Chapter 25
They were all a little bit surprised when Lord Keaton showed up for Wednesday evening’s service.
Though, because the days were growing shorter, the service was now more like a late-afternoon affair, to allow for what remained of the sunlight and give the parishioners enough time to walk home before the sun had fully set.
Lord Keaton did not usually attend mid-week gatherings.
That alone was unusual. But strangest of all was his demeanor, which hummed contrite and anxious throughout the sermon and announcements, teetering on the edge of his family’s pew without the accompaniment of his wife and daughter and focused either on Rosalind or Matthew throughout.
While Matthew had to do the general greetings and departures following the end of the service, Rosalind’s suspicions were tingling, and she went immediately to the man’s position to greet him, doing her level best not to demand to know what he was about this time.
“Ah, Mrs. Everly,” he said, looking deeply relieved to have been spared the effort of having to seek her out himself. “It was a lovely service. I should come on Wednesdays more often. Look at this turnout! I would not have expected so many in attendance.”
She blinked at him as he rambled, noting the way his hands fidgeted in his waistcoat. “The Wednesday services have been better attended since the Miss Manners stories started to run,” she said mildly. “Curiosity brought eyes and ears, and some of them stayed on. Silver linings, as they say.”
“Yes, about that,” he said, grimacing in what appeared to be an attempt at a smile.
“I’ve a friend over at the Chronicle. A …
well, an editor.” He paused. “In Chief,” he added with a shrug.
“I’ve come to warn you that another Miss Manners story will be running in the morn.
It was not my doing and I wished to make that known. ”
Rosalind nodded, opening her mouth to tell him that she already knew about this particular story, but he cut her off before she could get the words out, his tone sounding strained.
“And with the bishop coming Sunday, I am just concerned,” he continued. “I am concerned that it will reflect poorly, you see.”
“Reflect poorly,” she repeated, raising her brows in surprise. “On Matthew, you mean?”
“Oh,” he said, sparing half a glance at the vicar over her shoulder. “Yes, of course, Matthew as well, but also you, dear lady. The parish as a whole, of course. All of it. I cannot help but feel somewhat indirectly responsible for some of this mess, you see.”
She took a moment to breathe so that she would not react to his being somewhat indirectly responsible. “We will persevere,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “We can only do our best in the circumstances delivered upon us.”
His eyes looked like they were starting to water. “I did not expect you to be so lovely,” he blurted out, sweeping the hat off his head and crumpling it in his hands. “So kind, I mean. So … I don’t know. I thought you were like him.”
She hesitated, this time being the one to glance back at Matthew. “What do you mean?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “I am like him.”
“No, no,” said Keaton, shaking his head. “You aren’t. He is irreverent and smug and obsessed with progress and change and toppling all that is comfortable. He smiles and agrees in a tone that lets you know he thinks you are stupid. You are not like that, Mrs. Everly. You are a godly woman.”
She felt it again, that little flicker of violence clapping to life in her chest like it was waving a cheery hello.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you ought to get to know my husband better, for I think you have missed his many good qualities. I’ve never met a more godly man in my life, short as it has been thus far. ”
It at least gave the man pause, and he flushed, shaking his head.
“Of course. I am speaking out of turn. I did not come here to insult you. I came here out of concern. Mrs. Everly, when you shared that fruit with me, I felt as though you gave me a spiritual epiphany. It was only a little thing for one such as you, but to me, it opened a shaft of light from above, and I wish to be worthy of it.”
“The figs?” she said, listening to her rage cackle at the absurdity of what was happening.
“Inside-out flowers,” he said, sounding a little dazed.
“Did you know wasps live within them while they are growing? Wasps, fearsome things, feed the flower and the flower feeds them. Wickedness bearing fruit, and so on. It felt profound, but I do not have the words like your husband does. I never have. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand, though. ”
“I did know that,” she said. “Perhaps all beautiful, sweet, and soft things have a wasp inside to keep them safe and fed.”
He hesitated, as though that wasn’t what he had meant at all. “I cannot imagine a wasp in you, Mrs. Everly.”
She gave a soft chuckle. “Do you know Taming of the Shrew, Lord Keaton? ‘If I be waspish, best beware my sting’?”
He blinked. “Yes, I have seen the play, though I do not remember the particular lines.”
Rosalind shook her head, an odd lightness taking her and making her bounce on the heels of her feet.
