A Heart Deceived (5 page)

“Yes, of course. Thank you for asking.”

“I merely note that you bowed your head an inordinate amount of time.”

“Ah, well …” She cleared her throat, stalling. No excuse came to mind, leastwise nothing that would meet his approval. La, as if that ever happened.

As she glanced away, her gaze landed on Eldon’s empty spot—a practical weapon with which to parry. She turned back to Roland. “I see Mr. Eldon has not yet returned. Is he off on a parish call? Seems a rather lengthy absence.”

“The vicar is not my charge.” Roland folded his napkin, creasing each fold several times over. Once finished, he skewered her with a piercing look. “It is taxing enough keeping account of your whereabouts.”

Then don’t.
Miri bit a mouthful of bread to prevent the words from escaping. The sweet marmalade reminded her to be thankful even for a jailer such as her brother. Indeed, though he was harsh and strict, at least she had food aplenty and a pleasant roof to shelter beneath. The church had been generous—but for how much longer?

She swallowed the question, preferring the topic of the vicar. “Should we not be concerned? It is unlike Mr. Eldon to leave no word, and it’s been nearly a week.”

“You place an excessive amount of interest in the man.” Roland stood and pushed in his chair, resting his fingertips atop the mahogany back. “Why?”

“I merely—”

“All strumpets will have their place in the lake of fire.”

Heat blazed from her neck to her cheeks. His low opinion, while not surprising or unfamiliar, still smarted. She set down her bread, no longer hungry.

One of Roland’s fingers thumped against the chair, an annoying offbeat cadence. “We will speak no more of Mr. Eldon.”

Fine. In fact if her brother said they’d speak no more of anything, she’d be content.

She picked up her tea.

His tapping continued. “Master Witherskim asked after you yesterday when I was in town.”

Nausea filled the hollow her appetite left, and she replaced her cup without a sip. She’d done her best to ignore the man, hoping he would go away. Forever. “Roland, really, I would prefer to eke out a living on my own. I hope you told him—”

“I told him you would be happy to receive him should he see fit to call.”

Happy? Just thinking of entertaining that pinch-faced lecher made her want to heave. She shoved away her plate, the marmalade’s fruity smell gagging her. “I would rather not.”

“Miriall!” Roland’s tapping stopped, and his knuckles whitened.

A rage was there, just beneath his skin, pulsing. If she pushed him any further, it just might bleed out.

“Very well.” She sighed.

“Good. It is settled, then.”

A rare half smile softened her brother’s face, making him look years younger. Almost like Will. The perpetual ache in her heart stabbed sharper, reminding her of how much she missed her other sibling. A lifetime ago, Will’s smiles had been her refuge. No one cheered her now, least of all Witherskim and especially not Roland.

“Beggin’ yer pardons, if you please, sir, miss.” Nodding to each of them, Mrs. Makin stood wringing her hands in the doorway. “Old Joe is askin’ for ye, Master Brayden, down at the stable. Seems the vicar’s horse has returned.”

Roland’s smile vanished. “What concern is that of mine?”

“There’s blood, sir.” The cook ceased her wringing and grabbed handfuls of her apron instead. “Blood on the horse.”

“Then have him bind the creature’s wound. I know naught of animal husbandry.”

“It’s not the horse what’s bleedin’, sir.” Mrs. Makin released her right hand and crossed herself.

Unease twisted Miri’s stomach as Roland shoved past the cook and disappeared from the dining room.

Mrs. Makin whirled to leave, but Miri halted her with a question. “Is Joe all right?”

Pausing, the woman looked over her shoulder and sniffed. “I’m of a mind that Ol’ Joe is the rightest of us all. You mark my words, strange happenings are afoot. Take a care, miss. Take a care.”

