A Lady Most Lovely (32 page)

Still, Margaret could benefit from Tom’s delayed arrival. It gave her a chance to speak to Williams alone and glean information she may not have gotten from Tom. She poured him a cup of tea. “Where did you two go today? Please, tell me everything.”

Williams accepted the tea gratefully and took a long sip before answering. “Mr. Poole dragged me from one end of the property to the other. He wanted to meet every tenant. He talked to every one of them. In most cases, he met their families, too.”

No wonder Williams looked so dusty and parched. “What did he want to talk to the tenants about?”

“Their lives, their families, how long they’ve been on the land.”

“I could have given him all that information,” Margaret said.

“Precisely,” Williams answered, not hiding his scorn. “It’s just the sort of things the
lady
of the manor might busy herself about.”

Margaret poured more tea into his cup. “You know, we have to accept that Mr. Poole’s way of doing things may be different from what we’ve done in the past.” She
spoke without conviction, however, and Williams did not offer a reply. “He told me his intention for going out with you today was to learn more about the farming.”

“Oh, he did that, too, believe me,” Williams said. “He just about drove me mad with his questions. By the end of the day I was beginning to think he didn’t trust a single thing about how I’ve been managing this estate. He bedeviled the farmers with his questions, too, asking them
how
they knew to do this or that,
why
they’d made certain decisions. At one point I pulled him aside and told him—with all due respect, mind you—that some of those men have been farming for longer than he’s been alive. They know full well what they’re doing.”

Margaret was not surprised by Williams’s report, nor that he would find Tom’s actions so annoying. “And how did he reply?”

“He said maybe that was part of the problem.”

“Problem!” Margaret scoffed. “What problem?”

“Exactly! I told him we’ve been getting on quite well, thank you—insomuch as farming is always subject to the vagaries of nature.”

“Like this year’s rain,” Margaret said, agreeing with him.

“Yes. Although it held off today, thank God. But as I pointed out to him, our bad years were often due to circumstances beyond our control.”

Margaret put down her teacup and sat forward in her chair. “Mr. Williams, I’m going to be quite frank with you.”

“I hope you may always feel so, madam,” he said deferentially.

“When Mr. Poole and I discussed marriage, I told
him of my… concerns. I’ve worked very hard to recover from the damage wrought by my father and his worthless steward. I couldn’t have done it without your help, of course.”

Williams gave her a satisfied smile. “I thank you for the compliment.”

“I told Mr. Poole that I was determined to stay involved in managing the estate and that I trust your judgment implicitly. He assured me that we would continue to proceed in just that way.”

“But that hasn’t been the case, has it?” Williams said with a sniff.

“On the other hand, it’s only the first day. It could be true that he is simply trying to learn the details of what goes on here. It could be he didn’t even realize he was causing you offense. As you have noted, Mr. Poole is not always well versed in the more subtle arts of conversation.”

“A very astute observation,” Williams said. “However, I am quite sure Mr. Poole knew
exactly
what he was doing. I believe he is trying to undermine my authority—and, by implication, yours as well.”

“We cannot allow it!” Margaret said, rising to her feet. “What if he does something that jeopardizes all we’ve worked for?” She could not shake the specter of Richard and Paul—Tom had dealings with them that he would not explain, and both men had plenty of reason to wish Margaret ill. If Tom was in league with them, or if either had some kind of control over him, it could only spell disaster.

Williams stood and said forcefully, “He won’t jeopardize Moreton Hall. I’ll make sure of it.”

She regarded him earnestly. “Mr. Williams, I need your help more than ever. You must be my eyes and ears; keep me informed of everything that goes on. If you have any concerns whatsoever, you must bring them to me immediately.”

Williams’s expression was cold and determined. “You can rely on me for that.”

M
argaret smiled uneasily as she and Tom walked down the aisle to the pew that had always been reserved for the Vaughn family. It had been months since she’d been in this place. Everyone else knew this, from the townspeople in the pews to the Reverend Hollister, who beamed at them from the altar.

Now, after five days at home—five long days with a husband who was largely absent during the day and still leaving her undisturbed at night—it was the Sabbath and Tom had insisted they come to church. He said hello to many of them by name as he and Margaret made their way to their seats, and they returned his greeting joyfully. In just a few short days, Tom had already become part of the town. Margaret, despite her intense ties to the land and her efforts to make the area prosperous, had never experienced a truly close bond with the townspeople. There had always been a barrier between her and them, one she had ascribed to differences in station. There was no doubt that Tom’s working-class background
had appeal for them. But she sensed there was a greater reason for their respect. Many here were greeting him with an attitude of gratefulness and even adding “God bless you, sir.” What had he done to merit this? she wondered.

The service was, as Margaret expected, a rather standard affair. She had seen Tom’s intense interest in the Bible, the way he read it every evening with the dedication of a clergyman. Clearly he thought about it, ruminated on it, and took pleasure in it. Margaret had warned him that the service might not be as thrilling as someone with Tom’s avid interest might wish it to be. And indeed, the sermon was short and mildly vague. But Tom listened intently, and afterward as Reverend Hollister met everyone at the church door, Tom shook his hand and thanked him heartily.

Virtually the whole congregation clustered around Tom and Margaret in the little churchyard, offering their good wishes. First to greet them were Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife,” Mr. Rawlins told Tom.

Tom took the old lady’s hand and kissed it. “Mrs. Rawlins, what a pleasure to meet you. I have heard your beauty praised and your virtue sounded.”

