Read Online Dark Angel by T.J. Bennett - Free Book Online Page B

aptitude for medical care. Miss Nightingale is very insistent that good hygiene and sound nutrition are the keys to recovery. She’s written several papers to that end. Why, while we were in Turkey, she discovered—”
    “Yes, ma’am, but here’s the village now.” Mrs. Jones seemed relieved to change the subject. I suspected I had been boring her thoroughly, and grimaced at the thought. I examined the village as we approached.
    It had a faded air about it, like that of an elegant spinster who was once the fair beauty of the ball but whose time had long passed. Most of the homes were clustered around the main high street, through which a rushing stream cut and was bounded by a stone bridge arching over it. The little houses on the high street were made mostly of stone with thick walls and roofs of split natural tiles, although I noted a few thatched cottages here and there as well. Farther down I could see two stone-mill structures with a whirling wheel clacking behind them, powered by the stream. A market-cross sat in the middle of the town, its sturdy pointed roof supported by four thick pillars—an ideal location from which to trade wares or hold celebrations. A village pub held up the north end of the street, while a weathered vicarage commanded the southern end.
    Doors opened up and down the street, heads bobbed out, gentlemen shrugged into overcoats against the cool mist descending over the hills, women wiped baking flour off their hands as they left their houses, children ducked behind their skirts. The villagers watched the carriage with an air of anticipation and trepidation as we approached.
    “Stop here,” I ordered the driver. He cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at me, but obeyed. By the time he pulled the horses up near a stone butter-cross, a mounting block for horse riders, and the footmen had clambered down to assist the elderly Mrs. Jones and me in alighting, I thought surely the town square must be filled with every inhabitant of the island. Oddly silent, they gawked and stared, and I began to feel like a prize pig at a country fair. Several gray-haired, very old men in solemn dress conferred in lowered voices with a handsome gentleman who stood in their midst. The older men appeared to debate something, gesturing first at me and then at the younger man, who nodded his head periodically in response. He was in his late thirties with eyes the color of lapis lazuli, his brown hair threaded with gold.
    Finally, he pressed forward through the crowd and approached me with a pleasant, ready smile. I noted the clerical collar around his neck and realized with surprise that he must be the inhabitant of the vicarage. He reached the front of the crowd, quickly taking me in with one glance as he grasped my hand in greeting.
    “Madam,” he declared in a strong, resonating voice, “I am the vicar, Matthew Pangburn, at your service. On behalf of our elder council, I have been given the pleasure of being the first of our village to welcome you to Ynys Nos . Welcome to our home!”
    Cheers of “huzzah” went up through the crowd, and an excited buzz of conversation, well-wishes, and welcome surrounded me. The villagers began bombarding me with questions about the world beyond their shores, pressing my hand in greeting and bestowing gifts which appeared like magic from aprons and pockets—a packet of tea, a fine wool scarf, jars of jam—until I was laden down and staggering beneath their weight. With a good-natured laugh, the vicar encouraged the footmen to load the proffered gifts into the carriage for me. He turned to the crowd and held up his hands, calling for silence, and they eventually quieted.
    “I am sure the lady will answer all of our questions in due time. She will know how excited we are to have this blessing from above arrive on our very doorstep, bringing with her hope and a future. In the meanwhile, we must allow her to catch her breath.” He turned to me. “Please forgive us. We are