arrivals for some sign of a tall young man with curling dark hair tied with a ribbon at the nape of his neck, no such individual materialized out of the crowd of weary, cranky travelers collecting their belongings from the boot and booking rooms for the night.
After the fifth day’s repetition of this fruitless errand, the viscountess was beginning to feel the strain. As she gazed out the window to the bustling stable yard below, she sipped her tepid tea and entertained a series of increasingly melancholy thoughts. Had her letter somehow gone astray in the post and never reached its intended destination? Worse, had Mr. Pickett met with an accident somewhere along the route north? Perhaps he was not coming at all; perhaps he considered her an hysterical female who, having had one encounter with violent death, now read foul play into every tragic accident. For some reason this possibility seemed more galling than all the rest.
She looked away from the window long enough to refresh her teacup from the steaming pot, and was disconcerted to see the deceased vicar himself entering the hostelry. But no, a closer look revealed a man who, although close to late Mr. Danvers in age, bore no real resemblance to him. What, then, could have given her such a bizarre impression? Surely it had more to do with the man’s costume than any physical similarity; like Mr. Danvers, he was dressed in the well-cut yet sober attire of the country cleric. As Lady Fieldhurst watched, he approached the proprietor and requested a room.
“Aye, sir, and how many nights will you be staying?” inquired this worthy.
“Only the one,” said the new arrival. “I’ll be conducting the funeral service for poor Mr. Danvers upon the morrow. After that, I shall be returning to my own parish.”
The innkeeper blinked at him in some consternation. “I’m afraid you’ll have to cool your heels a bit, Reverend. We’ve had too much rain to be burying. Ground’s too soggy by half.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the parson. “What has been done with the—where is—?”
“The body’s laid out all right and tight in the church vestry. I expect we’ll have him safely underground by the end of the week, if the weather holds.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” fretted the vicar. “When I agreed to read the burial service, I didn’t anticipate being away from my own flock for so long.”
“Meaning no disrespect, parson, but couldn’t the curate do the burial just as well? He’s a good lad, and that much like a son to poor old Mr. Danvers—him having no family of his own, leastways none that I ever heard of.”
Lady Fieldhurst, her attention now fully engaged, silently shooed away the serving wench offering a plate of bread and butter, and bent her ear to the conversation still in progress.
“No doubt it was because of Mr. Meriwether’s attachment to Mr. Danvers that Sir Gerald hoped to spare him the pain of conducting the burial,” suggested the cleric. “Whatever the reason, Sir Gerald, who has the living in his gift, took it upon himself to make the arrangements—Mr. Danvers, as you say, having no family of his own.”
“Aye, he’s a good man, the baronet—always done right by his tenants.”
“And, having given him my word, I shall stay long enough to honor it and trust that my own curate will tend the flock until I return.”
With many assurances that the funeral could very likely be held by the end of the week, the innkeeper ushered his guest upstairs to his room. The conversation was quickly drowned in the clatter of boots on uncarpeted steps, but Lady Fieldhurst had much to consider nonetheless. If Mr. Pickett failed to arrive before the end of the week, his ability to investigate would be severely diminished. The vicar himself would be laid to rest in the churchyard, and Sir Gerald would eventually grant the living to a new vicar, who would no doubt wish the ruins of the old vicarage cleared away and construction of a new one begun. If
After the fifth day’s repetition of this fruitless errand, the viscountess was beginning to feel the strain. As she gazed out the window to the bustling stable yard below, she sipped her tepid tea and entertained a series of increasingly melancholy thoughts. Had her letter somehow gone astray in the post and never reached its intended destination? Worse, had Mr. Pickett met with an accident somewhere along the route north? Perhaps he was not coming at all; perhaps he considered her an hysterical female who, having had one encounter with violent death, now read foul play into every tragic accident. For some reason this possibility seemed more galling than all the rest.
She looked away from the window long enough to refresh her teacup from the steaming pot, and was disconcerted to see the deceased vicar himself entering the hostelry. But no, a closer look revealed a man who, although close to late Mr. Danvers in age, bore no real resemblance to him. What, then, could have given her such a bizarre impression? Surely it had more to do with the man’s costume than any physical similarity; like Mr. Danvers, he was dressed in the well-cut yet sober attire of the country cleric. As Lady Fieldhurst watched, he approached the proprietor and requested a room.
“Aye, sir, and how many nights will you be staying?” inquired this worthy.
“Only the one,” said the new arrival. “I’ll be conducting the funeral service for poor Mr. Danvers upon the morrow. After that, I shall be returning to my own parish.”
The innkeeper blinked at him in some consternation. “I’m afraid you’ll have to cool your heels a bit, Reverend. We’ve had too much rain to be burying. Ground’s too soggy by half.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the parson. “What has been done with the—where is—?”
“The body’s laid out all right and tight in the church vestry. I expect we’ll have him safely underground by the end of the week, if the weather holds.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” fretted the vicar. “When I agreed to read the burial service, I didn’t anticipate being away from my own flock for so long.”
“Meaning no disrespect, parson, but couldn’t the curate do the burial just as well? He’s a good lad, and that much like a son to poor old Mr. Danvers—him having no family of his own, leastways none that I ever heard of.”
Lady Fieldhurst, her attention now fully engaged, silently shooed away the serving wench offering a plate of bread and butter, and bent her ear to the conversation still in progress.
“No doubt it was because of Mr. Meriwether’s attachment to Mr. Danvers that Sir Gerald hoped to spare him the pain of conducting the burial,” suggested the cleric. “Whatever the reason, Sir Gerald, who has the living in his gift, took it upon himself to make the arrangements—Mr. Danvers, as you say, having no family of his own.”
“Aye, he’s a good man, the baronet—always done right by his tenants.”
“And, having given him my word, I shall stay long enough to honor it and trust that my own curate will tend the flock until I return.”
With many assurances that the funeral could very likely be held by the end of the week, the innkeeper ushered his guest upstairs to his room. The conversation was quickly drowned in the clatter of boots on uncarpeted steps, but Lady Fieldhurst had much to consider nonetheless. If Mr. Pickett failed to arrive before the end of the week, his ability to investigate would be severely diminished. The vicar himself would be laid to rest in the churchyard, and Sir Gerald would eventually grant the living to a new vicar, who would no doubt wish the ruins of the old vicarage cleared away and construction of a new one begun. If
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