Chapter Three
Neighbours in these parts believed in hospitality to strangers. At their previous addresses, their neighbours merely professed the loft notions. Maria was still in bed when knocking came, admitting a Mrs. Skinner and Miss Thornsall down below. Ugly annoyance to be roused from bed, even if it was not exactly an early hour. It was late—ten in the morning. People here were possessed of an overabundance of energy to go neighboring within the first polite hour of visiting; they could scarcely contain their curiosity. All such grumblings guilted Maria from bed and the comfort of a horizontal resting place. Nights in the carriage, mixing travel and sleep, always did her poorly. With a hasty splash of water to the face, her braid was mended and the day's frock buttoned. Her aunt would be most put out, and that prediction was correct. Not only did her niece descend the dainty staircase looking more like a farmhand's daughter than a baronet's, Maria thoughtlessly bid good morning to them all. It was that in of itself that announced she had slept very late, too lazy to rise with the sun, all of that and not a care in the world had she – Miss Norris.
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Norris," said Mrs. Skinner gravely, civil but judging the oddity of it. "I hope the journey has not overtaxed you—"
"I'm afraid it has, a great deal. And I've not had a morsel of breakfast yet. Pardon me, Mrs. Skinner. Miss Thorns."
"Thornsall," she corrected, clearing the throat.
"Of course… Give me leave to smuggle some sustenance. Would either of you care for some coffee?"
"Too coarse for digestion."
Mrs. Skinner shrugged. "I prefer tea, which your aunt has happily provided us."
"Very good." What else could she think to do but smile and slip into the kitchen? Shaw had graciously set aside a plate for her, along with a waiting, empty cup and saucer.
"Not a very pretty picture they'll have of you," mumbled Shaw. Their servant sat in a low rocking chair, secreted in the corner, turning a page in the paper.
"I've too much to do today to take time dressing up for our neighbours. If they choose to call, I'd think them rude to judge a faded muslin as they interrupt me in the middle of chores." A piece of bread and leftover cold ham was stuffed into the mouth. A little overcooked and brittle, but she preferred it this way than a clean slice, limp and soft.
"Of course. Not afraid of anything, are you?"
"No indeed."
"I beg to differ," she chuckled. "The landlord is coming to pay his respects this afternoon. Your aunt sets great store by it, and I don't think it's just discussions about the property and rent."
"Mr. Bailey? No Mrs. Bailey?" Her answer was a hapless shrug. "Well, that explains it. Little fool."
"What harm it be to give into just one of her schemes?"
"Like Mr. Browning?"
"… I'm sure she's done worse."
"Oh yes, to be sure. I've had enough schemes for a lifetime. It will probably take another five or ten years to convince my aunt into giving up. I think I'll start on mending the old chicken coop this morning. That should give the visitors enough time to make their escape."
Maria made her escape into the little field, to the broken down apparatus of a chicken coop some yards from the house. By the looks of it, a fox or something other must've destroyed it. That was a good deal of time spent cutting away the broken, rusted, and frayed bits of wire. A sensible landlord might've remedied this evil himself, or hired a man to do it. Still, this was nothing in comparison to previous abodes and their state of neglect. It was a tolerable evil: cut away the old and bind up the new sections with fresh wire. The latch was still in working order—good enough. She'd have short work of it, and they'll be ready for some chicks by tomorrow. Of course, that meant a trip to the village to make inquiries about one of the farms. Manageable. Hopefully, any inquiries made would lead her to some equally snappish, terse farmer who prefers to keep to himself—someone who wouldn't be paying calls. Ideally. If only Miss Bertram had her choice of residence, and her choice of neighbours, she'd be perfectly happy someplace where all the nearest neighbours lived ten miles in each direction; or if that couldn't be managed, that all their neighbours would be as like-minded about their business as herself.
