If he crossed this line, this single kindness would expand far beyond his means. Secrets spread. They always did. And then, half of Kingsmere would line up at his door, begging for relief from their generous rector.
Samuel drew a slow breath and held firm to his resolve, though questions refused to leave him be. Where was the line between greed and caution? How much was too much? Ought he to rid himself of all his worldly goods and live like the poorest of his parish? Was having anything more than his neighbor unneighborly?
Reaching into a tin, Mrs. Hood pulled out a few coins. “This is what I have.”
Mr. Vincent counted it out, his expression grim, but before Samuel could think what to do, the woman ushered the clergyman out the door.
“My thanks, Mr. Godwin, but this is our trouble, and we will sort it out one way or another,” she said. “Thank you for calling.”
“Do send word should you require anything,” he insisted. “No matter the time of day.”
Mrs. Hood nodded and shut the door behind him, leaving him on her front steps as the door closed with a soft finality. The sunlight outside felt thinner than it had a fortnight ago, bright but sharp-edged as autumn dispelled the warmth of summer, and the leaves rustled in the treetops as he stepped onto the lane, their dry sound oddly insistent.
Setting off at last, Samuel plodded along, absently nodding at passersby as he wound his way through the village, his feet steering him toward home before he knew what they were about. He had more calls to pay, but the prospect of discussing needs he could not meet weighed on him more than he could bear.
The Parsonage came into view sooner than expected, and Samuel slowed as he reached the gate, resting his hand there for a moment before passing through. What he wanted most was a closed door. A chair drawn close to a window that overlooked the garden. Silence enough to gather himself again. A little respite before he resumed the work that awaited.
Just as Samuel was hoping he might slip by his wife, a clatter came from the parlor, and he ducked inside to see Mrs. Godwin righting a basket that had fallen from the sofa as she berated herself under her breath. Squatting down, he scooped up the contents, all of which appeared unharmed despite the fall, and the lady jerked with surprise when he handed her the basket.
“I didn’t think you would be home until dinner,” she said, straightening.
The observation didn’t seem to require an answer, yet Samuel found himself offering one nonetheless. “I decided to come home for a bit of quiet.”
And whatever else he may find at The Parsonage, quiet was usually in high supply.
Mrs. Godwin nodded and took hold of the basket, settling it into the crook of her arm before gathering up two others, shifting them about until she was able to get all three in hand. Then she turned away without another word, making her way to the door he had just come through.
“Where are you going with those?” he asked.
Pausing, the lady glanced back at him and then down at her baskets. “We have a few things that are going to spoil before we can eat them all, so I am going to take the extras to two of the families in the parish. The third basket is for Mr. Colby. He is alone this afternoon, and I thought he might like some company, so I am bringing him some sweets. Mrs. Broad takes good care of him, but he loves Mrs. Johns’ spice cake and shortbread.”
Samuel’s gaze followed the baskets rather than her face, taking in their weight, the way the handles bit into her fingers as she adjusted her grip. It seemed he was not going to find a moment’s peace at home, after all.
“Give them here,” he said, nodding at her burdens.
Mrs. Godwin straightened, the silence that followed growing weighty as she stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Give me the baskets,” he repeated, barely keeping the confusion from his tone. It wasn’t a difficult request to comprehend.
“You made it abundantly clear that I must do something for the parish. You shouted it, in fact, demanding I do anything other than lie about, and now that I am, you are going to forbidme from doing it?” she asked in a voice that was quiet but not calm.
“That is not—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. The day’s frustrations crowded in at once, jostling for expression. “I am to accompany you—”
“And how am I to be useful if I am not allowed to go about on my own, sir?” she asked, struggling to adjust her hold on the baskets. “You never speak to me, unless it is to scold—”
“Saints above, woman!” he barked, the pressure of the past few hours forcing out the words. “I wasn’t chastising. I was offering to carry the baskets. It is painful to watch you struggle with all three of those at once.”
Mrs. Godwin’s mouth was already open, ready to retort before he’d finished—but instead, she stilled. Shoulders falling, she considered him, seeming to weigh his words for a long moment before her posture eased.
“You mean to help me,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he replied, just as quietly. “That was my intent.”
Straightening, Samuel forced himself to try again. “Mrs. Godwin, may I please assist you with your baskets? Though I know it may not seem so at first glance, I am capable of being a gentleman when I put my mind to it.”
The silence that followed was different from the one before—less brittle, though no less charged.
“Was that a jest?”
