Page 40 of Murder in Matrimony
“Let us find out.”
Amelia and Kitty introduced themselves as friends of All Saints on Margaret Street, Mr. Cross’s home parish. They had come to help his passion project in any way they could. Never having been to the East End parish before, they thought it was a good place to start.
The women accepted them with kindness and zeal.
“Bless you!” exclaimed a woman of middle age with an excitement that transformed her face. “How good of you to come all the way to St. George-in-the-East.”
“Mr. Cross’s goodness has no boundaries.” Another woman raised her hands, clasped in prayer, toward heaven. “Even now.”
“Especiallynow.” The woman holding the covered basket on one arm reached out her other to pat the woman’s shoulder. “Welcome. We are happy you are here.”
“Thank you.” Amelia was encouraged and even overwhelmed by their hospitality. What good women these were. If they were indicative of the rest of the parish, it was no wonder why Mr. Cross advocated for them.
“Come.” The woman with the basket led the way to a small gathering place, where a table and six chairs stood. The table was scattered with pamphlets, and she quickly straightenedand placed them in a pile. “Our numbers are small today. Many are still working, so we are grateful for your addition. Sit, and we will begin with a prayer.”
After the prayer, the women introduced themselves. The middle-aged woman was Mrs. Evans, the other was Mrs. Lewis, and the one with the basket was Mrs. Rothschild. She unfolded the cloth covering the basket, and the delicious scent of fresh bread filled the area. Amelia strained for a peek into the carrier. It wasn’t bread but biscuits. She had never smelled a scent like it, a mixture of savory and sweet and something else.
“I must say, those smell delicious, Mrs. Rothschild.” The compliment came automatically from Amelia’s lips, and Kitty, also curious, chimed in as well.
“I’ve never smelled anything so pleasant.”
Mrs. Rothschild had a plain face, worn even, but her eyes glittered faintly at the praise. “Please, take one.”
Knowing how poor these women were, Amelia did not want to indulge, but Mrs. Rothschild insisted, and both she and Kitty took a biscuit.
It was unlike any biscuit Amelia had tasted. It was not hard or dry but soft and sweet, resembling a miniature cake. She heard Kitty murmur her appreciation and understood it wasn’t only she who thought the food extraordinary. “Mrs. Rothschild, these are incomparable.” She stared at the last bite in her hand, regretting it was all that was left. “Truly.” She popped it in her mouth. “I have never tasted a biscuit this delicious.”
“They are just biscuits,” said Mrs. Rothschild modestly. She had long eyelashes, and they were noticeable as she closed her eyes briefly.
“Just biscuits!” Kitty exclaimed. “No, they are not just biscuits. I have had just biscuits, and these are anything but. They are … I do not know what they are, but they are heavenly.”
The other women smiled at Kitty’s high praise, and Mrs. Lewis looked upward. “Heaven sent. That is our dear Mrs. Rothschild.”
Amelia imagined Mrs. Lewis praised God for all the good things in her life and dismissed the bad. Despite her well-worn dress and gloveless hands, she considered her graces abundant. Her gratitude was more telling than any piece of clothing.
Embarrassed by the attention, Mrs. Rothschild dismissed the subject by asking them about their acquaintance with Mr. Cross. “Did you know him well?”
“Very well,” Amelia said, sobering. “He had become a dear friend of mine. Perhaps I didn’t realize how dear until he was gone.”
Mrs. Evans murmured her agreement. “All who met him felt that way. All considered him a friend.”
“Everyone at St. George-in-the-East?” Kitty pressed.
Amelia was glad for the question. Caught up in the hospitality and food, she’d temporarily dismissed why they’d come in the first place. If possible, she wanted to glean information about not only Rose Rothschild but Mr. Cross as well.
“Not everyone,” admitted Mrs. Lewis. She shook her head. “I’m sure you read about the riots in February. Our parish isn’t what yours is.”
“I didn’t mean to insinuate …” Kitty let the sentence trail off, perhaps not wanting to insult the women.
“It’s all right. It’s true,” continued Mrs. Lewis. Her face was as placid as a pond at midnight, honest and unaffected. “Our parishioners didn’t always appreciate Mr. Cross. The drinkers. The gamblers. The businessmen. They sought to throw him out for arguing against their trades.”
“That is unfortunate,” Amelia empathized. “I imagine the drinking establishments in the area did not want their customers transformed.”
Mrs. Rothschild bristled. She wore a dress that had grown too large for her, perhaps in her grief, and the mantle fell over her wrist. “Their care is money, naturally. It is how they survive. Without customers, they have no business. They rail against the factories, but my Rose made a decent living at the factory.” From beneath the collar of her dress, she pulled out a gold filigree cross necklace. “She even bought me this.”
“Beautiful.” Amelia admired the delicate necklace, surprised by the quality of the token. Rose Rothschild must have made a sufficient living indeed to purchase the jewelry for her mother.
“But the men who own pubs and gin palaces rely on alcohol to keep their families fed.” Mrs. Rothschild tucked the necklaceback under her collar as if it was too precious for display. “The demand is high in this neighborhood.”
