Chapter 28
Matthew took extra care dressing on Sunday morning.
His vestments were ironed. His hair was combed. His stubble was removed.
To be frank, he barely looked like himself. Who knew his curls could be so springy and defined? He honestly thought they had always grown in a wild thatch of frizz as nature intended.
According to Rosalind, it was meager armor, but armor all the same. Her own armor was her wedding dress, the pink and white affair that had replaced the dress that had been ruined by punch and blood and dirt on the day she’d knocked over the statue.
They made a tidy pair, he thought. A handsome, presentable, perfectly upstanding pair.
And he repeated that to himself all the way down to the church.
As soon as he stepped onto the lawn, his heart leaped directly into his throat at the crowd.
People were milling around the doors, evidently looking for space in an already full sanctuary.
Several of them had been directed around to the back so that they could hear the sermon through the rear doors, and others had been invited to stand in the halls or along the spaces between the pews in the mezzanine if they wished to attend today’s service.
There had been quite a swell in attendance, of course, after the first series of gossip stories, but nothing at all like this.
He had never seen anything like this in all his life.
Rosalind squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to go ahead,” she told him. “I think it will be less chaos if we are separate.”
“All right,” he agreed, despite every instinct in his body wanting to cling her to his side like a child’s favorite doll until he felt safe again. He watched her go, drawing people along after her as she made her way toward the church doors, and admitted to himself that she had been correct.
She was often correct.
“Mr. Everly!” came a boisterous voice from somewhere in the throng as Rabbi Hirsch picked his way toward him through the throng of people. “I thought I had gotten here early enough, but apparently I underestimated how early Londoners are willing to wake. I confess, you’ve made me a little envious!”
“Envious?” Matthew returned with a dry little laugh. “Or relieved it isn’t you in my place?”
“Hm,” said the rabbi. “Maybe a little of both, lad. Maybe a little of both. In any event, I think I’ve a place to stand over by the nave. Your journalist friend isn’t part of my own congregation, but he offered anyway.”
“He’s a good sort,” said Matthew, distracted by the ripple of gasps in the crowd as the bishop apparently arrived.
He turned toward the gates to see the shiny exterior of the Keaton family coach pull alongside the gate and the doors. It was hard to miss the bright flash of amaranth purple as he stepped out of the confines, his biretta glowing in the morning light.
“Ah,” said Matthew. “It’s happening.”
“I suggest making a run for the pulpit,” the rabbi said, crossing his arms and observing the bishop. “Shall I distract him? It wouldn’t be dishonest if I intercepted the man to wax poetic about the quality of his textiles.”
Matthew laughed despite himself. “No, no,” he said. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He turned and made his way through the crowd to at least be inside the church itself when he received the bishop, though there was quite a lot of weaving and hopping around people before they realized who he was.
On any other day, the chorus of “Oi, it’s the vicar!” would have delighted him completely.
“Lucky sod,” another man said. “He got to marry Miss Manners. See her there on the altar? Pretty one, she is. Even with the limp.”
Matthew chose to ignore that. Mostly because whoever had said it was correct.
He got as far as the stairs leading up to the lectern before Keaton called his name, forcing him to turn and assume a smile while he awaited the bishop to make his way to the same spot.
The bishop himself was a man of advanced years, and his gait was proof of that, so while Matthew waited, at least he had the advantage of a window of time in which his wife could rejoin his side. The Asters also lingered nearby, with Vix’s eyes sparkling in a worrying display of certain plotting.
“The Reverend Matthew Everly,” the bishop said in his slow, gritty cadence once he had come to a halt at the end of the carpet runner that covered the aisle. “Good morn.”
“Good morning to you, my lord,” Matthew returned respectfully. “We cannot thank you enough for honoring us with your presence this Sunday.”
The bishop was already waving his liver-spotted hand in impatience before Matthew could finish the sentence, peering around the sanctuary as though searching for someone specific. “Where is that statue?” he asked, blinking back up to Matthew. “The one that caused all the ado.”
“It is just by the halls to the gathering rooms,” said Matthew, gesturing over to where the marble figure of Seth was situated just to the left of the doors, holding his wheat to his shoulder and gazing out over the heads of the congregation.
