A Lady Awakened

by Cecilia Grant

  “I’m so sorry.” She could hear Mrs. Kendall leaning forward. “He’s not in any danger, is he? I shouldn’t have brought it up, if—”

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” She looked up and forced a smile through her confusion. “Indeed with Napoleon imprisoned at Elba I expect we should see him before very much longer. His regiment is at Antwerp, I believe, just waiting for orders. And your son?”

  Something was said of Mrs. Kendall’s son. There followed a number of remarks, some of them even contributed by herself. Other things came under discussion. The tea and cake, almost certainly. The weather, perhaps. But if someone had asked her, a minute or an hour or six hours later, to tell what they’d spoken of, the last ten minutes of that call, she could not have done so to save her soul.

  SHE SAT on the foot of the bed when he came in that night, cross-legged in her nightrail, with a plate of lemon cake and a fork and an impossibly radiant smile.

  If only she’d inoculated him with more frequent smiles, he would not lose all his conversation. But she was sparing with her smiles, so often holding them back or hiding them with an artfully placed hand, and the result was he had no more defense against one than he would against some fever from the wilds of farthest Feejee. He stood wordless, smiling back at her just as though he knew the cause of her pleasure. And then, all at once, he did know.

  He took the cake from her upraised hands and stepped back away from her radiance. “Well,” he said, forking up a bite. “And what worthy things did you accomplish today?”

  “I didn’t accomplish a thing.” Her smile deepened, sweet and bracing as a bite of lemon cake. “I had callers.”

  THE CLASSROOM, clearly, was Mr. Atkins’s element. Here he did not make speeches that went on a bit too long, but came every few sentences to a question, and delighted in coaxing or prodding an answer from his flock. He moved about, now at a map, now at a great sheet of copperplate lettering, and often down the aisle between the tables where the pupils sat. Martha sat in an empty place at the back where she’d been the last half hour, listening to the industrious squeak of slate-pencils on slate.

  Everything was turning for the better. Everything. The passage of a few months might see the school’s enrollment double, with the addition of children from Mr. Mirkwood’s property and—one must be hopeful—the presence of older girls. She might, given time, shepherd a dairy into being on the very next property and then turn her attention to all the good she could do in town. If only things fell out so that she remained at Seton Park, the days and years ahead could be gratifying indeed.

  Today, while Mr. Atkins made himself known to the first of the laborer families at Pencarragh, she would work at befriending Mrs. Weaver. Somehow or another, she must.

  The curate’s high spirits lingered even after he’d dismissed the pupils and taken the reins of the pony cart. For the entirety of their drive he spoke of this child or that, praising one’s quick perception or furrowing his brow over another’s disinclination to sit still. On the walk from their cart he turned his attention to laborer children, and what differences, if any, he might encounter in teaching them. One suspected he couldn’t be more pleased if he were granted a living of a thousand pounds a year.

  The Weaver cottage, as they approached, was all in disarray, with men on its roof, straw thatch thrown down in the yard, and seemingly half the furniture dragged out to the open meadow. Small Weavers raced back and forth with small children from another family. Larger children sat clutching plates, eating their fill of what appeared to be roast fowl and potatoes. Baby Job sobbed on the shoulder of a laborer wife she didn’t know. From habit she looked for the pig and found it stationed at the foot of the ladder, its head canted up as though to keep careful surveillance of the interlopers above.

  Mr. Granville, sitting among the other adults with a mug of ale, rose at the sight of them and waved them over for introductions. “Is Mr. Mirkwood not here?” she said, once she’d made the acquaintance of Mr. Weaver and Mr. and Mrs. Quigley. “When he invited us I assumed he would be present.”

  In answer the man flung an arm up and out, directing her gaze back to the half-undone roof.

