Mr. Norcroft straightened, his eyes gleaming with appreciation as though pleased that the rector had such a tight hold on the parish’s reins, and the expression made Mr. May’s own redden, though when he opened his mouth to speak, he spied Samuel’s hand subtly gesturing for caution. Thank heavens it was Mr. May here and not his wife, for she was not so trusting.
A bit of pride was a small sacrifice if it helped them through this trouble.
“His pig was improperly penned and trespassed on Langley Court,” said Mr. Norcroft, his eyes fixing on Samuel as though the farmer did not exist. “It ate several of Mrs. Whitcombe’s flowers and did serious damage to one of her prized rosebushes—all of which our bailiff clearly explained, though this fellow insisted on accosting me with this nonsense as I was passing by just now.”
“That is quite distressing,” said Samuel, his mouth agape as though the death of a few ornamental plants was worthy of this falderal. “Do tell me the rosebush will survive.”
“It suffered a few broken stems, but the gardener feels certain there is no lasting damage,” said Mr. Norcroft.
Samuel let out a sigh and pressed a hand to his heart. “Thank the heavens. I would hate for our dear mistress of Langley Court to be without her beloved roses for the season.”
With a nod, Mr. Norcroft continued, “The pig is not stolen. It is impounded until we receive recompense, which by our estimates comes to a pound.”
Only Samuel’s vast experience with these dances kept him from stumbling, but there was no stopping the sizzling dread that spiked through his veins and settled deep within him.
Adopting his most pleading smile, he asked, “A pound? That is quite a sum. Might I inquire as to how you came to that amount?”
“There’s the fines for the trespass, the cost to replace the destroyed plants, and the gardeners’ time to deal with the damage, along with the bailiff’s and my own, of course,” said Mr. Norcroft, ticking off each with his fingers as he listed them. “The fellow ought to be grateful that we are not charging him for the pig’s upkeep in the interim.”
Samuel leapt in to speak before Mr. May. “That is exceptionally generous of you, sir, and I am happy to know that the Whitcombes’ steward cares about the plight of the villagers. But I am sorry to say that the sum is substantial to the Mays. They cannot afford it.”
“Which is why we are quite happy to keep the animal until the autumn harvest. The sale of the meat will cover the cost, thus it will be no great burden upon the family—”
“We live on that meat throughout the winter!” begged Mr. May, glancing between the gentlemen.
Stepping closer to Mr. Norcroft, Samuel motioned the farmer away.
“Come, sir. Surely an intelligent man, such as yourself, can come up with a solution that would benefit both the Whitcombes and the Mays,” said Samuel in his most inviting of voices. “We both know stewards are granted much freedom when it comes to protecting their master and mistress’s interests, and though this infraction is distressing and quite serious, the damage was not extensive. In total, I doubt it will cost more than seven shillings to repair. Ten at the most. That amount is dear to the Mays but manageable.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Mr. Norcroft leaned close to Samuel, his expression friendly though his tone was not. “You keep to your sermonizing, Mr. Godwin, and I will keep to my stewardship. The Whitcombes tasked me with overseeing the estate and ensuring that it functions efficiently, and I will do it as I see fit.”
Leaning back, Mr. Norcroft glanced at Mr. May. “We will keep hold of the animal until you pay our bailiff the entire amount. If you cannot, we will take our portion from the profits when the meat is sold.”
Turning away, the steward strode off without a backward glance, leaving the farmer and clergyman lost for words. Mr. May’s shoulders fell, his breath coming quick with each passing second.
“That is almost our quarterly rent. How can we possibly pay such an amount?” he whispered. “And there’s been plenty of winters where our pig and my wife’s gleanings from the harvest were the only things that got us through. Without the meat…”
“You will have the church,” said Samuel, settling a comforting hand on the fellow’s shoulder. “The parish has known lean times, and we’ve never allowed anyone to starve.”
Mr. May nodded, though it felt as though he were holding his breath. “My thanks, Mr. Godwin. Hopefully, it shan’t come to that.”
“And if it does, there is nothing shameful in it. We all receive aid from time to time.” Glancing at the woven fence around the pig pen, he added, “If you require it, I can speak to Mr. Clark. There’s no one better in the parish at building sturdy fences, and when we get your pig back, she will need a good one to keep her safe.”
Shaking his head, Mr. May waved away the offer. “That is kind of you, but I shall manage.”
Pride goeth before the fall.A proverb that seemed as old as time itself, but then it was an immortal truth. Like so many aspects of life, moderation was paramount. And though being independent was a virtue in many ways, being too proud to accept assistance led to many a downfall. Just as being forever dependent on the kindness of others led to personal stagnationand apathy. Unfortunately, far too many embraced one extreme or the other, fully ignoring that temperance was a virtue.
Samuel prayed that Mr. May was showing a bit of initiative and not stubbornness, but there was nothing more to be done, so he turned away from the trouble and pointed his feet toward home. The lane stretched ahead of him, dusty and familiar, yet it felt longer than usual beneath his feet; the cottages slipped past in a quiet procession, their doors standing open to the warmth of the afternoon, the signs of daily life carrying on around him.
A dull, persistent fatigue settled over him, and Samuel drew in a breath and kept walking, reminding himself that this heaviness would pass as it always did, even if the path ahead felt longer than it had any right to be. He waved to those who called greetings but did not stop, though his steps slowed without his noticing, the weight of the day pressing down until it was difficult to place one foot in front of the other.
Thankfully, the sight of The Parsonage ahead dragged him along. It was not a grand house, nor one that demanded attention, but it stood solid and familiar at the bend in the lane, its windows reflecting the afternoon light with quiet invitation. Samuel’s pace picked up without quite meaning to, the thought of a few moments of stillness tugging him forward with urgent steps.
The day was not finished, but the promise of rest (however brief) was enough to steady him. A chair, some refreshments, the chance to loosen his collar and sit without considering anyone else’s troubles for a quarter hour felt like a small mercy. Even with its new resident, solitude was easy to come by as Mrs. Godwin seemed determined to avoid him at every turn.
But as he stepped through the gate, Samuel spied a familiar face through the parlor window, and that flutter of joy was swept away by an icy wind. Saints above. Mrs. Whitcombe was paying a call.
Tension crept up his spine as he stood there, the gate latch cool beneath his hand, and for a long moment, Samuel was frozen in place. This meeting was unavoidable. Inevitable. Of course, as the most senior lady in the neighborhood, it was Mrs. Whitcombe’s duty to welcome the rector’s new wife, but knowing a thing and seeing it unfold were two very different things.