In the second neighborhood, while they were yet strangers to the county, Aunt Norris had convinced her niece that she should attend church again. Now that plenty of time had passed since the initial scandal, and having been removed from it by time and geography, they were probably above suspicions. Shaw was forced to endure a three day long quarrel, with episodes of hot bickering, chilly silences, stubborn refusal to speak to one another. If one needed something of the other, Shaw was spoken to and called upon to relay the message, even if both parties were in the same room together. That was the worst one. For three days. It ended in a truce, and Maria accompanied her aunt to church. Parishioners stared at their pew, stared at the both of them. Every pair of eyes, every face that turned to have a look at the 'bad woman' expressed their piety. It didn't help that the vicar chose a subject poignant to their situation: vanity, sin, and shame. For a good portion of his lecture, his eye strayed to their pew, trying to read any penance in the face of the young woman. Maria, outraged, knowing which mouths from which houses of the neighborhood had spread the rumors, met the glare of the vicar with defiance. The head was held proudly. Deep grimace shaped the mouth. And her eyes were set directly on the ranting preacher, being led astray by no sound of crying baby or cough or sneeze that occurred at random. She showed no natural curiosity in the congregation in front of them or behind them. All attention, all of her being was concentrated by the pulpit in the most frightful expression the vicar ever saw looking up from the pews. The situation was only made worse, upon the conclusion of the service, when Maria hoped to make a hasty exit. Mrs. Norris could not stop her in time, and was not close enough to catch her when Maria was tripped going up the aisle by a little boy who leapt obliviously out of the pews. To this day, she blushed over the spectacle created: falling headlong to the ground, the concerned gasps, the frightened but uninjured boy bursting into tears, and all the protests and scathing looks from the mother and every other woman around her. Grumblings from the old men. Eye rolls and soft laughter in the younger women, her age and younger. For all her bravado to meet the glare of the vicar, she dared not turn back to look at him now. Without another word, not even apology, Maria scrambled to her feet and out the front door. Never again! Her aunt dared not return the next Sunday or all the Sundays after. Blameless as she had been, the woman could offer no explanation for her niece causing this scene that would suit the approbation of the parish, and no explanation that could hush the wagging tongues. Mrs. Norris, less for the sake of spiritual need than for her own self-respect, attended church at another parish some eleven miles in the opposite direction. Her penance, she called it. Maria was constantly reminded, every Sunday, of her aunt's penance, and she'd be a humbled girl to have consideration for the unjust guilt being suffered for her own sake.
The best neighbour must be a tolerable evil. She would never be able to rid herself entirely of society. They were either driven by necessity or curiosity. It was hard to determine in what category her nearest neighbours fell, particularly the young man and woman, brother and sister, who had spied her from behind the border fence. This time was nothing accidental, like when they'd stopped on the road. Now, they approached her from a great distance. Too late to go walking down the field and slip into the brush, avoiding all sight of them. Some distance behind them, an older fellow followed them.
"You must be Miss Norris," said the young woman. A hand was extended over the border. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Hannah. This is my brother, Andrew."
"Our mother sends her compliments," seconded the young man. A basket was handed over the fence to Maria. "I hope you'll pardon my rudeness yesterday. We only meant to wave. Didn't mean to frighten ya."
"Not at all…" It seemed most becoming that she should betray no offense.
Hannah began again. "It isn't much, just some bread and preserves. We figure you ain't comin' with much from your last home. Ah, he's finally caught up. Miss Norris, this is our father."
"Mr. Bailey, ma'am, pleasure." He too offered a hand, which Maria was ready to bestow her own with courtesy. But he extended his left, making their hands hover awkwardly, until Maria merely offered her own left. A very rugged and weathered limb. "I trust you and your aunt have had a good journey. My brother informed us of your coming, and being we're the closest neighbours in these parts, I wish to put you and your aunt at ease. Edgar will look after you and this house, but if there's anything you need, we all live up the road. We'd be happy to be of service to you ladies."
That frozen grimace so permanently etched into the face couldn't withstand a new neighbour so undeserving of it. Mr. Bailey actually dressed as if he were paying calls; his children hadn't bothered. Not to mention his address, though an unorthodox setting for formal introductions, befitted a master of the manor instead of a tenant farmer.
"Very kind of you, sir. My aunt and I have had a pleasant journey. She is just now entertaining visitors… Do you—"
"No, no. We do not wish to intrude. It's rather fortunate to have met you here. If not, the three of us planned on dropping this basket at your front door. As you're probably still settling in, entertaining is probably very inconvenient as of now."
Oh dear, he was a thoughtful one!
"From where have you and your aunt come, Miss Norris?" asked the daughter. For all her lamb-like features and the face they were set, her inquiry felt a little forceful. Maria, as practiced and decided on between them, she answered by naming the county of Birminghamshire. Of course, this normally precipitated with questions after so and so from somewhere in Birminghamshire. At least with the workman and tenant farmers, who did they know there? What high connections could be so well-known to them? It was nicety to dispense with such cares. Birminghamshire was their first place of residence after the scandal. It was Mrs. Norris' particular concern not to associate themselves with the most previous county, where the rumours about the past had surfaced. For if Mrs. Norris inspired no tenderness of love to motivate, nor the power to force her niece's obedience, it was in her power to make life more miserable. The freshly circulated rumors did not hurt Maria, except when they were alone in the house together. Thank goodness Miss Hannah was not the curious sort. The temptation to sweep that good, sensible expression from her face tingled in the back of her head.
