She didn’t know what Father Porter wanted. Tears? Hands folded in prayer? “It is a fine spot,” she remarked. From where he was tied, Percy let out a piercing whinny.
Where would Father Porter select for himself? She began to wander along the row, trying to guess what was premium real estate. She came upon a length of lime-green baby grass on a new grave.
“I told you I have been waiting for my replacement,” Father Porter said behind her, “and sadly, here he lies.”
Angelika raised her eyes, with a doomed feeling smothering her, and read the name:
FATHER ARLO NORTHCOTT
“A terrible shame,” Father Porter said, and now Angelika was sweating from every pore. The date of death, it was—“Six weeks ago, but I’m sure you heard what happened.”
She whispered, “No, I didn’t hear. How did he die?”
“His carriage was overturned by highway robbers, as they often are these days.”
Angelika swallowed. “Did he die . . . quickly?”
“No. The drivers took a strange route, and the carriage was found in a ravine.” Father Porter appeared to be genuinely saddened. “He was brought here alive and fought very hard through the night. Sadly, he returned to our Lord too soon. You can see he was very young.”
Angelika did the sums. “He was thirty-three. That’s very young to be a priest, is it not?” She found herself arguing vigorously. “There must be some mistake. How could he possibly replace you, being so young himself? That seems absolutely out of the question. It’s ridiculous. I cannot think of anything more ludicrous than a thirty-three-year-old priest.” She wiped her temple.
Father Arlo Northcott?
“He was, by all accounts, devoted to his studies, and lived in uncommon devotion and abstinence since boyhood. He led an exceptional life, though far too short.” Father Porter sighed. “A great loss to the church, and this village. I should have liked to have met him, to talk, to understand his faith and his planned direction for the parish. Now we must wait for another replacement to be found.”
“And he is definitely right here.”
“I don’t quite understand your meaning,” Father Porter said, his tone sharper—perhaps defensive. “Do you see a grave before you? I conducted the final rites myself.”
Angelika shook herself. “I just cannot ever accept the death of one so young.”
This is a coincidence. Won’t this be a laugh? A fine story, told in a lively way, by the fire?
“I see you are very moved. Would you like to light a candle for Father Northcott on your way out? We could pray.”
“I think I might like that.” Angelika really just needed to sit down again. She really would pray, that Father Arlo Northcott was another man, who had traveled from a wide world teeming with other people. But at that moment, a gate squeak announced someone’s approach.
It was a man walking toward them, with his tawny-gold eyes locked on her face as though she were the only woman he would ever seek. He was tall, very handsome, and dressed as if someone with unlimited funds and a fine tailor loved him very much.
It was, of course, without a doubt, her love.
It was Will.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Angelika,” Will said when he grew closer, “I am here to escort you home.” He appeared flushed and slightly out of breath. “I met Jacob and some of my gardening crew heading back to Blackthorne Manor. They were plenty enough to escort Clara, and I didn’t want to leave you alone. I galloped the entire way back.”
She took a half step back, and he noticed the diminutive Father Porter for the first time.
“Forgive me, Father. I have interrupted.”
“Please wait with the horses. I will join you shortly.” She attempted to turn Father Porter with a hand on his elbow, but he was raising his eyeline up, squinting against the sun, and slow recognition dawned.
Father Porter looked sharply back to the gravestone, and so did Will.
“Father Arlo Northcott,” Will read out loud, and the priest’s eyes rolled closed.
Angelika managed to catch him. “Oh, God. Oh, hell.” She lowered his head carefully onto the grass, then folded her shawl into a pillow. “Father, Father. Can you hear me?” She patted his cheek and saw his eyelids moving. “He’s not dead.”
Will croaked, “He recognized me.”
“Don’t you dare faint, too,” she threatened when Will stared back at the headstone with glassy eyes. “Keep your wits. Go into that side door there. Help, help!” She waved an arm at the sweeping staffer, who dropped his broom.