5

Miri let the admonition follow Mrs. Makin down the corridor as the woman retreated to the kitchen. Take a care. Really. As if she didn’t have bigger problems.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to question Roland about the vicar’s horse when he returned. A simple explanation from him would put all their minds at rest. Leaving the dining room, Miri headed toward the study. The room’s bay window gave a direct view of the stables. She’d be the first to see when her brother returned.

She inhaled as she crossed the threshold. Leather, beeswax, old books … ahh. A simple pleasure, truly. One that she savored. Outside, the clouds had finally released fat raindrops, pelting the glass in a soothing rhythm. She yawned, her whole body feeling the pull of an overstuffed chair opposite the desk. The grey morning, combined with her sleepless night, would make for a grand nap. Tempting, indeed, but utterly out of the question. If Roland caught her asleep in his sanctuary—

Better not to think it.

When another yawn stretched her jaw, she turned her back to the chair and stationed herself near the window to watch for Roland … until her head started to bob. Maybe a little movement would help.

She walked the perimeter of the room, pausing at the farthest wall to scan the bookshelves. Surely her brother would not object if she glanced at a volume from the collection, but would anything be interesting enough to keep her awake? Theology, doctrine, liturgies. Naught on the top shelf.

Running her finger along the spines of the second shelf revealed nothing appealing, either. She bent and perused the third. Dry, dull titles, one after another. Was this entire day to be ill fated? Bending farther, she looked to the bottom, her last hope.

At the very end, one book stuck out beyond the rest. Must be good to be kept at such easy availability. She retrieved it and squinted at the small print on the cover.
Praesulibus Angliae Commentarius.
No doubt a breathtaking read for a student of Latin. She barely grasped the finer points of French.

Sighing, she shoved it back, but the troublesome volume would not be pushed in all the way. Hmm. Either her strength waned from such a bent position, or something blocked the silly thing from resting flush with the other titles.

She pulled the commentary out once more, then fished her finger around the depths of the dark space. At last she finagled out a worn copy that had been hidden behind, nearly cracking her fingernail in the process. Giving in to the complaint of her lower back muscles, she stood to examine the book.

A Bible. Not surprising, really. But why had it been jammed into such an irretrievable cranny? Opening the cover, she smoothed the thin paper on the inscription page to better read the faded ink.

Grant that you will be as diligent in the scriptures

As God is in the lives of the sheep you will shepherd.

May all the blessings of heaven pour out upon you,

Bartholomew James Eldon,

With this holy Word of God entrusted to your care and keeping.

Servo Deus non vir.

~ Bishop Randall Dewhurst

This was Mr. Eldon’s Bible. But why would—

“What are you doing here?” Roland’s voice boomed behind her, and she dropped the book.

Ethan slugged back half a mug of watered stout, trying to drive away a metallic taste that would not be shaken and satisfy the thirst haunting him. No good. He could down a keg and still feel no better. Setting the empty cup on the stone floor, he leaned forward in his chair. Even this close to the hearth, shivers ran through him. Traitorous body.

Newton’s rhythmic scraping of blade on wood stopped, his whittling knife paused in midair. “How you holding up, lad?”

“I could use a healing touch right about now.” He edged nearer to the fire. “Would that God might move a little faster.”

Newton’s blade resumed its motion. Small curls added to those already littering the floor, increasing the scent of pine. “God works powerfully, lad, but for the most part gradually and gently.”

“Gradual?” Ethan grunted. “Seems to me God’s work in Will Brayden was too gradual.” Turning from the hearth, Ethan pinned the reverend with a searching gaze. “And where is Will now? Is he in heaven or—”

He pressed his lips tight. If he so much as finished that thought, it would be like damning Will himself.

“Who can say? Only God knows.” Newton’s voice, loud under the best of conditions, bounced from one wall to the other in the small room.

Ethan blew out a long, ragged breath. “It should have been me.”

Newton chuckled. “You know, whenever I reach heaven, I expect to find three wonders. First, to meet some I had not thought to see there. Second, to miss some I had expected to see there. And third, the greatest wonder of all, to find myself there.”

