A Difference of Opinion
A Difference of Opinion
“Mrs. Wesley, g’day.” Mr. Strood the butcher stood in her open doorway with a hooded cape pulled close around his ears, his shield against the drizzle of late spring. He looked jovial enough, but Susanna knew that his satin face masked an iron core.
“G’day, Mr. Strood, and what can I do for you?”
“M’self has stopped by today, mum, strictly for y’r own convenience, that ye need not walk clear to m’ shop to put a bit more down on y’r bill outstanding.”
“Very thoughtful of you, sir, but I have no money here in the house. My husband carries our only purse. Thank you, though, for stopping by.”
“And when might I expect payment?”
“I shall ask my husband when he returns.”
Mr. Strood stepped inside and closed the door behind him. In the gloom he seemed somehow bigger, more ominous. “Mum, I do need a bit on account now.”
Susanna felt the back or her neck prickle. “I keep all the commandments of God, Mr. Strood, as should you if you wish to avoid God’s wrath, and I resent your inference that I would lie about the matter. There is no money in the house.”
Whoever knocked at the door just then didn’t wait for an answer. The door swung open.
The marquis’s widow entered. “Thought that was you, Strood. G’day, Mrs. Wesley.”
“Good day, and welcome. If that is all, Mr. Strood—”
“Y’ve got y’r uppity airs, Mrs. Wesley, for a woman so deep in debt. A maid! Ye owe every merchant in the village, and you hire a maid. Debts come first.”
“You self-righteous prig!” the widow exploded. “The woman’s been ill, bedridden most of the time, and here are her four little ones to be cared for. Yet you would deny her the help she needs!”
“Y’ve no right to criticize a decent man, you—”
Rarely did Susanna raise her voice. She screamed it out now. “Enough! Mr. Strood, you will leave now, for I have nothing for you. And if it sets your heart at ease, I dismissed the maid not long ago.”
The butcher’s eyes flicked from face to face. In a huff he wheeled and stomped out. The door slammed behind him.
Susanna glanced at young Sam. “Sam, will you take Emilia up to the loft to play, please? There’s a good boy. Emilia, go with your brother. I’ll tend Sukey down here.” She watched the tots jog up the ladder.
When the gentle widow wrapped both arms around Susanna she didn’t resist. She melted against the scratchy wool cape and hugged back, rejoicing in the warm comfort of a friend who cared.
She stepped back presently. “The water’s hot. Tea in a moment. Sit down near the fire here. I’m so glad you came by.”
“That Strood. Owe him a farthing, and he’ll dun you to the grave.”
“I can see his side. The man must make his living, and he has no obligation to carry us on his back. He could be a little more polite about it, though.”
“How’s little Molly?”
“Sam’s still convincing himself that she’ll be fine with time, but I know better. She’ll be crippled for life.”
“I can’t believe that maid could be so careless!”
“I’m surprised Mr. Strood hadn’t heard that I fired her. It must be all over town.”
“Oh, he heard. The tale’s magnified, of course; always is. But it’s still fairly accurate. Your baby Molly nearly died, and now faces life as a cripple, because of the girl’s carelessness. But do you know, the girl’s family still thinks you were wrong to dismiss her. ‘Just a simple mistake,’ they’re saying.”
Susanna stared at her. “I would forgive a mistake. But never carelessness.” She busied herself with tea, lest her hands start shaking.
“If I may be bold, Sukey, you’re looking a little better now that you’re a few more months along. A bit of color in your cheeks again. Pregnancy surely does go hard with you.”
Susanna smiled. “I should certainly be accustomed to it by now, this being my eighth.”
The woman shook her head and changed subjects—in the wrong direction. “Heard from home lately?”
“Yes, just recently. My father’s estate is finally settling. Very little left in it; he was mentor to a number of ministerial students, as you know, and was generous in their support. Which is as it should be. His estate came from his life of service to our Lord and should go the same way.”
The tea was close enough to steeped. Susanna sat down and poured. “Benny says St. Paul’s Cathedral is in use, although it’s nowhere near done yet.” She sipped her tea; the cup rattled against the saucer. She must control her hands better.