To the gravestone, Will asked, “Is that supposed to be me? Father Arlo Northcott? Father? I’m a priest? I’m a priest?” He was fast approaching hysteria.
Angelika had to shout to get through to him. “We know nothing until we have proof.”
He shouted back, “How? Angelika, how?”
“Go into that door and lock it behind you. Search the office as quickly as you can for anything bearing the name of Father Northcott. Files or letters. They may be locked in a drawer.”
She felt in Father Porter’s pockets, found a ring of keys, and tossed them up to Will. His hands did not grasp properly, and the way they landed in the grass reminded her of Victor’s wretched man, dropping the apple. She passed the keys back up, and compressed the feeling she had in her gut. “Will, go right now.”
Will backed away from the scene and managed to get inside before the aide from the front path sprinted up.
“What happened?”
She was truthful when she replied, “He looked like he saw a ghost.”
*
“So, let me get this straight,” Victor said, grinning. “You went to arrange my wedding but almost killed the priest? Typical Angelika.”
The members of the Frankenstein Secret Society had reconvened in the library of the manor that same evening. They were eating bowls of stew off their laps, dipping into it with crusty bread. Christopher was the only one who looked somewhat elegant doing it and showed no signs of having ridden in a forest full of spiderwebs for ten hours.
Victor, on the other hand, most certainly did.
Christopher was subdued and apologetic to have come home without his quarry and kept heaving sighs as he stared into the fire. It wasn’t his fault. He had no idea that he was essentially hunting a huge forest sprite.
Angelika addressed her brother haughtily. “Father Porter is ninety. A strong gust of wind could have killed him. And as a matter of fact, I saved him. He swooned into my arms like a lady.” She was lying on her back in front of the fire, with her bowl scraped clean and Edwin sitting astride her stomach. She bounced him up and down. “I caught that nasty old man, didn’t I, Winnie? Didn’t I catch that old bag of bones?”
Edwin let out a belly laugh.
Will leveled a flat look at Victor. “Typical brave, generous Angelika, cool under pressure, and saving people left and right.” It was a comment designed to defend her, but it also made Clara drop her gaze back to her stew.
“Sowwy, Jelly,” Victor said with his mouth full.
“Do you know why he fainted?” Lizzie asked. She was sitting on the floor, leaning on Victor’s leg, and patted the rug to get Edwin to crawl to her. He headed in her direction with cheerful determination. A competition was brewing between the two women. Lizzie looked up frequently to see Victor’s reaction to the little boy; he was too busy stuffing himself with stew to notice.
Hopeless, Angelika sighed to herself. To Lizzie, she replied, “He fainted almost certainly because he is ninety. He was roused after a few minutes, so we felt sure he would recover.” The moment his eyelids had fluttered, she’d left him in the arms of his aide, rushing to find a frazzled Will pacing near the horses.
Clara was happy to share her son and sat with her feet tucked underneath herself. Sitting beside Christopher, she looked like his relaxed wife, and a rather pretty one at that. It was amazing what a bath, and an afternoon nap, could achieve. It was the second time Angelika had noticed they looked like a well-matched pair. She stared at the distance on the chaise between them, and calculated the width of her own behind.
Angelika continued. “I have also considered the possibility that he grew light-headed from trying to wheedle some new marble from the Frankensteins.”
Victor was scornful. “Marble? What does he want with that?”
“He’d like white marble for the altar, to give it a fresh new look. And his Italian artist friend needs to come for a working holiday, to touch up Christ’s eyeballs.” The word artist inspired Angelika to reach over to the bookcase for a blank journal. Wordlessly, she passed it up to Clara, Lizzie passed her a pencil, and after a minute, the young widow took the hint, and began to sketch.
“He can keep dreaming,” Victor said. “If he says it’s a choice between marrying there or not at all, I’m sorry, Lizzie, but we’re having a bastard.”
She did not laugh, and the entire room went silent.