Prologue #2
“Death?” the man repeated in a horrified little whisper.
“Death,” Matthew confirmed with a raise of his brows. “This way, if you please. I have all the documents here. My father is terribly organized. Miss Beck is shy. Come along, Miss Beck!”
Vix stepped on his toe as she passed him, lowering her eyes demurely as she did so.
The woman fell into step beside her, and though Vix did not look up to observe her, she could feel the inspection begin, like the sweeping gaze of adult eyes examining her hair and her dress and her posture were little needles gently scraping against her skin.
“Your parents were missionaries, dear?” the woman asked softly as they approached the bench under the fig tree. “Lost abroad?”
Vix blinked, looking at the bench instead of at any of the people around her, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Terrible thing,” the woman said with a sniff. “You may sit. I am Mrs. Baxter.”
Vix was already beginning to sit, and hesitated. She did not realize she was supposed to wait for permission. She hovered for a second before resuming the motion and smoothing the borrowed skirts under herself as she found her place on the bench.
Mrs. Baxter was already leaning forward, squinting at her through the morning sunlight, while the gentleman was making a show of finding a position he considered acceptable on the stone slab.
Matthew and Roland were standing near the tree, side by side, like sentries.
“Do you often play outdoors, Miss Beck,” the woman asked suddenly, her lips quirked downward, “or is that your natural complexion?”
Vix felt her brow wrinkle. “I do not often play outdoors,” she said. A truth. “I prefer to read.”
The woman glanced at the man and then back at Vix. “Perhaps still, you might grow fairer in the embrace of our school rather than the harsh lights of London,” she said, as though offering a special treat. “What do you read, Miss Beck?”
“The Bible,” Vix said immediately. “I have my own copy.”
Mrs. Baxter seemed to like that, adjusting her shoulders side to side. “Very good, and which passages do you prefer, young lady?”
Vix paused, glancing at Matthew, who immediately raised his eyebrows.
She swallowed the urge to sigh. “I like the gospels,” she lied. “And the Psalms my parents marked as acceptable for young ladies.”
“Very good!” said the man, shifting again on the bench.
“I suppose your parents were exceptionally devout,” Mrs. Baxter said with a thoughtful tap of her fingernail to her jaw.
“My father believed in fighting for what he believed correct,” Vix answered demurely, blinking away memories of her father, the pugilist, bruised and victorious, counting his winnings at the kitchen table. “He was not afraid to bleed for his cause.”
“A righteous man indeed,” the man commented, nodding along. “Your mother as well, I imagine. What did she teach you, Miss Beck?”
Vix took a little breath, her mother’s laugh echoing on the air. The smell of rose petals in her flower stall haunting the very breeze. “My mother taught me that if something matters, you must tend to it if you wish to see it flourish. Even something hearty and beautiful will wilt without care.”
“Wisdom indeed,” Mrs. Baxter said. “You understand that if you come to study with us, you will be doing so on merit of a scholarship, which means you must needs contribute to the running of the school in addition to devoting yourself to your studies. How will you contribute, Miss Beck? What skills do you have?”
Vix started to draw her lip between her teeth and stopped herself, pressing her thumbnail into her palm again, planting her feet firmly in the garden soil. She reminded herself that she’d learned this. She had practiced it.
“I have tended to the younger children in the parish during services for these past many years,” she said sweetly, though it was not true. “I’ve a talent for keeping them orderly and calm. I enjoy it.”
“Do you?” said Mrs. Baxter, sitting up a little straighter. “How young are these children?”
“Oh, from the bassinet to only a year younger than Miss Beck herself,” Matthew put in before Vix could answer. “She has been invaluable to us. We only regret that she must miss some of the sermons to attend to this service in her duty to God and her community.”
“You simply mind them?” Mrs. Baxter pressed, turning her sharp eyes onto Vix.
“I also teach them letters and numbers,” Vix answered softly, folding her hands into her skirt. “And we review Bible stories that match the week’s sermons, if they are appropriate for the children. Sometimes we amend them with Reverend Everly’s guidance.”
“Remarkable,” said Mrs. Baxter, glancing back at her cohort.
“She requires a full scholarship?” the man asked, dabbing at his brow with a kerchief.
“No, indeed not,” said Matthew, hurrying forward to proffer his stack of papers.
“As you can see, she has been sponsored by two of the parochial trusts associated with the Greater Anglican Society. Miss Beck has inspired several of our elders with her story and her misfortune. We believe she carries great potential to become a lady of grace and respectable standing.”
The man accepted the papers, fishing in his waistcoat pocket for a monocle which he made a show of wedging into the wrinkled flesh around his eye.
Mrs. Baxter was peering again, leaning forward as though she could see more of Vix through her pores if she leaned just a smidge closer, if she squinted just a touch tighter.
“I have never heard of the Archbishop of Liverpool,” the man said, sounding impressed. “A direct sponsorship!”
“Indeed, indeed,” Matthew said, nodding sagely.
Vix swallowed down the urge to groan. Teddy had insisted they make up sponsors that would be harder to discredit, as some of this money would be coming directly from their own nefarious schemes, not from these make-believe patrons.
Archbishop of Liverpool indeed.
Some of it, however, would be from real charities. Matthew had assured them that the documents were identical to the real ones, and no one would check before releasing the funds. Hundreds of students per season were sponsored, and so long as the seal looked correct, Vix would be one of them.
The seal, they all agreed, looked correct.
“You truly are an impressive young woman,” the man said anyway, rifling through to the next page.
“I think you could be of great service to us,” Mrs. Baxter said, “so long as you remember your place.”
“I will, Mrs. Baxter,” Vix assured her, looking directly into her eyes. “I will always remember my place.”
It was the greatest lie of them all.