared to upbraid him forhisconduct.
He shouldn’t have let it rob him of good manners, but it had, and now as a result Mrs.Bellamy stared at him with red, wet eyes.
“If he gives you any further trouble, be sure to let me know,” Martin said in an attempt to soothe her.
Turning towards the window, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.“Oh, I am not concerned about that.There is not much more trouble that the Sebrights can give me.”
Martin didn’t know if he should pry.So often, the polite thing was to pretend the person in front of you wasn’t crying.
But when the person in front of you was your friend?When she was someone with whom you had held hands for comfort?
She tucked the handkerchief away, her tears under control.“I didn’t consider that it would be upsetting to revisit the house that was so recently mine.Grief comes in surprising manners, doesn’t it?”
Grief.Of course.Because her husband had died six months ago.And Martin had dragged her back to the rectory to poke around every nook and cranny.
He would have done better not to play the knight in shining armor.
Leaning back against the carriage wall, he replied, “It does.Even now, fifteen years after Lolly died, I can be paralyzed just by the waft of a particular scent.”Lilacs, usually, since they had been Lolly’s favorites.
Mrs.Bellamy asked, “Would you tell me about Lady Preston?”
That was the question of someone practiced in comforting others.Yet Martin found himself reluctant to answer.He never minded talking about her with the children, but that was through the lens of her as a mother.He reminisced about her with Maulvi and Mrs.Chow, remembering anecdotes, without needing to explain to them the context of her personality.The whole Lolly, though—the delightful, stubborn, intelligent, independent woman he had loved—was a secret of his heart.
And she had died so long ago.The grief Martin carried now mingled with fear that if he could magically resurrect Lolly, she would not recognize the person he had become.
But he wanted to give Mrs.Bellamy a reply.“She had terrible allergies.In the springtime, she was always sneezing—and in such an unladylike manner.”It was, of course, the spark that had forged their twenty-year union.“She was born in America, before it became independent, and would have stayed there as a revolutionary had her father allowed it.She almost returned to Boston instead of marrying me, in fact.”
Mrs.Bellamy’s brows rose.“I would be shocked save for how revolutionary you yourself are, sir.”
“I am a reformer, to be sure—” Martin rushed to correct her “—but I do not go so far as to envision a revolution of government.”
“Did Lady Preston?”
“No.”Suddenly, Martin couldn’t quite remember.He and Lolly had engaged in somanydebates about policy and political theory and strategies to accomplish their goals.She had often played devil’s advocate to push Martin to fully consider an issue.But had she ever truly advocated for a republic to replace the monarchy?Could he not remember, or had he not paid her attention if she did?
He did not want to pursue that line of thinking.A little defensively, he asked, “And what of Mr.Bellamy?I met him a few times, but I never had the pleasure of getting to know him fully.How would you describe him?”
The expression on her face—had it been curiosity?Sympathy?—disappeared, replaced by the nothingness that she had worn before their friendship blossomed.“He was a good man who tried to do his best by those around him.”
And she must still be deep in her grief, if she needed to rely on such a platitude to reply.Martin remembered how hard it had been to bear even the mention of Lolly in the first year after her death, though of course she had occupied his every thought.
How foolish that he had been worrying these past few days about what Mrs.Bellamy thought of him.She wasn’t thinking of him: her heart still belonged to her late husband.
Martin pushed away an ugly feeling that he feared was envy.“I’m sorry.I don’t mean to dwell on so painful a topic.”
“It is not painful for me to speak of him.”She looked out the window, her eyes on something far away, as she selected her next words.“I don’t think I was crying just now for Kenneth, but for the life I had that I can never have again.”