  He sat atop the very ridge, bareheaded, his hair brilliant as an unspent shilling in the sun. His back was against the chimneypiece and one knee bent up before him, foot planted on the ridge tree as though he were relaxing on a riverbank somewhere. In his coarse-gloved hands he held a bunch of split branches. While she watched he twisted one, bending the ends near together. Then he swung himself down the slope of the roof to hand the implement to one of the roofers, who used it to secure one bundle of straw to another. Surefooted as though he’d spent most of his life on rooftops, he scaled a rafter back to the ridge.

  Three weeks and two days now since she’d first seen him. Not long enough for a lady to truly know a man. That obstacle still stood. The objections of her conscience, too, had not grown any less valid. And as to admiration—Her thoughts fled suddenly as he twisted and caught sight of her. Of her and Mr. Atkins. He grinned like a boy looking down from a treehouse, one hand making to lift his hat before he remembered he didn’t wear one.

  “I believe I’ve finally got his measure.” The agent was at her elbow, looking up. “If you take the duty and responsibility out of a thing, and give him a way to get his own hands on it, he’s entirely willing to learn. I confess I took him for an idler at first.”

  Mr. Granville wasn’t the only one guilty of that. “Even the duty and responsibility may come in time, I think. He’s young yet.”

  “To be sure. And then, he might choose a wife strong in those qualities, and she might shore him up. Altogether I have every hope of his turning out well.”

  Mr. Mirkwood was down the ladder by this time, his branches given over to one of the thatching-men. He stepped nimbly round the pig and climbed over the fence to greet them. “Sit down, won’t you, and have something to eat.” He waved to a table laden with dishes. “I put my cook to a great deal of trouble. And someone was asking after you,” he said to her. “One of these girls.” He looked about him. “Ah—there you are. No more hiding behind your sister. Here is Mrs. Russell, just as you demanded. Now come sit by her and tell her all about your cat.” With something very near a wink he left her, vaulting over the fence to go back up on the roof.

  Little Carrie had much to say of the kitten, who was apparently equipped with a full repertoire of such antics as were common to kittens and delightful to those who cared for that kind of thing. She was a charming child indeed, and would surely benefit from the broadening effects of education. Once or twice Martha felt Mrs. Weaver’s eye upon them, but when she turned to smile, hopeful of inviting her into their conversation, the woman’s glance had gone elsewhere.

  Mr. Weaver, however, presently took his daughter’s seat, consigning her to a place on his knee. He was a great boulder in human form, Mr. Weaver was, with formidable knuckly hands and a heavy, low brow. “It was a handsome thing to do,” he said of the cat. “He’s killed a mouse already and the child’s taken him to heart.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear he’s been of use. I wonder if more families here might be in need of one. We have a surfeit, altogether. I could probably supply as many as were wanted.”

  “Mrs. Russell lives at Seton Park,” the child put in.

  “So I heard, Mischief.” Affectionately he tugged one of the girl’s plaits. “My Livia worked there for a time. Has she mentioned it?”

  “Mrs. Weaver, do you mean?” She swung about to look at the woman, who had turned her back. “Why, no. I had no idea she was ever even in service.” Could that pinched, haggard figure really have once worn a starched cap and apron, and bustled about managing things?

  “She was. Before she married me, of course.” He was watching his wife as he spoke, and suddenly she threw him one sharp look over her shoulder. He sighed, and boosted the child from his lap. “Run along and play with the others now. I’ll have to get back to work presently. Mrs. Russell,” he said
when Carrie had gone, “you’d do me a kindness if you didn’t try to speak to Mrs. Weaver on that subject. I suppose I oughtn’t to have brought it up.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I, entirely. Only we disagree over what should and shouldn’t be told.” He tipped his hat and stood, and shortly thereafter he and Mr. Quigley went back to whatever work they had in the field that day.

  The sun crawled steadily westward while people had second helpings of fowl or moved on to cake and fruit. She sometimes spoke to the people near her, sometimes settled back to watch others speak. Mr. Mirkwood came down from the roof again and played at boxing with some of the boys. Mr. Atkins told a story, with goats and giants, to three small children and the eldest Weaver girl. A ball of sorts was brought out from somewhere and even Mr. Granville was dragged from his place to join the children and the younger men in kicking it about.

