Chapter Two #2
Daniel shook his head, hoping his desperation to remain at her side didn’t show. “It means a detour of several minutes, that is all. Not out of my way at all.”
*
Miriam trusted her instincts, which told her the man at her side was as harmless as he appeared to be.
This, despite his unsettling first reaction to her, when he looked as if he’d seen a ghost!
Perhaps the fog and her dark attire gave him the impression of one.
In any case, he’d since redeemed himself, though Miriam still had a suspicion that something was bothering him.
Having so recently lost his mother, he was, of course, in mourning.
Perhaps that was it. Something they had in common.
In any case, all things considered, Mr. Barton appeared to be a decent man, well-mannered and intelligent.
Taller than Miriam by a foot, he looked to be in his mid-twenties, though possibly a bit older.
She quietly thought him handsome as well, with the hint of a sparkle in his green eyes, and curls of dark blond poking out from beneath his hat.
No doubt his profession was responsible for his broad shoulders and overall trim physique.
In any case, despite her initial wariness, Miriam now felt at ease beside him.
However, when it came to him being an angelic candidate, she couldn’t see how he might be thusly considered.
He was most definitely mortal, and his arrival at the graveside, though surprising, had not been an epiphany, nor had it promised deliverance from Miriam’s fears.
Besides, this was only her first visit since the scéance yesterday.
The message from her mother had asked that she be present every morning till the angel appeared.
A mystery yet to resolve itself. What might happen after that remained to be seen.
“Do you visit the cemetery every day, Miss Sinclair?” Mr. Barton asked, pulling her from her reverie.
“Weather permitting,” she replied. “It’s peaceful here, especially early in the morning.”
“Yes, that it is. So, you’re going home now?”
“Actually, no, I’m going to St Mark’s to clean the brasses. I do so every Wednesday.”
“I see,” Mr. Barton said, as the entrance to the cemetery came into view. “I’ll be happy to escort you there if you—”
“No,” she replied abruptly, and instantly regretted the outburst. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir, that was rude of me. I truly appreciate the offer but I have no need of an escort beyond the gate.”
Mr. Barton paused at the gate and regarded her, a slight frown creasing his brow. “In that case, Miss Sinclair,” he said, quietly, “I shall bid you a good day.”
“And I bid you the same, Mr. Barton,” she said, ashamed by the puzzlement in his voice, no doubt caused by her rudeness. What must he think of her? “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he said, still frowning. “Perhaps we might meet again next week.”
“Perhaps.” Miriam gave him a quick smile and turned on her heel in readiness to leave, but paused and regarded him once more. “Please do not think badly of me, sir. I am not usually so ill-mannered.”
The frown disappeared. “Rest assured, Miss Sinclair, I do not think badly of you at all.” The hint of a smile appeared as he touched his hat. “Quite the contrary.”
Miriam inclined her head and then went on her way. “Quite the contrary?” she muttered. the warmth in her cheeks rising as she hurried down the street.
Thoughts of Daniel Barton occupied Miriam’s mind as she walked to St. Mark’s, proving to be a pleasant diversion from the anxiety that usually weighed upon her.
As she drew near to the church, however, the anxiety returned, even though she knew Silas wouldn’t be there.
He always spent Wednesday mornings doing his charity rounds.
Known in the parish as Reverend Miller, Silas was locally considered to be a stern but benevolent man.
Only at home did the harsh side of Miriam’s stepbrother show itself.
He made no attempt to hide his resentment at Miriam’s presence in the Rectory.
She was an unwanted legacy from his father’s second marriage, one he was not obliged to accept.
To refuse her a home after her mother’s death, however, would not have looked well on him, especially given his calling.
Heaven forbid his polished reputation be tarnished!
Instead of turning Miriam out, Silas had taken it upon himself to find her a husband, a man of his choosing.
It wasn’t long till he found what he considered to be a suitable contender in Mr. Stephen Paget.
Miriam, however, had resisted the notion of an arranged marriage before even meeting the man.
Having since met him, she’d prayed for something, anything, that might allow her to escape her fate.
Mr. Paget, a widower of the parish, was easily thrice her age, balding and bandy-legged, who unabashedly licked his lips in her presence while leering at her like a predator eyeing its prey.
Of course, Silas could not actually force her to marry the fellow.
Her refusal, however, might allow him to cast her out with justification, citing defiance and obstinacy, both sins in the eyes of God.