Margaret turned to stare at Tom in surprise. He was quoting Shakespeare! Did he realize that? He gave his most charming smile to the old lady, who blushed—probably for the first time in fifty years. “Oh, heavens!” Mrs. Rawlins warbled. “What a gentleman you are, Mr. Poole.”

It was only after many more introductions and welcomes, and after Tom had invited the reverend and his
wife to dinner on Sunday next, that they finally were able to get into their carriage for the journey back to Moreton Hall.

“Everyone seems quite enamored with you,” Margaret observed, once they were on the road.

“It’s a fine town,” Tom replied. “They are kind people.”

“The admiration on their faces was unmistakable,” Margaret persisted, despite Tom’s humble answer. “What did you do? It must have been something extraordinary.”

Tom stared thoughtfully ahead, driving the team of horses with care along the rough road. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied, startled.

“I prayed with them.”

“You what?”

“Not all of them, mind you, but some of those farmers I met on the first day. They were heartily worried about their crops. I told them there was once a man in the Bible who prayed earnestly that it would not rain—and it didn’t rain for two whole years.”

“Two years?” Margaret said doubtfully. “How could that be?”

Tom shrugged. “There was a reason for it when it happened in the Bible, I guess. But I told our good people that God would help them in time of need, too—and they
needed
to get those crops in. So we prayed.”

“It didn’t rain that day,” Margaret said, recalling how the dark clouds, although swollen with rain, had passed them by. “Was Mr. Williams with you when you prayed?” He had not mentioned this incident to Margaret.

“Yes, but I don’t think he took any stock in it. He said something about the ‘vagaries of nature,’ as I recall.”

“But the farmers believed in those prayers, didn’t they? Country folk have always been a superstitious lot.”

This brought another shrug from Tom. “I think
superstition
is a name people give to something others believe in but they don’t.”

There wasn’t any way around that kind of logic. Margaret looked out over the fields, now shorn and brown. Whatever the cause, today the sky was bright blue. If the weather held like this, the harvest would be safe and they would have a successful year. If this made Tom a local hero, what was the harm? And yet… would it really be safe to have people idolize him? The thought worried her. “Hadn’t you better leave the praying to Reverend Hollister?” she asked. “Surely it would be embarrassing if you prayed publicly for something and it didn’t happen.”

Tom shook his head. “Prayer never hurt a thing. Saint Paul said we should ‘pray without ceasing,’ so I reckon that’s a good plan. Although—” Tom pulled the horses to a halt. He tied off the reins and turned to look at her. “Although there are times when the good Lord answers our prayers in ways we do not expect. Some might find
that
embarrassing, too.”

He raised a hand to her cheek, much as he had done every night, the prelude to their “good-night kiss.” Those kisses had become longer and more sensuous each time, and yet without fail Tom had broken it off before they could progress any further. The tension of waiting, wondering when he would press for more, was coiled up inside her, growing tighter with each passing day. His gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth, and she knew he was not planning to wait until tonight for their next
kiss. He wanted it right here, in the open road, in the light of day. On a Sunday.

And she wanted him to do it.

No, surely she didn’t
. It was foolish and improper. She struggled to find her breath. “Did you know that you were quoting Shakespeare to Mrs. Rawlins?”

She had merely been searching for something to say—anything that might get them back to safer ground. Her words were more effective than she’d expected. The passion in Tom’s eyes faded, and he turned away. “Was I?” he said with a strained laugh. He loosed the ribbons and set the horses in motion. That moment that might have ended in a kiss was gone, and Margaret was relieved.

Wasn’t she?

“It… was from
The Taming of the Shrew,
I think,” she stammered.

“Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,” Tom recited, even as he kept his eyes on the road. “Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded—yet not so deeply as to thee belongs—myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.”

“How do you know that passage?” Margaret asked.

“I learned it from Edward Somerville,” Tom said. “He loved poetry.”

“Edward—that was Geoffrey’s brother?”

“Yes. He was a good friend. Someday I’ll tell you more about him. For the moment, suffice it to say the man was an actor at heart. He kept us entertained, especially on those cold winter nights when we were all huddled around the hearth to keep warm.” He chuckled. “Those lines about
mildness
and
beauty
and
virtue
were ones he
loved to quote in reference to his wife, who was indeed a charming woman and completely in love with him.”

“Those words had a very different meaning in the play,” Margaret observed. “They were used ironically. Katherina was not exactly mild. She was a fierce woman who stood up for herself.”

“Is that how you see it? Yes, I suppose you would.” He threw Margaret a quick sidelong glance. “She was not so fierce by the end, though.”

Margaret could not help but give a little sniff. “I feel she was coerced.”

“I see.” Tom gave another slap of the reins and the horses picked up their pace. “I prefer to think of it as—how did the man on the train put it?—love breaks down all barriers.”

*

“There is something for you today,” Mr. Rawlins said as Tom came through the door to the post office. He reached under the counter and pulled out a letter. True to his word, for the past month Rawlins had been quietly setting aside letters for Tom that had been marked “to be held until called for.”

Tom frowned, thinking this was likely to be another missive from Spencer or Denault. Both had written to him every week, and he had put them off as long as he could, explaining that he could not make another trip to London until after the harvest. This had kept them at bay, but he could tell from the tone of Spencer’s last letter that he was growing impatient. Tom would have to go down to London very soon. He’d already accepted that the funds he’d given Denault for the railway were lost
forever, but every part of his soul rebelled against paying blackmail money to Spencer.