They paid out all their bills for the month, and she made notes to send to Gareth Cavendish describing their affairs, the number of head of cattle, acreage and so on.
With one thing and another, they saw each other almost daily, for Pamela had also taken to visiting many of the poorer families in the town and the outlying villages, occasionally with Sarah, and sometimes running into Jonathan whilst there. If some of the meetings were unlikely coincidences, she was too happy to question her good luck. She was being useful to many, and taking no small amount of pride in it.
Jonathan was very pleased with the fruits of Pamela's efforts. Many of them were actually with regard to him, if he did but know it. He couldn't seem to keep away from her. Just a few minutes in her company was enough to lift his grimmest mood.
Everyone in the parish was delighted to see the change in their vicar, his improved looks and better attention to his modest if fine wardrobe. They saw a new spring in his step, and even heard him whistling and singing under his breath.
His sister Sarah was stunned. Why, he had not sung since his poor fiancée Jane Eltham had ruined herself by eloping with the fiendish Herbert Paxton.
There were only two clouds on the lovely blond woman's horizon. Both Pamela's Aunt Susan and the Earl of Ferncliffe tried to discourage Pamela in her charitable endeavors.
The older woman declared she did not hold with helping the poor, though where Aunt Susan herself would be if they did not provide for her themselves, Pamela had no idea.
The Earl was less outspoken in his beliefs, but derogatory remarks about the reading lessons paired with mutterings about trained monkeys left her with a decidedly bad taste in her mouth.
"The poor are the poor. It is sad, but there is no help for it," he declared with an arrogant toss of his head as he sipped his tea in their drawing room one early spring afternoon.
"So that means we should not try to alleviate suffering wherever we can?" Pamela demanded, trying to keep her tone level and not quite succeeding.
"One person simply cannot make a difference," the Earl said politely, though she could see he was bored by the discussion.
"I don't believe that. And even if it were true, does it necessarily follow that the best course of action is simply to do nothing, and allow the suffering to continue?"
"You can do as you like, my dear. But any wife of mine would have to put the needs of myself and our children first. That is the proper sphere for a woman."
Pamela rolled her eyes and would have offered to show him the Defoe essay, but he returned to his favorite topic, his plans for the Castle. It was a run-down place, with scarcely a single room made habitable.
He had shown them the property one late winter's day.
"Of course, it's little enough to start with, but with the right management and economy, and a good help-meet in life, it shall be splendid."
Pamela thought he was being most optimistic considering the dank, drafty corridors, lack of roof, and number of nesting birds and rodents. However, as her aunt said, an earl was an earl, and not to be despised.
"But why is there no well-run family home? Why only this ruined pile? And why do I get the feeling he is not all as he seems?" Pamela had asked her aunt.
Her aunt shrugged and turned back to her tatting. "He was not intended as heir. You heard him say so himself. It fell to his line purely by chance.
"The main home is in Ireland, but he wants to have an English residence close to Bath. He may not have a very promising establishment at the moment, but that will improve over time, thanks to us." Her eyes took on an obvious twinkle. "I believe it's very telling that he's asking you for help. He is obviously quite taken with you, my child. You will have to be patient, while he gets himself set up a bit better. Just remember that a title goes a long way in our world. Being the wife of an earl would be your crowning achievement."
"I believe my good works and Christian life will be my crowning achievement. As for a title going a long way in our world, so does some soap and water, and firewood," Pamela had said, wrinkling her nose.
The Earl thanked them for taking so much trouble over his plans, and invited them to come as often as they liked. But the ruins of the Castle filled Pamela with misgivings, reminding her of the mad house to which the heroine had been confined in the novel Maria.
It was only a morbid fancy, she told herself. But she could not escape the feeling of being walled up and entombed every time she was with Ferncliffe.
Yet everyone told her that if he offered for her, it would be an excellent match.
"I'm sorry, but I'm to go to Bath in a few days, and from thence to London. I shan't be able to devote quite so much time to your household affairs. But you can certainly send notes if you have any questions," she had told the importuning earl.