Chapter 18
Light filtered through the tall arched windows of St. Augustine’s, softened by the wavering glass so that it fell in uneven stripes across the flagstones.
The scent of wax and wood lingered in the stillness, and the silence hung thick in the air, as real as the dust motes caught in the morning light.
It was the kind of quiet that magnified even the smallest of sounds; the slight shift of boots reverberated through the nave as though attempting to reach the heavens themselves.
Frederick stood near one of the pillars, his gaze fixed on a strip of molding that ran along the capital—a modest vine motif whose curled leaves were brought to life by a craftsman’s steady hand.
The ledger pressed against his chest as Frederick clutched it as though it bore something more substantial and weighty than parchment and ink.
“Are you certain about this?” asked Mr. Moulton.
Casting a look over his shoulder, Frederick turned to face the fellow. “Of all the decisions I have made of late, this is the only one I know is right.”
The solicitor gave a slow nod, his gaze turning contemplatively to the stones at his feet, which bore the names of people long passed, including Frederick’s ancestors.
“Thank you for coming,” said Frederick, though the words were woefully insufficient. “I know it is a great distance for you to travel, and you have made the journey so many times since taking on this business. And I doubt your presence is necessary tonight—”
But Mr. Moulton held up a staying hand, silencing Frederick’s apologies and excuses.
The vestry door opened, and Frederick jumped at the sound as it echoed through the nave. The time had come.
Frederick followed Mr. Moulton down the narrow aisle, their footfalls sounding loud against the stone.
Though modest, the vestry bore the weight of centuries, with parish records lining the shelves along the far wall and a hulking table, scarred by generations of use, standing in the center.
A narrow window on one side let in a pale sliver of light, illuminating it enough that they didn’t require candles.
Mr. Tudor and his churchwarden stood beside that table, his hands clasped behind his back, expression drawn with polite confusion; the curate’s gaze flicked between Mr. Moulton and the ledger in Frederick’s arms, curiosity tightening the lines about his mouth.
Mr. Keats’s expression showed nothing, though that was to be expected.
“Mr. Voss,” said Mr. Tudor, inclining his head, “I believe I speak for both myself and Mr. Keats by expressing our confusion as to the purpose of this meeting. What matter is so urgent that it cannot wait until the next vestry council?”
“And in the company of your solicitor,” added Mr. Keats.
“I did not wish to involve the entire council in this discussion, as it is a delicate matter,” said Frederick, forcing the words out, though he didn’t know how to explain Mr. Moulton’s presence without admitting he was worried that this might devolve into a legal battle.
Mr. Tudor motioned for the newcomers to sit, and Frederick laid the ledger atop the table. Opening the cover, he removed a few of his notes and placed them beside the book.
“I wished to speak with you privately because, as the curate and his chosen churchwarden, what I am about to tell you will impact you the most.” Tapping his fingers against the wood, he added, “I must resign as the people’s chosen churchwarden.”
And with that, Frederick told them what he had discovered in the ledgers.
Speaking evenly and ignoring the horror etched into Mr. Tudor’s expression, he detailed the whole of his father’s activities during his tenure as churchwarden.
Mr. Keats did not move. His expression did not alter.
His eyes remained fixed on Frederick, yet he gave no sign that the confession made any impression.
There were moments when the words threatened to choke him, but Frederick forced them out. He told them of the irregularities and the reasons behind Father’s thievery, and the air in the small vestry thickened as he spoke, the pauses between his words growing all the sharper.
Not once did his speech draw near to the subject of his father’s passing—or rather, the manner—yet it hung there in his mind, a shadow reaching throughout his thoughts, and Frederick could not shake the sense that each word he uttered caused that shadow to grow in his heart.
Reaching into his breast pocket, Frederick removed several banknotes and set them on the table before the pair, along with the tallied list of each theft. “This is the whole of the funds he stole. Everything accounted for.”
No one spoke. The money lay on the dark wood, and the curate and the churchwarden stared at it. From somewhere beyond the window came the bright song of a bird, but the stagnant air in the vestry swallowed it, muting the cheerful melody beneath a heavy blanket.