“Sukey, what else?”
“I was the last born of twenty-five, and my mother was frail. The children more or less took care of each other, because our nanny wasn’t too efficient in some ways. My sister Elizabeth took me under her wing, you might say. We were very much alike, Elizabeth and I. She was special.”
“Was?”
“Benny informs me Elizabeth has died. She was—she was still young.”
A warm, soft hand closed over Susanna’s. “I’m so sorry.”
“Benny said a Puritan preached her funeral. A Timothy Rogers. That wouldn’t mean much to you, but I—”
The door opened; light gushed into the room. It surely wouldn’t be the butcher back; not without knocking.
Sam!
“I went calling down to the hollow, but no one was home. It’s a ghastly day out, and I thought a spot of tea would b—” He stood as if pole-axed, staring at the marquis’s widow.
Susanna could read his face as it melted from shocked surprise to vivid fury. She must say something before Sam’s instant temper boiled over. She opened her mouth—but not in time.
Sam seized the widow’s wrist, lifted her bodily from her chair, and hauled her to the door.
Susanna leaped to her feet yelling, “No, Sam!” but she was too late. Sam shoved the woman out the open door into the cold, rainy slop.
Susanna seethed with rage. She ought to hold her tongue; this was the man of the house. She would do no such thing! “How dare you treat my friend so shabbily!”
“That woman—That woman is—Not in my home!”
“St. James calls us to hospitality. He does not place limits upon it, and you have just violated it severely. You will go out to my friend, and you’ll—”
“Don’t you realize who she is? She’s the—”
“The marquis’s widow. Yes, I know very well who she is. What you don’t seem to know is that she is a lovely, sensitive woman who yearns for close, solid friendship, as do I, and you—”
“I can’t believe you, of all people, would defend an adulteress!”
“God says to keep unspotted from sin. God also says not to judge, lest we be judged. Abhor the sin and love the sinner; remember that sermon you preached not long ago? Does it apply only to men and not women?”
“She’s not fit company for any but harlots! And she’ll not come under my roof again. Never!”
“She’s not fit company!” Susanna pitched her voice louder to match his. “The marquis is fit company for you, for I’ve seen you together often. An adulterer! The marquis attends services, but she’s not allowed to. Yet he’s as guilty as she. I daresay more so! He’s the one with responsibility toward a wife.”
“It’s hardly your place to criticize either the marquis or me in this matter.”
“You’re saying that when a man falls he’s not really fallen at all, but a fallen woman wallows in the gutter forever. That’s hardly the morality of Scripture! That’s hypocrisy!” Vaguely Susanna became aware of eyes watching. She glanced upward.
Up in the loft Sammy and Emilia gaped. Little Sukey cringed in the chimney corner as if lightning were about to take the house down, and baby Molly fussed in her cradle.
Sam must have bridled his fury for the children’s sake, too. He looked from child to child and adjusted his voice downward. He wagged a finger in her face. “You will never ever again accuse me of hypocrisy, and you will never again let that woman in this house or permit her to enter the presence of my children.” And out he stormed.
Susanna watched him fill the doorway, then get smaller as he marched away. In his haste to leave he nearly bumped into Granny Sykes, standing all ears near the opened door.
So be it. If Granny Sykes wanted to spread the rector’s domestic fight all over town, so be it. Amen, so be it.
No! She and Sam often disagreed on a thing, but rarely did they fight. And they never got into shouting matches with the children observing. Sam would shout; that was his way; but Granny had got the wrong idea, and now she’d be perpetuating the wrong idea, magnifying it, dwelling on each delicious little detail.
Susanna sat down at her table and leaned one elbow on it. She must calm herself, lest she bear this baby unbetimes, as she had the first Sukey and the twins. She sniffed. She sobbed aloud. She pulled her apron to her face and let it all come, torrents of sorrow flooding at once.
Why had her beloved Papa had to die alone, without her at his side? No one sent for her; indeed, no one told her he was gone until months after the fact. She mourned him deeply.