In any case, Silas intended to post the banns for the first time this coming Sunday, which meant Miriam had three weeks to choose her fate. Marriage to Mr. Paget or…
Or what?
The silence of the church calmed Miriam’s nerves as she settled down to clean the brasses. In no rush to return home, she took her time, quietly reliving her experience at the scéance the previous day and her time in the cemetery that morning.
If her mother’s visit to the scéance was to be believed, a solution to Miriam’s worrying dilemma was within her grasp.
But what of this angel? Might it be Daniel Barton?
It didn’t seem likely. Miriam frowned as she recalled his initial odd response to her, almost as if he knew her.
She was certain, however, they had never met till that moment.
And who was Alice? Miriam had wracked her brains trying to recall if her mother had ever mentioned someone of that name.
Nothing came to mind. Perhaps Miss Grey had misheard.
After tidying everything away and placing the altar cross and candlesticks back in their place, Miriam headed home.
Hopefully, Silas had been delayed and wouldn’t be there.
Unfortunately, his hat and coat, hanging on the Rectory’s hall stand, indicated otherwise.
The house was quiet, and a vague sense of foreboding set Miriam’s scalp tingling.
She hung her coat, removed her bonnet, and went into the parlor to see Silas at the window, gazing out, chin in the air, hands behind his back, clutching a leather riding crop.
“I am returned, Silas,” she said, a chill brushing across her nape as she eyed the whip. “The brasses have been cleaned.”
Silas rocked on his heels but remained silent. Miriam’s stomach clenched. “Silas?” She took a step closer. “Why do you not answer? Is something wrong?”
Silas turned, chest rising as he inhaled deeply. Then, still clutching the crop, he went to the parlor door, closed it, and turned the brass key sitting in the lock.
“Why did you do that?” Miriam asked, suppressing a shiver. “What is going on, Silas?”
“I visited the West Chapel Workhouse this morning,” he said, dropping the key into his waistcoat pocket. “Met a lady there. A volunteer by the name of Mrs. Timms, a parishioner of mine. Do you happen to know where Mrs. Timms lives, Miriam?”
Frowning, Miriam pondered a moment and then shook her head. “No, Silas, I do not. I’ve never heard of her. Answer me. Why did you lock the door?”
“You might be interested to learn that Mrs. Timms lives on Stonefeather Road.” A smile appeared, utterly void of humor. “Number thirty-two, to be precise, which just happens to be across the road from number thirty-three.”
Miriam’s blood turned to ice as she realized the direction of his mind. “I… I don’t understand.”
Another smile appeared as Silas moved closer, stroking a forefinger along the length of the crop.
“I have a feeling you understand completely, but I’ll cater to your feigned ignorance with an explanation.
It seems the woman who lives at number thirty-three is known to be the Devil’s conduit.
A blasphemer. A necromancer. Are you beginning to see the direction of this conversation now, Miriam? ”
Miriam lifted her chin. “No, sir. I am not.”
“Liar!” It happened in the blink of an eye, the hard snap of leather against flesh, followed by a sharp, burning sting across Miriam’s right cheek. She let out a yelp and covered her cheek with her hand. Silas’s lip furled. “You were seen leaving the house yesterday after you—”
“How dare you strike me!” Trembling and fighting tears, her hand still covering her cheek, Miriam stepped back. Silas had been verbally sharp with her many times, but this was the first time he’d struck her.
“And how dare you lie, deceive, and blaspheme while living beneath my roof?” Spittle gathered in the corners of Silas’s mouth as his flesh darkened to red.
“How dare you enter a house of sin? How dare you make me look like a fool in front of my parishioners? I swear before God, I shall beat the wickedness out of you this day, you… you little witch.”
“No!” Miriam ran to the door and clawed madly at the handle. As the shadow of Silas loomed behind her, she turned to face him, pressing herself back against the door. “I just wanted to speak to Mama, Silas, that’s all,” she cried. “It wasn’t evil. I meant no harm. Have mercy, please. I beg of you.”
Silas’s expression softened and the hand clutching the crop lowered as he regarded her for a moment.
“Three more weeks,” he said. “Just three more weeks, and you’ll belong to Paget.
Either that, or you’ll be seeking charity from Mrs. Timms at the workhouse.
I doubt I’d be condemned for sending you there.
” A sneer came to his face as he lifted the whip once more.
“Beating the wickedness out of you will be my last obligation, and I am duty bound to fulfill it.”