Page 11 of Murder in Matrimony
Devotedly,
Wedding Day Deserters
Dear Wedding Day Deserters,
The practice has not been determined in poor taste, but it should be. I believe it is a dereliction of duties concerning hospitality and home. One attends a wedding to see the happy pair, not their appendages. It’s my opinion the pair had better stay for the cake or risk offending the attendees. Besides, who doesn’t enjoy cake?
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
Simon and Kitty left, and Amelia jotted off a note to Grady Armstrong, her childhood friend and editor of the paper by which she was employed. She asked him to meet her in Hyde Park after his workday with any information on Rose Rothschild and Mr. Cross. She doubted he would have any details on Mr. Cross’s murder that Mr. Dougal hadn’t given her already (it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours), but it was a possibility. Grady always had his ear to the street for news, and crime was of great interest to the readers of the paper.
She slipped on her dowdiest brown linen paletot, which covered the bulk of her dress, in hopes of being discreet. Shedid not want her meeting with Grady noted, especially with the blackmailer possibly following her movements. The time was unpopular; that was of no concern. She did not worry about one of her set observing her conversation with a penny paper editor. Furthermore, their meeting place was so out of the way that they rarely encountered passersby.
She fetched a matching parasol. She didn’t care for the fringes—her usual parasol was strong and sturdy and not brown—but in this instance, they proved beneficial. They provided several more inches of protection for her face.
Checking the looking glass, she was pleased with the effect. Her hair, auburn with a swirl of caramel brown, was disguised by the placement of a straw—and again, brown—bonnet. Her shape, which was curvier than popular taste, was nondescript under the large coat. She might have been any woman traveling anywhere, surely not a penny paper authoress and definitely not a countess.
Parasol in hand, Amelia tiptoed down the stairs, staying close to the wall. But even flat satin shoes were no match for Aunt Tabitha, who heard and called her into the informal drawing room. Tabitha often reviewed household accounts at the long rectangular desk, and today, she held a letter in her hand. She raised it into the air when Amelia crossed the threshold.
“Do you know what this is?” Tabitha asked.
A smart retort almost passed Amelia’s lips, but a quick glance at Tabitha’s face checked the comment. “I do not.”
Tabitha stood, pressing herself up from the desk to her full height. Surrounded by the pretty gold and blue furniture that defined the comfortable space, Tabitha seemed a dark demigod in her long gray gown. Indeed, with the letter before her, she conjured the image of Poseidon wielding his trident over the vast ocean. Poseidon presided over the seas but also storms, and if Tabitha’s face was to be trusted, a tempest was brewing ahead.
“This,” said Tabitha, her voice all severity, “is a letter from your mother. She wanted to inform me that eight of your uncles will be in attendance, with their wives, except for Aunt Kate,who twisted her ankle in a foot race.” She slipped on her spectacles, reading from the letter. “Which is a shame since she and Amelia are one in the same and get along the best of all the relatives.” She dropped the letter and stared at Amelia.
“Kateismy favorite aunt …”
Tabitha narrowed her eyes.
“Except you, of course.” Amelia smiled.
“I am serious.” Tabitha threw down her glasses. “That is fifteen guests for the wedding breakfast, not to mention your father’s relatives, who, she states, are ‘hoping for a peek’ at the house.”
Why her mother hadn’t written to her, instead of Tabitha, was a mystery—for about half a second. Of course she must know planning a wedding breakfast was beyond Amelia’s domestic talents. She was better at walking than planning. Still, she wished her mother would have had the good sense to route the information through her; she could have made it more palatable to Aunt Tabitha. She wasn’t certain how, but she would have found a better way than a direct letter.
“If they have appetites like yours and your sister’s, the household will need to prepare,” continued Tabitha. “I cannot imagine the strain Cook will be under. I must find assistance for her immediately.”
“It isn’t as if we are an army, Aunt,” Amelia said in her most soothing voice. “Just one small family from Somerset.”
Tabitha arched a gray eyebrow.
“The house is sufficient, money is abundant, and your connections are plentiful.” Amelia smiled brightly. “The wedding is going to be wonderful.”Without Mr. Cross? How could it ever be wonderful without him presiding?A flicker of sadness erased her smile.
Tabitha spotted it and descended like a bird of prey. “What is the matter?”
“I have bad news, very sad news indeed from the curate. You might have seen him come in earlier?” Amelia recollected the conversation. “Mr. Cross has died. He was murdered in the vicarage last evening. The police believe it was a robber after the poor box.”
Tabitha closed her eyes for a moment, and when she reopened them, they looked much gentler, the type of kind blue oases the Amesburys were known for. “I am sorry, Amelia. I know how much you cared for him.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Amelia released a breath. “I appreciate that.”
“What is to be done for a new officiant?”
“I will see about it tomorrow. There is always the curate.” Amelia swallowed. “Or Mr. Penroy.” Mr. Penroy was new to the church, too new, in Amelia’s opinion. Old vicars she could tolerate, but young priests very rarely. Mr. Cross had harkened to the old church, the Roman church Tabitha would say, but Amelia preferred the old ways over Penroy’s fire and brimstone.
