Chapter 5
Thou shalt not steal.”
The words were a canker in Juliet’s soul.
Of all the scripture the reverend could have selected to expound upon today, he had to choose the eighth commandment?
She fidgeted on the unforgiving pew, the wood as hard as her resolve not to speak with God …
which was probably the reason for this morning’s message.
Retribution for her stubborn silence, no doubt. A divine reprimand for disobedience.
But shouldn’t her father have faced such a reckoning instead of her? Was it not his failings that had destroyed the Finch family? Yet she was the one to bear the disgrace, suffer the consequences, feel the weight of God’s frown.
And still the reverend droned on. “Remember, brethren, sin is never the answer, even when desperation whispers otherwise. Taking what is not yours strikes at the very heart of our Creator’s providence, rejecting His will and inviting further hardship.
To turn from God’s provision is to welcome ruin. ”
Provision? Hah! Juliet bit the inside of her cheek to keep from scoffing aloud.
That was entirely the problem. What provision had there been for her and her aunt?
Where was the divine providence the reverend promised?
For it surely could not be found in the empty cupboards at home or in the churn of her even emptier belly.
She pulled at a thread on the hem of her sleeve, the once-fine fabric now fraying.
She should have stayed home today. Should stay home every Sunday morn, and yet that wouldn’t do, not if she hoped to build trust amongst the community in order to sell her aunt’s remedies.
Whether one openly admitted it or not, appearance mattered. No one would purchase from a heathen.
An eternity later, the Reverend Mr. St. John bid the congregation to stand. An uncomfortable twinge of hypocrisy nipped Juliet as she rose. Was it right to accept a blessing when she wasn’t currently speaking to the blesser?
“And now, may the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son Jesus Christ our Lord; and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always. Amen.”
The low drone of a corresponding amen followed as Mr. St. John strode up the aisle, his black cassock swinging about his legs.
Juliet’s feet itched to run out the side door, but that would be unseemly.
So, she suffered in silence as she lined up with the other parishioners to be individually greeted as they exited.
The reverend dipped his head at her approach, his long nose practically sloping down to his chest. “Good day, Miss Finch. I trust you took today’s sermon to heart.”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. It wasn’t a lie, for she had listened to the man. She simply hadn’t liked what he’d said.
His pale blue eyes searched her face. There was no hiding from that gaze, no matter how much she wished to escape it. Were all clergymen taught such a technique?
“I couldn’t help but notice, Miss Finch, that you seemed a bit … distracted during the service. I hope all is well.”
Hmm. That depended upon the definition. Even so, she nodded. “I am quite well, thank you. Just … a lot on my mind.”
“Understandable, given the circumstances. I know things have been difficult for you and your aunt, but I encourage you to remember that even in your darkest moments, God’s hand is always there to guide you.”
She clenched her teeth, looking away lest he see the doubt in her eyes. Naturally, he meant kindness in his words, but in truth, God’s hand had done nothing but take. “Of course, Mr. St. John.” The words came out tight. Would he notice?
He frowned.
Drat.
He had.
“I realize you have had your share of struggles, but turning away from God will only lead to more pain. The Lord’s mercy is boundless, and His forgiveness is always within reach.”
Anger burned in her chest. “What if I am not the one in need of forgiveness? What if it is God who has turned His back on me?”
Mr. St. John’s nostrils flared, but to his credit, his tone remained calm.
“God’s ways are not ours to understand, Miss Finch.
It is most often trials that strengthen our faith, that draw us closer to our Creator, even when it feels as if He is out of reach.
Such tribulations are ultimately a blessing, moulding our character, perfecting us for eternity. ”
She clenched her hands, heart pounding with frustration. All she wanted was food in her belly. Was that too much to ask? “Thank you for your concern, Mr. St. John, but I hate to hold up the line any longer. And so I bid you good day.”
The reverend nodded, his expression inscrutable. “Just remember, Miss Finch, the church is always here for you, as am I, and so is God … whether you feel His presence or not. I shall keep you and your aunt in my prayers. Good day.”
“Thank you.” The words barely made it past her tight jaw. She didn’t want the man’s prayers. Such platitudes would not put food on the table, not as tangibly as a snare line. “Good day.”
She stepped away from the receiving line, biting back the rest of her ire, only to face Miss Potter, who stood fanning herself beneath a monument of millinery caprice.
Today’s hat—an architectural marvel of velvet bows and what might have once been a stuffed partridge—teetered as she leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper.
“What a sermon, eh? Far too much conviction for a Sunday morn, if you ask me.” Without waiting for a response, the woman swanned off down the lane, the crooked bird bobbing in rhythm with her gait.
Juliet couldn’t decide if she ought to applaud the woman’s bravery for championing such eccentric headwear without a wink towards conformity—or send a discreet note to the milliner on behalf of Miss Potter’s outlandish taste.
She settled on neither and instead set off down the path leading to home.
When she rounded the first bend, she nearly collided with Mr. Dankworth, her aunt’s neighbour.
His podgy fingers grabbed hold of her arm, righting her before she could stumble. The roughness of his grip matched the coarseness of his coat. “Pardon me, Miss Finch. Didn’t mean to scare you. Foxes don’t mean to frighten chickens neither, but it happens all the same.”
“Mr. Dankworth?” The man adhered to a hermetic lifestyle. What was he doing out in public? Unless … Alarm prickled at the back of her neck. “Is my aunt all right?”
“Far as I know. But it’s not her I’ve come to speak about.” He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “It’s you.”
She uncoiled slightly. “Me?”
He leaned in, his voice lowering. “What can be seen but not touched, heard but never caught?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your footsteps, miss.” He curled his fingers around his lapels, proud as a prancing pony. “But I’ve seen them. Heard them in the woods. At night. Might be you chasing after herbs, or might be something’s chasing you.”
Her heart stalled. Sweet blessed mercy! Had he seen her setting snares? Or worse, hauling home a sack of game? She swallowed past the lump rising in her throat. “I do gather ingredients for my aunt. Harmless things. Nothing of note.”
“Harmless as a sleeping bear—until it wakes.” He nodded slowly, one eye twitching with suspicion, the movement dragging his thick eyebrow along in a jerky arc. “I’ve seen you near the manor at odd hours. The woods have long memories and short patience. So do constables.”
Her heart banged against her ribs. Word was out about her nighttime escapades.
No wonder since she’d run into the master of the manor himself—and his presence had lingered in her thoughts ever since.
The way he moved. How he spoke. The grey-green velvet of his eyes that had, in that brief moment, held hers with an intensity she hadn’t been able to shake.
She couldn’t afford to get caught—not by him. Not by anyone.
And yet now Mr. Dankworth knew.
She regarded him warily. “I assure you I only take what I need.”
“Sheep nibble,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “But the fence needs mending all the same. And a sheep like Miss Russell ought to be tended to very carefully.”
She stared, thoroughly confused. “I shall be careful, Mr. Dankworth.”
“See that you are. Once a whisper grows legs, it don’t stop till it trips someone.” He reset his hat with a wag to his head. “Remember, people notice things. It would be a shame for anyone to get the wrong idea about your ramblings.”
He strode off without another word, leaving behind the odour of sweat and the fear that he might know more than he was letting on.
Was he truly warning her, or had he meant his words as a veiled accusation?
Either way, he’d taken the trouble to seek her out and would no doubt be keeping an eye on her.
As would that enigmatic master of Bedford Manor.
She set off briskly down the trail. So be it. She would not shrink from the challenge.
She didn’t have a choice.