"Shall you be keepin' any livestock?" her brother spoke. "I see you've already started mending the old chicken coop."
"Yes… Yes, my aunt has never been without her poultry, and… I've some plans for economy. I'm just not all sure as to what yet. Perhaps a stock that's easy to keep and costs little to maintain."
"Naturally," replied their father. "Well, if you require any assistance or advice, we are at your service. I wish I could personally be useful, but I can offer my son here. Carpentry is Drew's line of work, our family's."
"You are too generous, sir." With a smile added: "But I shouldn't like to waste your son's time. We really cannot afford much more expense. I'm very much obliged. But please, do yourselves the favour: should you meet with my aunt, do not extend the same offer to her." This puzzled the three. "For the reason that, should you make this same offer, she'll presume on your kindness as neighbors, not as men of business. If you take my meaning. Or, if she does engage you, whatever compensation is due will be fractioned."
Drew, as the family called their eldest son, was a difficult one to judge his age. Barrel-chested, wide in the shoulders, thickly built but made thick by labour instead of culinary indulgence, he looked a very capable youth. He most certainly could build a house with his two hands, yet still, the face of a younger boy sat atop it all. At best, one might guess he was anywhere between twenty and five and twenty, at the very oldest. Like his own sibling, they had not experienced much of the world beyond this little land hereabout, never seen the great metropolis. Perhaps these summations were uncharitable, but they had the advantage of Maria's good manners in that she did not speak them. Had they been all sitting in the parlour, at her aunt's pleasure, Mrs. Norris would've dared with some questions to Hannah: Have you been to school? Do all your children read, Mr. Bailey? I've always been a great advocate for a child's education. Any rudeness on Maria's part, indeed, would be a greater kindness than the most benevolent invitation and attentions of her aunt.
Of course, they would not know that. And the young man seemed to harden in the eyes and frowned upon her little speech. Hannah looked down, looked over at her brother, and in a state of bewilderment how to answer.
"If I take your meaning correctly, Miss Norris," spoke an unruffled Mr. Bailey, "you would not wish us to be taken advantage of… Do not trouble yourself, ma'am. I'll not withhold the kind regards your aunt is due, but I promise, we will not allow ourselves to be used in such a way. I thank you very much for your caution. For yourself, is there anything you need?"
"No, I thank you."
"Very well. My wife shall call on you both in a few days. We'll not detain you, Miss Norris."
Maria and the three Baileys all turned from the fence at that point, leaving her to violent blushes. It was very unjust. Mr. Bailey proved himself more capable than most gentlemen; for he could not have reacted more graciously and dignified. More so, she had never known a man with a voice so mild and soothing. It did not waver, even before a haughty demeanor. His son and daughter, however, did not merit the same sympathy. The both were puzzled by her, and turned away with a bit of a glare. With some distance from the fence, though their voices were lowered, Maria managed to hear some grumblings from Hannah. "… not very polite of her. And she sneered at the basket." The blush deepened. "High-minded," declared Drew. "Wha' a way to talk about her aunt." Of course, Mr. Bailey followed their protests with gentle reproof. "Let her alone, both of you. She's a stranger in a new place without friends." Her lip reddened as she bit down, restraining the groan. A necessary evil, a tolerable evil. Everyone has a neighbour. She would endure it. Survive it. As long as her aunt allowed her to live in retirement, this might be a lovely haunt to call home. Yet, shrubs and weeds and poultry were not sufficient society for Mrs. Norris.
Soon enough, Mrs. Skinner and Miss Thornsall were followed by more widows, spinsters, mothers in aprons and very young children attached. Everyone politely pretended not to notice the disarray of moving and unpacking. Baskets were added in addition to the Baileys', with gifts of their family crop or the surplus of their labours. All in all, Mrs. Norris expressed herself satisfied.
"While I can't say our neighbours are to be compared to that at the Park, I am pleased and impressed by the generosity. Trelew was absolutely horrid. Every neighbour seemed at each other's throats, no qualms whatsoever about cheating their fellowman at market. Then they attend church on Sunday to wash their conscience for another six days ahead of them… No, not at all like them. This is most pleasing. Of course, it would be something of a nicety to be within walking distance of the country seat of some prominent family or another. Farmers' families are adequate company, for the time being."