  Martha patted baby Job, who’d finally found his way to her shoulder and into sleep. She and the other women sat in peaceful silence as the shouts and laughter of the ballplayers rang out over the field. Repeatedly, though, her sidelong glance went to Mrs. Weaver. For the husband’s sake, she said nothing that even remotely referenced the forbidden topic. But it clung like a cobweb at the back of her brain.

  EARLY THAT evening she ventured to Mrs. Kearney’s room. Irregular. One ought to summon a housekeeper to the drawing room, and leave her the sanctity of her own chamber. Nevertheless here she was.

  The woman was busy with silk thread and a small hook, making lace, she said, for a family christening gown. Martha admired the intricate pattern of loops, and insisted she keep on with her work as they spoke.

  Another chair sat opposite Mrs. Kearney’s, so she sank into it. Light still shone through the window, burnishing metal surfaces—a mirror, the ring round a clock face on the mantel, a silver tray with tea things at the housekeeper’s side—and warming the autumn-colored carpet beneath them. She took a breath. “I’ve met someone who once worked in this house, so I’m told.” Her hands folded together in her lap. “I wonder if you will have any memory of her.”

  “There’ve been so many come and gone.” Still plying her lace hook, the woman sent a quick glance to the row of ledgers on a shelf along the wall, testimony to all her time at Seton Park. “But perhaps. Did she say when she worked here?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t speak to her at all on the subject. Her husband is the one who mentioned it. But they have a daughter of fifteen or sixteen, so it must be at least that long since.”

  She could see Mrs. Kearney striking a slew of names from her list of possible answers. The housekeeper pursed her mouth, and looked up. “Where did you meet her?”

  “On the property just east. They’re laborers there. I don’t know what would have been her name, but she married a Mr. Weaver, and her Christian name is Livia, or perhaps Olivia.”

  Mrs. Kearney was nodding already. “That’s one of the two.” She hooked another tiny loop of thread. “One of the two as was ruined. The other went to London and never came back, but she stayed in the country where she’d grown up.”

  Yes. This was the suspicion that had chattered in some dark corner of her thoughts. She hadn’t yet allowed it into the light. Her fingers flexed, and tangled with one another. “Does her husband know?”

  “That he does.” Another nod, as her hands worked steadily on. “He’d known her from a girl, and loved her nearly that long, I suppose. But once she got a post here, it should have been a comedown for her to marry a farmer’s son.”

  “I can’t blame her for that.” Odd, this compulsion to defend a woman who surely would not welcome any such charity from her. “We’re not men, with so many ways to pull themselves up in the world. A woman has a duty to make the best marriage she can.”

  “She was lucky to make any marriage at all, after what befell her. No one expected Mr. Weaver to renew his proposals. No one would have blamed him if he turned his back on her. But he loved her just that much.”

  “That’s … commendable of him.” It was something more than commendable, but she couldn’t quite find the right descriptor. “Do you ever speak to her?”

  “Not once in sixteen years.” Mrs. Kearney sighed, and let her hands go still. The lines about her eyes looked deeper. “I never faulted her for what happened. None among the staff here did. But if I pass her now on the road or in town, she fixes her eyes straight ahead and won’t know me.”

  Chairs and tables and tea things went hazy as the world boiled itself down to two mere words. “Sixteen years.” But of course. Dismissed all the same, because of what condition they found themselves in. So Sheridan had said.

  “Twice cursed, she was.” The lace hook started up again. “Any child should have been a painful reminder of the business, I expect. But an idiot child who’ll need care all her life …” She shook her head on an angle, and twisted her mouth. “I don’t know how she bears it. I never could.”

  But one bore what one had to bear. Could never entered into the bargain. Though sometimes … perhaps … one might share out one’s burden among friends and well-wishers, and feel it lightened by the sharing. One did hear of that physic as efficacious. Even for a woman so chilly and inflexible as Mrs. Weaver, sympathy might do some good.