“Her sting was her words,” she said. “Isn’t that relevant to our talk here today?
Words in newspapers and from bishops? They are just wasp stings, in the end.
I am happy to absolve you of your guilt, good sir, but I think it will not give you peace until we see how the rest of this story plays out. ”
“You …” He swallowed, wincing. “You do not resent me, Mrs. Everly?”
“Truthfully, Lord Keaton, I do not,” she said, with all of her chest. “I am, quite the contrary, very grateful that our paths crossed. My life is better for it.”
He stared at her, likely not quite understanding what she meant but looking deeply grateful all the same.
“Do you want to talk about the statue today, or shall we leave that for after the bishop visits?” she asked, feeling rather than seeing it as Matthew finished his business and approached to stand behind her. “I’ve a few ideas for where it might go now that it is repaired.”
“Oh, that can wait,” he said. “That can wait. It was a wonderful sermon, Reverend. I must be off.”
Matthew raised his brows, watching as Keaton jammed the hat back on his head and scurried out of the sanctuary, looking for all the world like he wished to be absolutely anywhere else in this moment.
“Should I ask?” Matthew said, placing a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder.
She giggled and shook her head. “You could, but I’d struggle to explain. He came to warn us about Ezra’s column being published tomorrow, and to say the bishop is certainly coming this Sunday rather than next.”
“To warn us?” Matthew repeated, looking surprised. “Not to gloat?”
She shook her head. “Not to gloat. I might have fractured him a little, I think. Not on purpose, of course. But it seems he now craves my approval.”
“Well, naturally,” said Matthew. “He doesn’t want you to break off his fig leaf too.”
“Oh,” she chided, giving him a nudge with her knuckles and an exaggerated frown, which got a chuckle out of him.
“Did you decide on which sermon to give?” she asked him as they helped tidy the pews and douse the candles. “I know you were torn between a few.”
“Still think the humbling of Saul is too on the nose?” he asked, grinning at her from across the room.
“Matthew,” she said primly.
He laughed again. “How about the lesson of Judas?”
She sighed. “I could throw this hymnal, you know,” she told him, holding it up and tilting it back and forth.
“Wrath is a sin,” he intoned, making her huff. “I actually think I’ve cobbled something together from those notes we made about how the body heals itself. I’ll show it to you when we finish up here. You know, he’s never come to a Wednesday service before.”
“Yes, he said,” she told him. “I explained that it was because of … because of the …” She trailed off, staring up at the stained glass for a moment as her mind whirred.
“Rosalind?” Matthew said, sounding amused.
Her head snapped down again, meeting his eye. “Do you know where the newspaper office is? Where they print the Morning Chronicle?”
“No,” he replied, wary.
“Drat. I … I just had a thought that … I thought … I … oh! Ezra is at the clinic today! He is at the clinic. Matthew, I have to go. I have to … yes.” She wove around the pews and came into the one where he stood to give him a quick, cursory kiss on the mouth.
“I will see you tonight? At my mother’s lecture? Don’t forget the cheese wheel.”
“Rosalind!” he called after her as she was already skipping toward the door, tightening her bonnet under her chin.
“There’s no time!” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight!”
She practically ran to Clerkenwell, her skirt tangling around her legs, that little lump that was left of the bruise in her thigh demanding to know just what the hell was going on all the way.
When she burst through the doors, she was red and sweaty and grinning, and threw only a wink at Dr. Casper by the entry before making her way up the stairs, where she could already hear Ezra’s voice overlapping with Dinah’s from the nursery.
“It’s only a game!” he was insisting.
“You only say that because you lost,” she taunted back. “Again!”
“Because I do not cheat,” he snapped. “I don’t have to.”
“Clearly you do,” Dinah returned smugly.
Rosalind threw open the door, startling them both, though the children sat in the corner making drawings on a large roll of parchment barely looked up at the intrusion.
“Ezra,” Rosalind panted, gripping the doorframe as she caught her breath. “The … the story. I need …”
“Gracious,” said Dinah, spinning and scrambling around for a glass to pour water into. “What on earth?”
Ezra, however, was already crossing the room to take Rosalind by the shoulders and peer into her face. “What is it?” he asked softly. “What do I need to do?”
And she smiled again.
Because that was exactly the question she was hoping he would ask.