Newton’s crazy declaration went down the wrong way, and Ethan choked. “But … but you’re a saint!”

One of the reverend’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Who can say, lad? Only God—”

The sitting room door swung open, and Charlie, the churchwarden’s son, peeked in. “Reverend?”

“Aye?” Again Newton’s knife suspended its shaving.

“There’s a constable at the front door a-wantin’ to see you.” After a few blinks, the boy vanished like a mouse through a hole.

Ethan shot to his feet, his chair crashing backward. How had they known where to find him?

“Ack, ye’re skittish as a landlubber at sea.” Newton rose, setting his carving aside. He righted the chair and shoved it toward Ethan. “Sit yourself down.”

At a time like this? He snorted as he scanned the few bits of furniture in the room. None were big enough to hide behind. “You don’t understand.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Ethan grimaced. How could he speak of his own hand in murdering Thorne when he didn’t want to remember it himself? Worse, by seeking refuge here, he’d dragged a man of God into the scandal. Raking a hand through his hair, he settled on vagueness as the safest route. “You know I come from Old Nichol. Need I say more?”

Newton folded his arms, studying him like an obscure scripture. “What of your resolve to start a new life?”

An ember popped from the hearth, and Ethan jumped, the gun-like snap as jarring as Newton’s question. “I must leave.”

Drawing near, the old man rested a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “I suspect you’ll do what you must, but know this … you are welcome to stay, constable or not.”

The reverend’s light touch ill-compared to the weight of his own conscience. Opium eater. Philanderer. Liar, cheater, drunkard. And now murderer as well. He pulled away, as surely as God must be pulling from him. It was error indeed to ever think he could lead a respectable life. He shot the reverend a heavy-lidded glance. “You would not say so if you knew the mistakes I’ve made.”

Newton threw back his head and laughed, the irony of his humor startling. Most clerics would have seized the chance to point a finger. Not this one—which was why Ethan had listened to the old man in the first place.

“Ahh, hah …” Wheezing, the reverend paused to catch his breath. “I believe we’ve been over this before. We serve a gracious Master, lad, who I daresay knows how to overrule our mistakes, to His glory and our advantage.”

“I don’t have time for accolades!” Ethan winced at his own harshness. Had that really come from his own mouth? The reverend didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his anger. “Forgive me, sir. I owe you my thanks, and I owe God—”

“No, no lad. Whatever debt you think you owe God has already been paid. I forgive you as freely as our gracious Lord has, for did He not readily give up His life for the likes of us both?”

Thick emotion clogged Ethan’s throat, and he closed his eyes. The image of Will taking the knife meant for him lent all the more reality to Newton’s words. He nodded, then met the gaze of acceptance Newton offered. “Thank you.”

The reverend scratched the stubble on his head. “Not me, lad. Thank God.”

A smile tugged his lips, a marvel truly, for how could he feel a thrill of joy with a constable outside? A wonder indeed—nay, a miracle. He glanced upward. “Yes indeed, thank You, God.”

A stream of peace washed over him, seeping into the jagged places deep inside, until fear dammed it up. Urgency to leave this place pulsed stronger with each heartbeat. “Now truly, I must go.”

“Where?” The reverend scanned his face as though looking for the hint of a storm cloud on the horizon. “Surely not back to Old Nichol, though I just might sail over there myself. There’s a whole sea of drowning souls in that neighborhood.”

Ethan blew out a long breath. Where could he go? In a different world, he might have gone home, but returning there now would be an uncharted, impossible journey. He shook his head. “I am not sure, though I have been told someone on the city’s west end might help me, Will’s sister. Miri Brayden.”

“Brayden. Brayden.” The reverend tapped a finger on his temple. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name before, spoken by those more learned than me. Hmm. Ask the rector at St. Giles. He ought to know who resides in his own parish, if he’s worth his salt.”