Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield

was so absorbed that the hours were like minutes. His uncle’s solicitor needed to know what had occurred. The mill’s local suppliers and customers should hear from William himself and be reassured immediately that everything was in hand, rather than chance upon the news and be plunged into uncertainty. The vicar: better the funeral be Wednesday. No need to give any reason. Was it seemly to organize a man’s funeral in relation to the smooth running of a mill? Probably not. Yet for a vicar one weekday must surely be the same as any other. William couldn’t see what harm it did to organize things in such a way as to minimize disruption.
    Mute Greg returned. William gave him the dozen letters he had written. “Now these, Greg. Quick as you can.”
    William worked without recognizing the ease that came from losing himself in a project like this. His mind moved with satisfying smoothness from one detail to another, prioritizing, organizing, planning, deciding, instructing, calculating.
    When he emerged from this state of absorbed concentration, it was early dawn. He went to rouse the sleepers at the stove in the pressing house and gave his instructions. “Wait at the gate, and when these men arrive”—he named them: Crace, Rudge, a handful of others—“send them straight to me.”
    By seven o’clock the men were all present in his office. William could see from their faces that word was already out. He presented the fact of his uncle’s demise, and the men presented their condolences. Itwas so unexpected; Mr. Paul was a good man; God works in mysterious ways; only yesterday he had seemed well, etc. etc.
    When everything had been said about Paul that needed to be, William suggested that the mill’s work ought to be disrupted as little as possible by the unhappy event and indicated to each man what he had in mind to ensure continuity. “Yes,” each one said, “that should do it.”
    “And you are my key men now,” he told them. “I need your help to keep the hands steady and the work progressing smoothly through this period. It is only natural for the men to worry. Change always brings worry. But I know that there is no need for doubt or uncertainty. Your job is to convey that to the men in such a way that they feel the truth of it. Do you think you can do that?”
    They looked at him. He was steady, confident, reliable. It was impossible to imagine anything going wrong.
    “Yes, Mr. William.” They nodded. “Yes, Mr. Bellman, sir.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    I t was Wednesday. The day of the funeral. William was irritated. Since the death he had spent the best part of his time at the mill, planning and ordering and problem solving. He had slept for a few hours at most. There was so much still to do.
    What was a funeral? Only sitting and standing and singing and praying. Any fool could do it. His efficient working mind proposed delegating it a hundred times, and he regretted that he could not accept the idea. But it would not do. Someone must lead the mourning, someone must show himself in public, visibly, as the new Mr. Bellman of the mill. As likely as not, Charles had not even received the letter yet, and even if he could have made the distance in the time, his presence would not have the same effect. It could only be Mr. William, Bellman the nephew. It must be done.
    After five good morning hours at the mill William raced home to change. The tub of water in front of the fire was cooling, for it had been waiting for him this last hour, and Rose, who had put out his best suit and a freshly laundered shirt, was vexed. But on the day of a funeral you do not grumble at the chief mourner.
    When he was almost ready, she stood in front of him to retie the cravat his hasty fingers had rumpled. He was taut with tension, his impatience was palpable.
    “You’re overdoing things.” She looked at him for a few long seconds. He was thinking of something else, appeared scarcely to see her.
    “Come home after the funeral.