Phoebe accepted the cup, its warmth seeping into her fingers as the conversation carried on around her, and for the first time since arriving at Kingsmere, she didn’t feel like an interloper or a guest. Though her troubles remained, she wouldn’t have to sort them out alone.
And when Phoebe smiled again, it came without effort.
Chapter 18
The Hoods’ cottage was tiny, and the low ceiling compressed the room until the building felt like a cupboard. Though boasting a warm hearth and all the homey touches that invited one to linger, Samuel felt like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians, minding every movement lest he step on a child or a makeshift toy.
Mrs. Hood stood near the fire, tending to the pot of cabbage boiling over the flames, and when she turned away from her work, Samuel hurried to help her back to her chair, which sat beside a table in the center of the space that served as both kitchen and parlor. With a sigh, she folded her hands over the swell of her belly, her fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles showed pale beneath the skin.
Two children hovered nearby. The elder lingered close to the table, playing with a wooden toy, though his attention strayed often to his mother. The younger drifted in and out of motion, circling the room with restless energy before stopping abruptly, as if searching for some new entertainment.
“It is natural to be anxious,” said Samuel, perched on the edge of his seat.
“I’ve lost so many. I don’t know if I can do it again. To spend all these months lovin’ this little one, only to have her torn awayfrom me.” Mrs. Hood’s expression crumpled, and she dabbed at her face with a worn bit of linen. “But you didn’t come to hear me blubber—”
“I came to offer whatever aid I can, even if all I can do is listen to some ‘blubbering,’” replied Samuel with the faintest of humor, which drew an equally faint smile from the woman.
Letting out a shaky breath, Mrs. Hood shook her head, her eyes fixed upon the handkerchief in her lap. “Harry says I’m worryin’ too much.”
Samuel gave a commiserating smile. “I haven’t found an easy remedy for worrying, Mrs. Hood. And you have ample reason to fear. Bringing a child into the world is no easy matter.”
“But no doubt, if I pray, God will ensure everything will turn out right in the end,” she said with the resigned quality of one who had heard those words repeated often enough.
“No, Mrs. Hood,” said Samuel with a heavy sigh. “If one need only to follow certain steps to ensure prosperity and ease throughout life, faith wouldn’t be required. Who wouldn’t do the right thing in all circumstances if a blessing immediately followed? And who would choose wickedness if sorrow descended the moment they acted? There are plenty of good people who know great hardships in their lives, and ample examples of the wicked who thrive.”
The woman’s brows rose at that, and Samuel settled his hands on his thighs.
“There is no way to ensure a happy outcome with this child, Mrs. Hood. But I have found the only way to bear up the burdens that eventually come to us all—righteous and wicked alike—is to hold fast to our faith and try our best to be good. But know that whatever happens, I will do what I can to aid you.”
Nodding, Mrs. Hood drew herself up. “That is somehow both disheartening and comforting, Mr. Godwin—”
A knock at the door had the woman shifting to rise, though the groan she gave as she did so had Samuel lifting a staying hand as he rose in her place. Stepping carefully around the children, he opened the door to find the Whitcombes’ bailiff on the doorstep.
“Mr. Godwin,” said Mr. Vincent, his brows raised.
Stepping aside, Samuel motioned toward the woman of the house. “You caught us during a visit.”
Taking the hat from his head, the bailiff stepped inside. “I am sorry, but it cannot wait any longer, Mrs. Hood. Mr. Norcroft insists I collect the rent in full.”
“Another day is all we need,” said Mrs. Hood, forcing herself to her feet. Pressing a hand to her lower back, she sighed as she straightened. “Harry will come home from the market tomorrow, and then we will have the rest. I promise.”
“I am afraid the steward insists. He is keeping a close eye on every payment, and I fear I cannot turn a blind eye on tardy rents any longer,” he said, rotating his hat in his hands.
“They are short because they had to pay for roof repairs,” interjected Samuel. “Had Mr. Norcroft approved the expense when he ought to have done so, then the Hoods would have their rent in full.”
Mr. Vincent shifted from foot to foot. “As their last three payments were tardy, he isn’t required to make repairs the moment they are requested.” Drawing in a deep breath, he hurried to add, “And Mr. Norcroft ordered me to tell you to mind your own business if you interfere.”
Straightening, Samuel glanced between Mrs. Hood and Mr. Vincent, though he didn’t know what more he could do. Pressure gathered behind his eyes, and the hearth crackled softly, indifferent to the exchange, while the small domestic sounds of the cottage pressed in on him.
Samuel’s hand brushed the pocket of his tailcoat without conscious thought, feeling the weight of the coins there. Not many, but perhaps enough to close the gap between Mrs. Hood’s funds and her bills. Enough to quiet the matter, at least for now.
It would be easy. So easy. A gesture made in private, unseen by anyone beyond these walls. The Whitcombes would have what they were owed, and the debt wouldn’t loom over the Hoods’ already anxious household.
But there would be the next family. And the next.
His days were already filled with appeals of varying urgency, each justified in its own way. A short payment here. A sick child there. Rent withheld for reasons both sound and suspect. He could not begin to fill every hollow with his own purse. His own circumstances were not so secure as to allow him to prop up all the poor in Kingsmere.
Still, the coins weighed heavily, as though their mere presence accused him of miserliness. Was it wicked to withhold in the face of such need? What virtue lay in guarding what little he had, when others had so much less? The answers he had long carried—about boundaries and the proper channels of relief—thinned in the face of Mrs. Hood’s drawn expression and the damp creeping steadily along the cottage walls.
