Page 4 of Murder in Matrimony
The statement was akin to checkmate. “Understood. I will stop at cousins, but aunts and uncles must be invited.”
“I will tell Jones to lock the liquor cabinet before their arrival.”
“A prudent plan.” Amelia pushed out her chair. “I will see the vicar this afternoon. Madge will be back in two weeks, and I have much to do before then. Miss Hernandez took her measurements last evening for her dress, and alterations will be completed when she returns. We have not one moment to lose.”
“Mr. Cross,” Tabitha tutted.
Tabitha accused the Reverend Mr. Cross, whom they met before he became vicar of All Saints on Margaret Street, of popery, but Amelia liked the vicar a good deal. In fact, she liked him so much that she’d told him about her secret occupation as Lady Agony.
It was after church one Sunday when Mr. Cross was telling her about his involvement with the rookies in Wapping. Although he was the vicar at All Saints on Margaret Street, he also conducted services at St. George-in-the-East. Like manymen of the cloth, his services were lent out to the poorer parishes of town. But unlike many, he was truly devoted to them. He had since created a society of clergymen committed to helping the needy: the Society for the Greater Good.
One man, or even many, could only do so much, however, and when he told her about a troublesome candlemaker in the borough, she told him her secret occupation and promised to reveal the deplorable working conditions of the candlemaker in her column, which she promptly did the following week. The candlemaker had been sanctioned shortly thereafter, and Mr. Cross was pleased with the outcome. Since then, he and Amelia had become friends of sorts. She knew if she could trust him with her identity, she could trust him with anything. He was only one of four people who knew her secret.
“While you are exchanging niceties with your favorite vicar, I will see to the breakfast.” Tabitha sniffed. “To accomplish it by the end of the month would be impossible for anyone who did not have my good connections. As it is, it will take much cajoling on my part, and you know how much I hate cajoling. I’ll have to make allowances that I’d rather not.”
Amelia had a feeling the wordcajolemeant two different things to them. She’d never seen Tabitha plead for anything a day in her life. Tell, yes. Ask, maybe. Cajole, hardly. “I know you will meet the challenge, Aunt.” She gave Tabitha’s shoulder a pat as she walked by.
Tabitha shrank from her touch. “Of course I will meet the challenge, Amelia. The point is notifbut why.”
“Goodbye.” Amelia hurried out of the breakfast room before debating that question.
Outside, the day was hotter than she liked it. The overcast sky had cleared, and early morning raindrops made the city shine. The air was heavy with a hint of hazelnuts from a nearby costermonger cart in Hyde Park. As she made her way to Margaret Street, a kaleidoscope of scents including bread, ale, and smoke assailed her, and she took in the good and the bad with equal pleasure.
She crossed Oxford Street and the street after, and All Saints on Margaret Street, completed just last year, arose in medievalmajesty. She admired the gothic architecture, the inlaid red-and-black stone, and the towering spire that rose 227 feet in the air, higher than the towers of Westminster Abbey. A cloud broke away, and a stream of sunlight brushed the cross that reached the sky. Perhaps it was preordained that Amelia was here, arranging a wedding for her sister.
Or perhaps it was penance for faking illness on Sundays when she was a child.
For it might have been her own wedding she was arranging, she thought gloomily. Simon had admitted to caring for her and then kissed her in a way she couldn’t keep from thinking about. Had she been any other woman, he would have felt obligated to propose to her. After all, women and men did not simply kiss for the fun of it. They did so only under the auspice of engagement.
But their relationship had been unique from the start. He’d admitted to being the person who’d told Edgar Amesbury to find a wife who knew neither his name nor fortune. Only then could the woman be trusted to carry out his wishes after his death, a death which came much sooner than anyone thought, including Amelia. When she married him, she knew he was ill but assumed he would improve with treatment. But his disease, which had progressively worsened, grew worse still, and his death, when it came, was quick and shocking. Their adventure had ended before it had begun, and Amelia was left with only the idea of love and the promise of what might have been.
After his death, she clung to her letters from the penny paper. Her childhood friend Grady Armstrong was the editor, and when one of his writers quit, she happily took up the work. It was a way to live without leaving the house, and in her deep mourning period, it was just what she needed. She had her work, she had Winifred, and that was enough.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
Simon was on her mind often, so often that she had to remember it was Madge getting married and not herself. She drew her eyes from the spire. Now was not the time for daydreams or speculation. She must look straight ahead if she was to plan a wedding in less than a month.
When she entered the church, Mr. Cross was conversing with a parishioner in hushed tones. Although Amelia knew him to be a calming presence in her life, he was not having the same effect on the fellow parishioner. The man, who loomed over the priest, was obviously having a spiritual crisis, so Amelia paused, respecting their privacy.
She studied the baptistry at her left. It was a rich brown marble, complementing the polychromatic colors of the church, including the patterned floor. William Butterfield, the architect, had reimagined medieval architecture for their age while retaining a strong sense of history. Like many medieval churches, windows were installed above the arcade, allowing light to descend on the sanctuary from above. The result was majestic—heavenly, almost—with the east-end altar bathed in surreal beams of light. Some thought ten years of work had been wasted on a bygone era, but Amelia took the project as proof that anything could be accomplished with the right vision, even her sister’s hasty wedding.
Mr. Cross finished his conversation with the parishioner, promising him more time when the day was done, and turned toward the baptistry. Mr. Cross was a middle-aged man with an enthusiastic step that belied his age. Trim with a balding head and two smooth patches of brown hair above each ear, he had eyes that were sympathetic and kind, and upon first meeting him, one would understand he was a good listener. He was quiet but not uninterested, and his words—and tranquility—had the power to ease one’s mind.
Today, however, he appeared distracted, perhaps with parishioners’ problems or his own daily tasks. His glanced at the sanctuary, then held out his hand. “Lady Amesbury. What a pleasant surprise.”
Amelia took his outstretched hand. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I’d like to speak to you about a family matter, if I may.”
“Certainly.” He motioned in the direction of the vicarage, which was attached to the church. They walked through the vestry in silence, and she noted his robes hanging ready for the week. The office, directly afterwards, was small but, likeMr. Cross, personable with a shelf of his beloved books and a painting of the Ascension. He was a great lover of literature and bemoaned not having more money for books or time to read them.
“I was thinking about you only this morning.” He waited for her to be seated. “And here you are. The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“Has another situation arisen in Wapping?” Knowing his commitment to workers’ rights, she understood he might have another column for her to write under the auspice of Lady Agony. The area had many industrial sites. It was also laden with crime, not to mention destitution and poverty. It was too much for one man, or society, to undertake alone, and she would be happy to lend her services again.
For the first time that day, a brief smile touched his lips. “I am certain many situations have arisen in Wapping since my last visit, and there is one person I would like you to help specifically, but none of that now. You needmyhelp.” He folded his large hands on the desk. “How may I be of service?”
Amelia felt instantly at ease. With him, she could unload her burdens without judgment or scorn. “It’s my sister, Margaret Scott. Captain Fitz has proposed to her, and they are to be married.”
“You’d like the wedding performed here.” He completed her thought.
