Page 23 of Murder in Matrimony
He shook his head. “I only know what goes on there. It is my job to know.”
“Hmm, yes.” Amelia tucked the newspaper clipping into her reticule. “How did your wife’s gown turn out?” She had recommended her modiste when he and his wife attended a large party thrown by a textile manufacturer, and he’d been appreciative of her help.
His small eyes widened with his smile. “She thought it very beautiful. It had puffy sleeves and the, the …” He motioned to his stomach. “Big skirt. It was nice. Pretty color, also.”
Amelia stood. “Glad to hear it. If she needs anything else, please let me know.”
“You are kind to me, and I am kind to you.”
She held out her hand. “I enjoy how that works. Don’t you?”
He shook it. “Indeed, I do.”
TEN
Dear Lady Agony,
So many discuss clothing in this column. I wonder what they think about surplice? It is said the vestment was the reason for the riots at St. George-in-the-East in February. Thousands of parishioners took offense to the priest’s wearing of the garment and hooted, hollered, and swore during the service. Some said the rioters should have been banished. Others said the rector should have been removed for disobeying the wishes of his flock. If anyone could imagine a white robe causing so many problems, I believe it is you. What is your opinion?
Devotedly,
Sinners, Saints, and Surplice
Dear Sinners, Saints, and Surplice,
Clothing is not always clothing. It is often an outward sign of our prejudices or values. Such was the case earlier in the year at St. George-in-the-East. The rector wore his vestments in obedience of his orders and was castigated for it by raucous churchgoers. The precedent was disastrous and dangerous. The next time an article of clothing is noticed, I hope readers ask themselves why before reacting. It might not be your fashion sensibilities but something deeper causing your reaction.
Yours in Secret,
Lady Agony
Upon leaving Petticoat Lane, Amelia pointed her driver toward St. George-in-the-East. It was only a mile away, and she hated to risk another outing on what could turn out to be a wasted trip. Besides, it was safer to stop in daylight than nightfall, when rioters might be present. Thechurch, built in the 1700s, was a stalwart of Wapping, an unchanged building in a world full of industrial changes. From the south, she could see the four pepper-pot-shaped turrets as well as the tall western tower. Stone, strong, steadfast—these were the words that came to Amelia’s mind as she gazed upon the outward edifice.
Inwardly, though, the church was undergoing a transformation, and Mr. Cross had been part of it. He took up the work where the previous priest had left off, unable to continue due to an illness many thought was caused by constant strain. Some parishioners felt ostracized; others felt seen. Regardless of their feelings, however, Mr. Cross welcomed them unequivocally. He gave help to the poor, offered advice to the downtrodden, and said prayers for everyone.
As Amelia entered the church, she knew he did not regret his time here. No matter what Isaac Jakeman said or how it made sense, she knew it could not be so. Standing in the nave, shefelthis passion. He cared about this place. He loved this place. It was as strong as the scent of candle smoke that lingered in the air. She didn’t have to see it to understand.
The church was quiet now, the morning crowds dispersed. An old woman bent over a back pew, her lips moving silently in prayer. A man, perhaps without a home, closed his eyes in another pew, using it as a makeshift bed. A priest pretended not to see him as he snuffed out the last candles at the altar, walking past him with his eyes cast downward.
“Excuse me?” Amelia said.
The priest smiled. “May I help you?”
Amelia realized he was older than she’d assumed. Yet his face had none of the hard lines of age, and his eyes showed eagerness to assist her. “I hope so. I am Lady Amesbury. I’m here because of Mr. Cross. I attend church at All Saints in Mayfair.”
The priest lowered the gold candle snuffer. “Such a tragedy. I could hardly believe the news.” He shook his head. “I’m Mr. James, the rector here.”
“It’s good to meet you.”
He extended his arm as if to shake her hand and thenremembered he still held the candle snuffer. “Walk with me? I need to return this.”
Amelia followed his short, energetic steps.
“How long did you know Mr. Cross?” he asked.
“Two years,” she answered.
“I knew him only four months.” He tucked away the snuffer in an antechamber of the church. “But I enjoyed his company and respected his stalwart commitment. He recruited me for the Society for the Greater Good. I admit I was honored. He did not mind that we served different communities. In fact, he sought out my advice for its difference.” He shut the closet door. “Remarkable, if you ask me.” He motioned toward an office. “Not everyone values diverse opinions.”