Why couldn’t he have clung to enough of his estate to bring Susanna out of debt—or at least help a little? Sam served God. Surely a bit of God’s money could go to paying his bills.
For that matter, why couldn’t Sam hold onto even a farthing? No matter what the income, he managed to exceed it. On Fridays instead of writing “serious” poetry, why couldn’t he write something that would bring a few pounds into the house? Susanna was abysmally sick of constantly scratching, of being dunned.
Why did Elizabeth have to die? She was so pretty and young and so good for John whether Susanna particularly liked John or not. Was Elizabeth’s illness the reason John Dunton gave up on the Athenian? It didn’t matter anymore. That source of income was dried up, too.
How could Sam be so hypocritically pigheaded about the marquis? And about one of Susanna’s few true friends? She understood. She cared. She poured her troubles out to Susanna, and Susanna felt safe to share her troubles as well, for the woman was no bearer of tales. And now she was gone, violently evicted by an unfeeling, unreasoning man with a blind, narrow-minded view of morality and women. If Sam were to cheat, no one but Susanna would care. Were Susanna to cheat she’d be abandoned on the street in a moment. It just wasn’t fair! Elizabeth’s death wasn’t fair, or Papa’s, or the way money was distributed in this world, or the way an uncaring girl could so casually cripple a poor baby and nearly kill it—or—or—
A tiny tug jiggled her skirt. Little Sukey’s huge blue eyes glowed beside her knee. The tot scrambled, and Susanna hauled; Sukey curled up tight into a warm, safe knot in Susanna’s lap. A few moments later two other uncertain little children were seeking lap space.
Susanna took a deep breath and almost brought the weeping under control. “Come, children. Let’s all of us take a rest. You can’t all fit if I’m sitting up.” With Sukey on her hip she stood up carefully and walked over to the bed. The moment she lay down, squirmy children with thumpy feet snuggled up against her. With the things that matter most packed in on all sides, she dozed.
Susanna had guessed right about the speed of gossip in this tiny hamlet. Women didn’t even wait until her back was turned to start tittering, heads together. Worship services in the little church felt tense. The whole fabric of her life stretched askew and frayed at the edges.
What, of all the stories going around, did the marquis hear? When next he came out to South Ormsby he called for Sam. Sam spent hours alone with the fallen marquis, and Susanna yearned to visit again with the fallen widow. What did the men discuss? Such things were confidential between priest and parishioner; Sam never said, and Susanna hardly expected him to. Frankly, she didn’t really care, either. The marquis’s view of the relative morality of men and women matched Sam’s, as it matched all men’s, and as far as she was concerned they could all slosh down to the Wash and jump in.
Come spring though, the gossips and the tattletales became too busy to give the vicissitudes or the Wesley household their undivided attention. Molly the inveterate gardener brought fresh greens, and Susanna was deeply grateful. Was it a love offering, for Molly was a warm and open soul? Or was it a guilt offering, because she was also one of the village’s prime news-hens?
Molly brought a couple of her older chickens and some eggs, too, then spent hours bemoaning the fact that her hens had all taken to setting with this nice spring weather, so she’d have an abundance of chicks and no eggs. Wouldn’t it be grand if hens could lay an egg every day?
Little baby Mary, nicknamed Molly, did not improve to Sam’s satisfaction, but Susanna was delighted that the child could eventually sit unaided. She was such a bright thing, too; so winsome.
Came midsummer, and Susanna gave little Sammy a spell from his schooling. He was a perfectionist, even more so than she, and became frustrated and impatient at the least little flaw or error in his lessons. He needed a holiday. Susanna was amused to hear him speak with the cultured London accent, as she and Sam did. The lad seemed to be picking up none of the rural speech mannerisms in which he was immersed.
On her errands about town Susanna watched the village children at their games and antagonisms and fights. She didn’t want that for her own little ones, but how could she prevent it? Young Sam would soon be old enough to be out and about the village, and perky, active Emilia would follow right on his heels.