At last, Frederick drew a steady breath. “I beg your pardon for my father’s actions, and I give you my word that I knew nothing of them until the discrepancies in our ledgers brought it to light.”
His hands pressed flat against the tabletop, steady though his pulse thudded in his throat as he added, “Given what has occurred and the changes in my circumstances—which will make it difficult for me to continue my duties—I cannot stand as the people’s representative in the parish.”
Pausing, Frederick swallowed past the thickness in his throat and added, “I know I must stand before the entire council and offer my resignation, but I am hoping that we might keep my father’s actions private.
My family is as ignorant of the truth as I was, and I cannot bear the thought of their names being blackened for a sin that was not their own.
They have borne enough hardships of late. ”
“I add my own pleas to Mr. Voss’s,” said Mr. Moulton.
“This young man has conducted himself with great honor and done his utmost to right wrongs that were not his doing. Stealing from the church is a capital offense, and though the man responsible is beyond the court’s reach, his estate and heirs could easily be made to bear a punishment they do not deserve. I ask that you show him mercy.”
Frederick’s pulse raced, though he tried to hold onto Mr. Moulton’s assurances.
The likelihood that the law would make the Vosses bear the brunt of Father’s crimes was small, but history was full of examples where overzealous judges and magistrates meted out “justice” regardless of what the law or conscience dictated.
For several long moments, Mr. Keats and Mr. Tudor watched him before the former spoke.
“Then why are you telling us any of this?” he asked, his fingers drumming against the table. “If you felt as though you must atone for your father’s crime, an anonymous donation would’ve done the job admirably.”
The shadows in his mind churned, reaching their dark fingers further into his heart, and though Frederick knew his motives, he struggled to explain them.
“There are too many secrets plaguing my family, and I am glad to be done with one of them.”
Mr. Tudor nodded and then looked to Mr. Keats, who remained as silent and stonefaced as before. For a moment, the curate sat there, seeming to wait for something, and when nothing happened, Mr. Tudor turned to Frederick once more.
“I see nothing wrong with keeping your motives private. They need only know that you are resigning, and they may infer what they wish,” said the curate. “You have acted honorably, and no good will come from revealing your father’s actions to the parish.”
Nodding, Mr. Keats added, “Your financial troubles are reason enough for you to resign. No one will question if there is more to it.” The gentleman paused before saying, “But you will forgive me if I review the church’s records myself and verify your claims?”
Tucking his notes inside the ledger, Frederick slid it across the table. “Not at all. Inform me immediately if you discover any mistake on my part, and I will ensure that the funds are restored. Every last farthing.”
Mr. Keats scooped it up and rose to his feet, drawing up the others in turn.
Holding out his hand to Frederick, Mr. Tudor gave him a solemn nod. “I am sorry for what has happened, Mr. Voss, but I feel certain that God will bless you for your integrity this day.”
Frederick let out a sharp breath. “Is it wrong of me that I cling to that hope rather than doing good for good’s sake?”
With a wry smile, Mr. Tudor shook his head. “I have a feeling you would’ve chosen this path, regardless.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Frederick followed Mr. Keats and Mr. Moulton out of the vestry.
Stepping out onto the church porch, the sunlight struck hard after the dim stillness of the vestry, and Frederick blinked against it as the cool hush of the church gave way to the hum of summer.
And despite everything, the air swelled in his lungs, sending a wave of peace through him.
Until he spied Mr. Keats, who stood a few paces away, motioning for Frederick to join him. Mr. Moulton remained at Frederick’s elbow, moving with him, but Mr. Keats held up a staying hand.
“I wish to speak with Mr. Voss alone.”
Glancing at his employer, Mr. Moulton remained where he was until Frederick nodded, and though the fellow looked none too pleased with the dismissal, he strode out of the churchyard.
“Though I agree with Mr. Tudor’s plan, I find I cannot agree with his assessment of your character,” said Mr. Keats. “You may have displayed honesty in this instance, but your continued rebellion is disappointing.”
Frederick’s brows rose. “Rebellion?”
“I withdrew my blessing, yet you have not broken with my daughter,” said Mr. Keats, leveling a narrowed look on him.