even wear it for another nine months. I have defied convention enough by putting off my blacks far too early; provoke it further by wearing colors before the year is out, I dare not!”
Pickett, who had the honor of transporting said bonnet, along with her ladyship’s numerous smaller purchases, picked up his pace to catch up with her. “Then—if you’ll pardon my presumption—why did you buy it?”
“So that you might have the privilege of carrying it,” she said, albeit not without sympathy for the Bow Street Runner reduced to the role of beast of burden. “Having announced that you would accompany me, I had to provide myself with sufficient purchases to justify your presence.”
Pickett paused long enough to transfer the strings of the bandbox, which had been banging against his shin for the better part of the journey, to his other hand. “Always happy to be of service.”
“Come now, you must confess, this is better than skulking about the church in the middle of the night, is it not?”
Pickett, recalling one memorable occasion when his candle had gone out while he was searching a crypt and the stygian darkness that had enveloped him on that occasion, could not deny it. He glanced at the viscountess to concede the point and found her regarding him speculatively.
“Still, it is a pity to let such a fetching bonnet go to waste,” she said. “Is there a female among your acquaintance who might like to have it?”
He considered the various females of his acquaintance. Lucy of Covent Garden fame would be in alt to receive such a gift, but as he was doing his best to discourage her embarrassingly obvious designs upon his person, it would be reckless in the extreme to present her with such a stimulus. Likewise Molly, although heaven knew he could use an ally in the servants’ hall. He thought fleetingly of presenting it to Mrs. Holland, but rejected this notion out of hand; aside from the likelihood that she would consider such a gesture a form of bribery, she might well accuse him of theft and see him clapped in the roundhouse.
There was another female, however, about whom he need have no qualms. Mrs. Catchpole, who allowed him to hire the rooms above her shop, and who also cooked and cleaned for him, had much to bear with his comings and goings at all hours of the day or night. It was past time that he gave her some token of his appreciation.
“Yes, I know someone who would be delighted to have it,” he said at last.
“Excellent! Then you may give it to her with my compliments,” said Lady Fieldhurst although, in truth, she did not understand why this solution, in every way so satisfactory, should put her quite out of temper.
At length they crossed the bridge and began the gentle climb toward the church, Lady Fieldhurst picking her way somewhat gingerly through the muddier spots, as Pickett’s arms were too full to allow him to steady her. As they reached the doorstep, he shifted his burden under one arm and tugged open the heavy oak door, which groaned as if protesting the coming desecration. The inside of the church was cool and so dark that it took a moment for Pickett’s eyes to adjust sufficiently to pick out the carved angels over the altar.
“They are lovely, are they not?” remarked Lady Fieldhurst, following his gaze upward. “According to Mr. Danvers, all the carving was done by local artisans.”
“They give me the creeps,” said Pickett, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Almost as if they know what I’m about to do, and they disapprove.”
“You are trying to see that justice is done. Surely they could not disapprove of that.”
Lady Fieldhurst, who along with the Hollingshead family had attended a strained and solemn service conducted by Mr. Meriwether on the Sunday following the vicar’s death, was sufficiently familiar with the church to locate the vestry, where a plain wooden casket rested on a heavy deal table. A handful of wilting wildflowers lay on top, a
Pickett, who had the honor of transporting said bonnet, along with her ladyship’s numerous smaller purchases, picked up his pace to catch up with her. “Then—if you’ll pardon my presumption—why did you buy it?”
“So that you might have the privilege of carrying it,” she said, albeit not without sympathy for the Bow Street Runner reduced to the role of beast of burden. “Having announced that you would accompany me, I had to provide myself with sufficient purchases to justify your presence.”
Pickett paused long enough to transfer the strings of the bandbox, which had been banging against his shin for the better part of the journey, to his other hand. “Always happy to be of service.”
“Come now, you must confess, this is better than skulking about the church in the middle of the night, is it not?”
Pickett, recalling one memorable occasion when his candle had gone out while he was searching a crypt and the stygian darkness that had enveloped him on that occasion, could not deny it. He glanced at the viscountess to concede the point and found her regarding him speculatively.
“Still, it is a pity to let such a fetching bonnet go to waste,” she said. “Is there a female among your acquaintance who might like to have it?”
He considered the various females of his acquaintance. Lucy of Covent Garden fame would be in alt to receive such a gift, but as he was doing his best to discourage her embarrassingly obvious designs upon his person, it would be reckless in the extreme to present her with such a stimulus. Likewise Molly, although heaven knew he could use an ally in the servants’ hall. He thought fleetingly of presenting it to Mrs. Holland, but rejected this notion out of hand; aside from the likelihood that she would consider such a gesture a form of bribery, she might well accuse him of theft and see him clapped in the roundhouse.
There was another female, however, about whom he need have no qualms. Mrs. Catchpole, who allowed him to hire the rooms above her shop, and who also cooked and cleaned for him, had much to bear with his comings and goings at all hours of the day or night. It was past time that he gave her some token of his appreciation.
“Yes, I know someone who would be delighted to have it,” he said at last.
“Excellent! Then you may give it to her with my compliments,” said Lady Fieldhurst although, in truth, she did not understand why this solution, in every way so satisfactory, should put her quite out of temper.
At length they crossed the bridge and began the gentle climb toward the church, Lady Fieldhurst picking her way somewhat gingerly through the muddier spots, as Pickett’s arms were too full to allow him to steady her. As they reached the doorstep, he shifted his burden under one arm and tugged open the heavy oak door, which groaned as if protesting the coming desecration. The inside of the church was cool and so dark that it took a moment for Pickett’s eyes to adjust sufficiently to pick out the carved angels over the altar.
“They are lovely, are they not?” remarked Lady Fieldhurst, following his gaze upward. “According to Mr. Danvers, all the carving was done by local artisans.”
“They give me the creeps,” said Pickett, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Almost as if they know what I’m about to do, and they disapprove.”
“You are trying to see that justice is done. Surely they could not disapprove of that.”
Lady Fieldhurst, who along with the Hollingshead family had attended a strained and solemn service conducted by Mr. Meriwether on the Sunday following the vicar’s death, was sufficiently familiar with the church to locate the vestry, where a plain wooden casket rested on a heavy deal table. A handful of wilting wildflowers lay on top, a
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