Chapter 27
On Sunday, the sisters readied themselves for church in good time, putting on their best new muslins and smartest black-trimmed bonnets.
Miss Macintyre had never attended divine service with them before in all the time she had been their governess, considering the Church of England’s ceremonies something perilously akin to a heathen rite, or perhaps simply preferring a little precious peace on Sunday mornings, but she agreed to accompany them on this occasion.
It was, they all acknowledged, their first real public appearance in Suffolk, and was therefore important; they would be widely judged by it.
There’d been no hot breakfast this morning, because Mrs Pritty had told them in a tone that invited no discussion that she was Chapel, and attended her service at an austerely early hour, in the village.
The sisters did not consider the maids’ or other servants’ spiritual well-being any of their affair, just as their mother never had in London.
Sunday was their chief day of rest and it was up to them how they spent it.
They set off in the dog cart with Miss Macintyre driving, and reached the tiny medieval church just outside the village in half an hour or less.
The horse was let out of the traces, but hobbled, with a nosebag of oats to keep him busy; the old governess showed them how to go about this.
It seemed most unlikely that anybody would steal the vehicle, or him, in this quiet place.
If some rural miscreants did, they’d have to walk home.
They entered the building, which Miss Macintyre described as a fine, if decayed, example of English Gothic, and were directed to a box pew on the right of the nave, quite near the altar but not directly below it.
They understood that this position of prominence was theirs by right as occupants of Albery House, though presumably, they’d have to arrange payment for it with Mr Drinkwater at some point.
The elaborate box directly in front of them was empty, and probably belonged either to the elusive Lady Synett or the Pallants, who hadn’t struck anyone as likely to be enthusiastic churchgoers.
Mrs Bartrum, her son at her side, was smiling and bowing to them from a box to their left, but a little further forward.
This was an excellent position, as far as Cecilia was concerned, because it meant that with a little exercise of cunning, she could have the Major within her field of vision for most of the service.
Fortunately for her wicked intentions, the wooden walls of the boxes here were not so high, like some others she’d seen elsewhere, that they made much of a barrier.
Perhaps she was going swiftly to hell; on the other hand, she could hardly be the first woman in history who had had impure thoughts in such inappropriate circumstances, so at least she’d have plenty of interesting company.
Mrs Drinkwater was seated modestly in the front pew at the far right of the church, with her several small, freckled children, who all resembled her greatly.
Bianca chose to beguile the next hour or so by making frightful faces at them whenever their mama wasn’t looking, to the extent that one of them became overexcited and had to be removed by his nursemaid.
The youngest Miss Constantine was pleased, and whispered as much; as aunts more times over than any of them cared to count, it was good to keep one’s hand in.
Cecilia had no idea what Miss Macintyre or Beatrice was thinking, though she could hazard a wicked guess where Bea was concerned.
For her own part, she allowed the familiar words and hymns to wash over her, responding appropriately without conscious thought, dedicated as she was to boring a smouldering hole in the back of Major Bartrum’s neck by the power of her focused gaze.
She did not doubt for a second that he could feel it.
Sometimes, he turned his head to the right, and then she could see his cheek, above and below the scar.
It was rather pinker than it might be, she considered, given that the interior of the church could uncharitably be described as dank even on a fine spring day.
Rarely, she observed, did he turn his dark head to the left, because she wasn’t over there.
She was a witch. She had power over him.
Possibly – oh, the infernal regions beckoned, there could be no question – he was growing aroused under her regard, hard once more, as he sat there in his extraordinarily uncomfortable seat and remembered everything that had occurred between them – literally so – the other night. She stifled an evil chuckle.
‘Stop it!’ hissed Bea, under cover of singing ‘Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing’. ‘I know exactly what you’re doing, even if nobody else does.’
‘You’re just jealous because she’s not here and you can’t do the same!’ she muttered back.
‘True,’ Bea half-groaned.
Cecilia was feeling a little heated herself by the time the organ wheezed out the final hymn.
As luck would have it, the Major and his mother were passing down the aisle and just at the door of their pew as they exited it.
‘After you, ladies,’ he said courteously, stepping back, and Cecilia smiled innocently up at him in response.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘It was a most affecting service, was it not, and an excellent sermon?’
‘Undoubtedly it was most affecting.’
Their eyes met and locked, before Bea, coughing theatrically at her side, recalled her wandering attention to her surroundings and forced her to move on towards the church door.
If her gaze had ignited a fire in him, and she’d swear it had, his level, intent, grey stare could not fail to do the same to her.
She’d always thought of grey eyes as rather cold before, but she realised now that she had been wrong.
She had heard of, and during her Seasons had occasionally seen, women who feigned swooning in order to oblige the nearest man to catch them in his strong arms. She’d always rather despised the artifice, but now she might be changing her mind.
Or, as Bea had said last night, losing it.