She should think about hiring on another maid, too, debt or no. Little Molly needed frequent attention. Sammy should start lessons again soon, robbing part of her time from the others. And when this next baby arrived in a month or two, she would probably be slow, as usual, to recover.
She pondered all these nagging questions and forcibly refused to permit herself to wonder why God didn’t make the way just a wee bit easier, as she walked upstreet this fine July day. Today she would put down a shilling on account at the baker’s and buy four barley loaves. Molly perched more or less on the bulge. Sukey and Emilia clung to her skirts, for they still acted shy in the great wide world. No shy-boots, Sammy. He bounded ahead, greeted the dames at their gates, patted the dogs, and chattered like a jackdaw.
She had arrived at the baker’s door when she saw Sam at the other end of the street, headed her way. She continued on to meet him; the baker could wait.
One of God’s sweeter gifts is that of healing. Finally she could again greet her husband with a genuine smile. And yet, as with much of healing, a scar had remained, down in the darkness that could not be seen. The relationship between Sam and her had changed just the slightest bit. He almost certainly didn’t notice it, but she felt it deep inside. Sam was no longer exactly perfect in her eyes. There was something of a tarnish, a patina, to his once brilliant halo. Or perhaps this was simply some effect that comes of growing older and wiser.
His active mouth was in the upturned position, something Susanna had not seen much of lately. “Do you remember the poem I wrote for William and Mary when they ascended?”
“All too well.”
“I had ceased to think of it, but now I hear by post that before the queen died—rest her soul—she desired an appointment for the poet who had pleased her.”
“Indeed! That was several years ago.”
Sam’s eyes danced. “Finally, apparently, an appointment has opened. Two hundred pounds a year, Sukey! Four times the income of this living!” He gripped her shoulders and squeezed. That was usually as close as he ever came to displaying affection in public; she considered it an accolade.
“Where?”
“Epworth!”
“That’s not too far from here; still in Lincolnshire.”
“On the strength of this letter I’ve already arranged a loan of a hundred and fifty pounds. With it we’ll clear our debts and purchase a team and wagon. In fact, I know just the horses; I’ve had my eye on them for some while. We need a good team, and this is the perfect time to purchase.” He was absolutely bouncing up and down, as if he had any sense about money at all.
“A hundred and fifty pounds’ debt! To be paid off from a two hundred pound salary, as you raise this family.”
“Fifty wasn’t nearly enough, but this larger living? Handsome! Our money problems are over! Here.” He gave her a pound note. “Clear us with the baker and butcher, and then choose something especially nice for dinner. We’ll celebrate! A feast of thanksgiving, if you will.”
“One pound won’t do it.”
He studied the note a moment as if disappointed by its puny lack of power. “Very well. Put it on account, and we’ll pay the balance tomorrow.”
“You have a hundred fifty pounds in hand right now?”
“No, of course not. No bank here in this hamlet. This is an advance against the full loan.”
“An advance. As advanced by—?”
“The marquis.” He said it as if it were something any marquis always did.
“Yes. The marquis.” That deeply-buried scar tweaked. “The only man in town with any money. Is he perchance buying off the rector who preaches so loudly against vice?”
“I told you, the appointment came through the crown. Now go do your purchasing. I’ll be home within two hours.” Sam tousled little Sammy’s hair and strode on down the lane.
Queen Mary had died, let’s see—Susanna calculated—two and a half years ago. And Mary had mentioned a soft spot in her heart for the poet who charmed her back eight years ago. What an opportune time for Sam’s new living to surface; at least, from the marquis’s point of view.
Susanna brushed the thoughts to the back of her mind and turned toward the bakery. It didn’t matter. Regardless of the circumstance, Sam’s new appointment was most welcome. They would be in debt to bankers in the city, but that was better than being in debt to a dozen Mr. Stroods in this village. She could tuck away a bit each month unbeknownst to Sam and pay the debt off by degrees.
And it would have to be without Sam’s knowledge, for every farthing that reached his hands slipped through his fingers like water. Smart Sam was a brilliant theologian, but when it came to managing money he was worse by far than her father.
And Sukey might be pretty, but she wasn’t stupid.