Page 39 of The Widower Without a Will
He had raised children who loved each other unconditionally.
He wasn’t sure that they extended that love to him any longer.
“It is a treat to have them home again,” he replied.“A gift from Maulvi, though I wish he were here to enjoy their company, too.”
“It is a treat for me, too, even though I didn’t know them previously.They are lovely women.”She reached out and, for the briefest of moments, squeezed his fingers.“It makes me glad to see you with your children.”
He longed to keep her hand in his.There was nothing but joy in her words, her voice, her expression, yet the very sentiment came with sorrow, since she could never be reunited with Lucas.“They like you, I can tell.”
She smiled with her full mouth, a little pink rising in her cheeks, and Martin had to push away his body’s instinct to pull her into his lap and kiss those beautiful lips.
It was into this moment that Ellen entered.Martin jerked into perfect posture, though he had been doing nothing except mooning at Martha, and fixed his eyes on his plate.Martha busied herself refilling his cup with mint tisane.Ellen—who had been swanning into the room as if she owned the place—hesitated at the threshold.After a moment, she proceeded to the table, and thankfully, she did not comment on anything she might have observed, instead asking Martha a question about the fund for clergymen’s widows.
Still, Martin was reminded that he could not risk even longing glances at Martha.He excused himself from the table and managed not to find himself in Martha’s company until supper that day.
Marthawasgrowingusedto living with two hearts beating inside her chest.One, for polite society, did not react too greatly to anyone’s behavior, allowed her to enjoy the Preston daughters without being invested in them, and agreed that of course she should arrive at the assembly early with Caroline so as to avoid gossip sparked by entering with Lord Preston’s group.
Her true heart beat on below.The one that at every second of the day waited for Lord Preston to glance her way or even mention her name; the one that kept her up each night, waiting for his knock though she knew it would never come.She understood all the reasons why they had to pretend they were nothing more than acquaintances.Sheagreedwith the ruse and would have counseled any friend that it was the wisest course of action.Yet this heart of hers pumped blood through her veins each time there was the slightest chance she might for a second be alone with Lord Preston, because it craved him—the real him, not the adulterated version he presented for his daughters—once more.
She got little assurances that his heart, too, beat for her.Alone with him at breakfast, she saw his eyes soften the way they used to, before Ellen broke in upon them.Passing him in the corridor as she followed Sophia upstairs in search of a lost book, he swayed towards her just enough for their arms to brush.She was no longer seeing to his correspondence on a daily basis, but one afternoon he called her in to take a dictation for a long and boring letter to his solicitor that he could easily have written himself.Though he stood behind his desk the whole time, never close enough to touch her, the sweet way he thanked her—and the very fact that he had asked her to spend that hour with him—told Martha that he missed her as much as she missed him.
Once this assembly was over, and once his daughters had left Northfield Hall, they could return to their previous quiet arrangement.So long as gossip in Thatcham didn’t take hold to frighten Lord Preston from ever speaking to her again.
With a sense of foreboding, then, Martha arrived at the schoolroom with Caroline to assist in setup.It being an informal assembly, the food was provided dish by dish from each family attending, and Martha was stationed at the buffet table to direct where the plates were laid.It surprised her how good it was to see these faces she had grown used to seeing every Sunday.Though Northfield Hall was only five miles from Thatcham, she had gone from weekly conversations in the churchyard to not catching up with these acquaintances at all.
Riding with Caroline in the carriage, Martha had felt brittle with anxiety, fearing that if any person so much as looked at her with too much meaning, she would crumble with embarrassment.
Instead, as the old barn filled with young mothers she had counseled on swaddling their babes and farmers who always paid a penny into the collection plate and the rabble-rousers who only came when Kenneth performed Communion, Martha relaxed into a version of herself she had thought had died with Lucas.These were more than the sheep her husband had shepherded; they were her friends, and she had missed them, and she was glad to see them after three months at Northfield Hall.
An ordinary assembly began its dancing when the musicians took up their instruments and the caller announced the first set.This one began with Mrs.Croft climbing atop a crate so she could better address the crowd.
“Thank you all for coming this evening.I know it seems strange to celebrate my Mr.Maulvi when we already miss him so much.This is what he asked of us.He lived here his whole life, first at Northfield Hall and these last forty years in Thatcham, and he admired most of all the way we neighbors care for each other.He would want us to spend tonight reminding each other that we will support each other through good and bad, that we will give each other grace in disagreements, and that we will not be mean about how we define ‘we.’So, please, help us give his soul one last blessing by opening your purses for the Lascars, and join us in his favorite dance!”
Martha knew she wouldn’t be dancing.Lord Preston wouldn’t dare invite her, and no one else would think a sixty-two-year-old widow would want to.She helped herself to a cup of punch—spiked with some of Thatcham’s local grain alcohol—to watch the country dance.Solemnly, Lord Preston led Mrs.Croft to the top of the line.
He didn’t quite approve of any of this, even though it had been Mr.Maulvi’s request.Martha felt a mix of amusement—that she could read him so easily—and protectiveness over him.Others might consider him judgmental; certainly, his daughters had little patience for his discomfort surrounding the assembly.To Martha’s eyes, however, he was not trying to shame anyone.He was thinking too hard about everything, measuring each movement and word, and as a result, he seemed as remote and reserved as a lord should be.
She wished she could take his hand or lean her head against his shoulder.Anything to remind him he need not be perfect to be admired.
He was an elegant dancer, as one would expect.No doubt he had taken dancing lessons from a French master back in the days of young King George III.Through his sheer aptitude, he made Mrs.Croft look clumsy as she needed to be nudged to turn this way or prompted to cross the line in a diagonal.But the widow laughed at her own mistakes, earning a smile from Lord Preston, and the dancers all carried on merrily.
When the dance came to an end, Martha held her breath, hoping Lord Preston would next come to the table for some food.He could say a word to her without anyone finding it strange.They could smile at each other.
He turned to Ellen instead, and they headed to the top of the line for the next set.Martha released her exhale.At the next dance break, then.
Mr.Cropper, the publican, approached.“Would you be my partner, Mrs.Bellamy?”
“Oh.”The offer surprised her so much that she could barely say anything, though she put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her into the formation.It was to be a quadrille, which Martha knew well from her younger days, and she said on a laugh to Mr.Cropper, “Good thing it’s one I know, otherwise you’d be sorry you asked me.”
“We danced it together at the Yuletide ball a few years ago, otherwise I wouldn’t have dared,” he replied.“I figured if Mrs.Croft is dancing, there is no reason why you shouldn’t be, too.”
The quadrille was slow enough to provide them time and breath to carry on conversation.“It was a nice idea of Mr.Maulvi’s to ask us to celebrate instead of be morose,” Martha said.“Or perhaps I only say that because I have spent so much of my last year closeted in mourning.”
“It is just like him to make us do something strange for our own benefit,” replied Mr.Cropper with a smile.“I remember my father complaining about all the favors Mr.Maulvi used to ask on behalf of Northfield Hall, only for them to turn out best for everyone involved.He had us add a private room with a window facing east, which seemed a huge expense, but we now have Mohammedans come out of their way from the turnpike so they may say their prayers in peace.”
“I wish I’d known him better.He didn’t call upon Mr.Bellamy or myself too often, since after all, he wasn’t a churchman.”
“He was a man who lived on his own terms, but without hurting a soul.In fact, more often than not, he would stop you on the street to tell you this or that reason he admired you.Everyone in this room has a story like that, I wager.He looked for the good in people, and he said it aloud when he found it.”