“It is not installed permanently yet. We’ve not yet decided on where it shall go. ”
“If I may!” said Vix, propelling forward so suddenly that both men startled, coming around to look at her. “Hello. Good morning, my lord. I am Lady Victoria Aster, and this is my husband Sir Ambrose Aster, of the Canterbury Asters. We met last spring at Lord Greendale’s birthday fête.”
“Oh,” said the bishop, blinking at the mention of the vicar general. “Oh, yes. How do, Lady Aster.”
“I do very well, thank you ever so much,” she returned sharply, flashing him a smile.
“I do apologize for my ghastly manners, interrupting two men of God, but I heard you discussing that glorious statue and I felt I must speak now, lest I lose my opportunity, you understand. It is for a good cause. A very good cause.”
Keaton made a small noise of distress from his position a few paces behind the bishop, where he had been standing silently with his hands folded in front of him, like the Church’s own personal bodyguard.
“Ah, Lord Keaton,” Vix said, turning her face to him. “I understand you are the genius behind its design. How clever of you, to honor the forgotten son of Eden!”
“Oh,” said Keaton, his concern faltering with a blink of pleasure. “Why, thank you for saying so, Lady Aster.”
“Anyway, I know the service is due to start soon, so let me just plant my little seed of an idea and we shall convene afterward if it takes root, hm?” she said, batting her lashes at the bishop, whose attention was now fixed quite firmly on her bosom.
“I am involved in several charitable causes in the city, most notably the Clerkenwell clinic and a scholarship fund for Mrs. Baxter’s Academy for Young Ladies.
This statue is no longer simply a holy figure meant to adorn a humble city church, my dear gentlemen, but a famous relic and something highly sought.
Why, look at all these people who’ve come just to catch a peek of it! ”
Keaton puffed up a little at that, while Matthew did his best not to roll his eyes.
“I propose an auction,” she said, leaning forward to both give the bishop a better view of her cleavage and to assume a conspiratorial tone.
“With the proceeds directly benefitting the Anglican cause you presume best suited. It will certainly thrill the press all over again, and who knows just how hefty a sum such a creation might fetch!”
The bishop blinked at Vix’s breasts and opened his mouth.
“No! Do not answer now!” she said, fanning herself with an exaggerated heaving sigh that made Matthew narrow his eyes at her. “Let us take our seats and consider it again after worship. God should take precedence, of course. As ever.”
She twirled away, taking Ambrose with her, certainly fully aware that everyone she’d just spoken in earshot of watched her all the way to her pew.
“Well,” croaked the bishop. “That is a singular woman, isn’t it?”
“Singular,” agreed Matthew, feeling quite tired. “Might I also present my wife? This is Mrs. Rosalind Everly.”
“It is a pleasure,” Rosalind said, dipping a little curtsey. “I have heard many stories about your good works, my lord.”
The bishop made a noncommittal grumbling sound as he turned to behold Rosalind, examining her bosom as well. “You are Miss Modesty?” he asked, glancing back at Keaton for confirmation.
“Miss Manners is what they call me, my lord,” Rosalind answered before Keaton could reply.
“A sweet title, referencing my teaching works with the injured job seekers of Clerkenwell. Our dear Lord Keaton coined it himself, in fact. Might I show you to your seat? We’ve saved the best position in the sanctuary for you. ”
“Oh,” said the bishop, blinking at her. “Yes, all right. Yes, I could sit.”
Matthew exhaled.
If he was going to be dismissed, it seemed the thing would happen after his sermon.
“It is very crowded in here, isn’t it?” he heard the bishop say to Rosalind. “Your man must give a rousing service.”
“Oh, he does indeed,” she answered before pushing him into his designated cushion and taking the seat beside him like a staunch and determined chaperone. “He does indeed.”
Matthew allowed himself to gaze at her for just a moment and feel the liquid simmer of his affection for her in the wake of watching her shove a bishop before he turned and made his way up to the pulpit, nodding at Mr. Green in the rear of the room to sound the bell that would bring everyone into silent order.
The silence took a moment to settle, bubbling over the crowd like ripples on a lake after the end of a summer shower. He didn’t need it to be perfectly sterile, but just quiet enough to be heard, and then he took a breath.
“God does not make us impervious to harm,” he began. “Instead, He trusted that we would sometimes fall and injure, and so created us in vessels perfect enough to heal.”