The curate from Barton had done well enough in Samuel’s absence, but there was just too much work to be done for a clergyman to manage both his own curacy and the neighboring parish. However capable Mr. Pike was, Kingsmere required its own shepherd, and Samuel felt the press of that truth settle more firmly with each house he passed.
A quiet sense of rightness settled in him as he gazed out upon his parish. It had been too long, and the simple act of walking these lanes again eased the strain that had settled into his shoulders the moment he had climbed the stage to Haverford.
Raised voices broke through the warm quiet of the afternoon, and Samuel perked, glancing about to see where the trouble lay. His feet pulled him along, moving past the last few cottages at the edge of the village to find Mr. May, red-faced and shouting, his finger jabbing at a stranger.
“That is robbery!” The farmer looked positively apoplectic, and Samuel quickened his pace, determined to calm the fellow before he fell over dead.
“This is the law,” said the stranger, his expression as unchanging as his tone. “It is your responsibility to keep your animals under control—”
“May I be of service?” asked Samuel, inserting himself between the men and subtly moving them back a pace.
Mr. May’s ruddy face turned to him, his mouth opening and closing as though struggling to identify the newcomer, though that quickly passed as he bellowed again, “He stole my pig!”
“That is a serious accusation,” said Samuel, threading peace and calm through his voice. Though a burning glare made it clear that his parishioner did not wish reason to prevail, Mr. Maydid as bidden and drew in a breath, seeming to get himself under a semblance of control.
Once that was settled, Samuel turned to the newcomer. “I fear we have not met, Mr…?”
“Norcroft,” said the fellow, extending his hand. “I am the Whitcombes’ new steward, and this is estate business.”
Glancing at Mr. May, Samuel’s stomach dropped to the ground, and for all his practice and self-control, he struggled to keep his expression impassive as he considered that revelation.
The new steward.
Saints above.
Chapter 7
First impressions mattered. Though not impossible to alter (and often, second impressions were just as impactful as firsts), it set the tenor for their future exchanges, shaping how disputes were handled, how requests were received, how readily cooperation was offered. Or withheld. To encounter the man for the first time amid raised voices and bristling tempers was a poor beginning.
So many in the village relied upon the Whitcombes for income and charity, and this man was the intermediary, and establishing a firm relationship from the outset was paramount. Instead, this wretched marriage business set Samuel at a disadvantage, allowing Mr. Norcroft to run wild across the parish whilst he was absent.
To say nothing of their first meeting occurring in the midst of such a heated debate. This required a very light step and delicate footwork to manage.
Though he didn’t know what any of this had to do with the aforementioned stolen pig, for he couldn’t imagine the steward of Langley Court dealing with livestock in any fashion.
“I am Mr. Godwin—”
“The rector,” said Mr. Norcroft with a nod.
“I am sorry to have missed your arrival in Kingsmere,” said Samuel, slipping on that abject frown that appealed to his patroness, being a blend of apology and subservience as though begging forgiveness for one’s very existence. It had an incredible power to mollify even the loftiest of one’s “betters” and boasted even more efficacy when the recipient was lower down the social hierarchy. Being only a mere steward, Mr. Norcroft was not Samuel’s superior, but that only gave the expression more power, for it bestowed a level of deference they rarely received.
And it worked beautifully.
Mr. Norcroft’s chest puffed ever-so-slightly as pleasure sparked in his gaze. Neither were grand steps towards peace, but Samuel knew this dance far better than any reel.
“Mrs. Whitcombe speaks highly of you,” said Mr. Norcroft. “In fact, the entire village seems to think you a saint.”
“I am deeply humbled to hear such praise,” said Samuel with a low bow. “Serving Kingsmere is the greatest pleasure of my life, and I count myself so very fortunate to have such a magnanimous patroness as the great Mrs. Whitcombe. Never has a man been so blessed.”
That was a bit overdone, but Samuel found people were often quite ready to accept the ridiculous as long as it was complimentary.
“As a servant of the parish, might I inquire what has caused such great distress this fine afternoon?” asked Samuel, glancing between Mr. Norcroft and Mr. May.
But it was the latter who spoke first. “This bounder—”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed on the farmer, begging the man to stop, and for all his temper, Mr. May still had some semblance of sanity intact, and his words halted in place. Straightening, the farmer glanced between his rector and the steward.
“I apologize, sir,” said Mr. May, and Samuel’s chest loosened.
