Samuel’s attention fixed on the edge of the table, the woodgrain blurring before his eyes. Mr. Colby’s cough was already troubling; a man of his years could not endure the long, cold hours whilst being shaken about in rickety conveyances. Surely there was something more to do. Some argument not yet offered. Some appeal not already dismissed.
But this was not a question to be resolved. It was a decision already made. They had skirted the law before, but now, Mr. Colby was firmly outside the reach of their mercy. Mr. Kirk folded the paper and laid it atop the stack, the finality of the gesture unmistakable.
Chairs scraped back. Coats were gathered. Low murmurs rose and fell as the men dispersed, their business concluded, and they skirted Samuel’s seat as they left, their gazes avoiding him entirely. Which was for the best. With his composure worn so thin, Samuel didn’t trust himself to speak.
Death and agony dogged his every step. He buried children and wept alongside their families. Sat at bedsides as the hands he held grew cold. Watched as families starved whilst others turned a blind eye. Some were simply beaten down by the hardships of life, but so many chose the wrong paths again and again, and then expected him to save them from themselves.
Sitting there long after the room had emptied, Samuel’s gaze fixed on the far wall.
He loved his work, but did it do any good? No matter how much he labored, suffering always outpaced him, arriving first and lingering long after he was gone. For every mercy wrestled into being, three new calamities rose to overtake it. Samuel stood forever on the threshold between hope and loss, and at only nine and twenty years of age, he felt as old and weathered as Mr. Colby.
At last, Samuel gathered his coat and shuffled toward the door, carrying with him the weighty knowledge that tomorrow would bring no reprieve. The nave echoed as he passed through it, his footsteps sounding too loud against the stone, and cold air wrapped around him as he stepped out into the churchyard—and found Mr. Norcroft waiting at the lychgate.
“No doubt you enjoyed seeing me put in my place at the expense of a frail old man,” said Samuel, his heart and soul too weary for civility.
“Why are you determined to think me a monster?” snapped Mr. Norcroft. The man’s hands curled and uncurled at his sides, the agitation poorly concealed now that it had found a voice.
But as quickly as that temper flared, the gentleman drew in a sharp breath, his tone lowering as though the graves themselves might be listening. “Do you think you are the only one made to dance to Mrs. Whitcombe’s tune?”
Chapter 30
“Do you think I relish squeezing money from those who have so little to begin with? That I wake each morning, eager to go about this bloodthirsty business?” continued Mr. Norcroft, the anger thinning into something brittle. “But if I do not do as my master and mistress dictate, I will find myself in my predecessor’s shoes.”
Letting out a heaving breath, he ground his teeth. “The Whitcombes want profitability, and if I do not produce, I will be sacked as well. Do you think they will give me a reference? Or that any other employer will take me on when I was let go for dereliction of duty? I will lose my income, and my family will starve. It is as simple—and as ugly—as that.”
“There are limits. Some lines mustn’t be crossed,” argued Samuel. “Mr. Colby will die because of what was done today.”
Mr. Norcroft gave a short, humorless laugh. “That is easy to say when your position is secure. No matter how you anger the Whitcombes, they cannot remove you. I have no such protections.”
“It is not as easy as that, sir—”
“Aye, and neither is it for me, sir,” he retorted. “You know better than most how narrow the margin truly is. How quickly a family can slip from respectability to dependence, from comfortto destitution. Losing my position may be a blow from which we will never recover.”
“Just as Mr. Colby will likely never recover,” said Samuel.
Shoulders sagging, Mr. Norcroft’s gaze fell away as the fire within them dimmed. “There was no persuading her to turn a blind eye once it was brought to her attention. Though I do not agree with the law, I cannot go against it any more than I can go against her. This is not my doing nor my will.”
The truth of it settled between them, cold and heavy. Samuel thought of the vestry table, of the papers folded and stacked, of the way decisions hardened once set down in ink. Different roles. Different leashes.
“You play the Whitcombes’ eager admirer,” Mr. Norcroft continued, bitterness edging his whisper. “But I play the Whitcombes’ hard fist. I am the boogeyman who is hated by half of the parish, unable to even attend Sunday services without being glared at or harangued by people begging for mercy that I haven’t the power to grant. Neither of us can afford to refuse the Whitcombes’ whims, or others will suffer for our pride.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and unyielding as Mr. Norcroft’s words hung in the cold air. Samuel felt the chains that bound them together, and his anger toward the steward ebbed, replaced once more by cold futility.
“I do not envy your position,” said Samuel at last. “And I apologize if I have made it more difficult than needs be.”
Mr. Norcroft let out a sharp breath that sounded more like a surrender than relief and scrubbed a hand over his face, erasing the last of the heat in his eyes. “And I apologize for my behavior at your dinner party. What I said was shameful and born from a frustration that was not of your making.”
And though he did not meet Samuel’s eyes, a faint smile crossed the steward’s lips. “You should know that Mrs. Norcroft hasn’t given me a moment’s peace about it since.”
Samuel drew a slow breath, the cold air biting his nose, and he inclined his head, accepting the apology without ceremony. It was not peace. It was not an alliance. But it was an understanding, fragile and incomplete, forged from shared pains.
They stood there a moment longer, the church looming behind them, the yard hushed and indifferent. At last, Mr. Norcroft stepped back, drawing his coat closer about him as he turned away.
“I will keep you and your family in my prayers,” said Samuel.
The gentleman paused, glancing back to acknowledge the words before continuing, and Samuel remained where he was, a silent petition pouring from his heart as Mr. Norcroft disappeared into the streets of Kingsmere. Whatever common ground they had found did nothing to change what would happen tomorrow or the battles to come, but it softened the blows. However slightly.
Turning from the gate, Samuel set off down the path, his steps heavy, his coat pulled tight against a cold that reached deep into his bones. Mr. Colby. The vestry. The law, which stood like iron bars between the two.