  And why stop at sympathy? “Seton Park owes reparation to that woman. We owe something to that girl.” Her imprudent tongue kept pace with her thoughts. “Where Providence has failed someone, it falls to the rest of us to step into the breach.” Mopping up after the failings of Providence. Wouldn’t Mr. Atkins grow pale with horror if he heard her now.

  So be it. Justice had a claim on her. Mrs. Weaver and her daughter had a claim to justice, long in arrears. She thanked Mrs. Kearney for the information, and took her leave. More than ever, she must find a way to keep control of the estate.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SHE MIGHT have told Mr. Mirkwood. Taking an interest in the laborer families as he did, he would probably like to know of this sad history. But when he came in that night, so taken up with what he’d learned of roofing and with the pleasures of the picnic, to burden him with dark secrets seemed cruel. Then after he’d had his satisfaction, and she her seed, he wanted to speak of the dairy project.

  “The central difficulty is that I’ve got to make a profit.” He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, a vague shape in the moonlight. “Granville and my father won’t stand for turning Pencarragh into a charitable endeavor. Though Lord knows we get income enough from our other properties, not to mention the ancient family fortune. Forgive me.” His face pointed itself toward her. “I really ought not to mention our worth.”

  “Given how our acquaintance began, I believe a reference to money can be forgiven.”

  His hand came across murky space to tweak her nose, then receded. “If I want any custom, I’ve got to set my prices low. But the larger producers can effect certain economies I cannot. Cows crammed together in sheds can be kept in greater numbers than cows that roam and need so much grazing land apiece.”

  “Thinning the milk with water must reduce their expenses as well.” They stared into the same thoughtful distance. One had a not-unpleasant inkling of how an ox in yoked partnership must feel. Or a horse in harness, pulling alongside a fellow striver.

  “If the market were different, I might hope people would be willing to pay more for superior quality. But families like the Weavers haven’t that luxury.”

  “And any family who can afford that choice will almost certainly have their own cow.” There was the core of the problem. He would have a worthy product, but in the wrong place. “What you need is a pack of wealthy people who don’t keep cows.”

  “Londoners on holiday.” She could hear his enjoyment in painting the fanciful picture with her. “Can we start a fashion for jaunts to the rural middle of Sussex?”

  “We’ll cry up some local pond for its healing properties, and establish a spa.”

  “Yes, and en
tice the Prince Regent into visiting. Then the rest of the ton will follow.”

  “Theo.” She turned to him and came up on an elbow. “The Prince Regent already comes into Sussex. The ton does follow.”

  “To Brighton.” He’d caught her caravan of thought and fallen right in line. “Brighton has as many wealthy people as any merchant could wish.”

  “And they don’t travel with cows.” Her pulse quickened. “What if you were to take your products to market there—perhaps once every month or two weeks—and sell at such prices as wealthy people are accustomed to pay?”

  “Then I could keep my prices low in this neighborhood.” His hand lifted from the pillow and wound itself in her hair, but without any solid purpose. His attention was elsewhere. “Only it might be too much to ask of my laborers, to make that journey. I think I must talk to them. After I’ve talked to Granville. Perhaps after I’ve approached my father in regard to the capital outlay. Or no, perhaps I’d better talk to the laborers first of all. I don’t know. Where had a man best begin with this sort of thing?”

  Serious, conscientious, and seeking her opinion: he could have had anything he wanted of her in that moment. She pressed her lips together. Generosity demanded generosity in return. “Think on it. Sleep on it. You’ll make the right choice.”

  She felt his pleasure as surely as though his skin were shuddering against hers. He was all but a virgin in this, the experience of being taken seriously. Perhaps no woman—perhaps no one at all—had ever gazed at him with quiet faith, and encouraged him to believe in his own abilities.

  She oughtn’t to touch him. She ought to let him bask in this satisfaction, and not muddle it with anything else. Nevertheless her hand rose to clasp his wrist and carefully, very carefully, she leaned in and put her lips to the crest of his forehead. Nothing more than that. “Good night, Mr. Mirkwood,” she said, and turned over to go to sleep.