Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

Angelika walked through the church with both arms across her stomach in a tight self-hug. Victor’s voice kept her company, albeit in her imagination.

Walking down the aisle at long last, eh, Jelly?

Look out. The bearded man in the sky will throw a lightning bolt at you.

Those stained-glass panels look new, don’t they? Lambskin upholstery on the pews. What do you think those cost? Father Porter is no better than a common grifting thief.

I will bet a thousand pounds he is wearing a jeweled ring the size of a quail’s egg.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed and was not answered, so she stopped when she reached the fourth-row pew. On this left-hand side was where she once sat with her parents. She found she could not walk another step without sitting down in her old place.

Every Sunday morning had felt like an eternity in this seat, and she’d winced through every moment, hyperaware of Victor’s incredulous expression and barely concealed scoffing at some of the priest’s claims. It was now clear that she had wasted that time.

“I miss you, Mama, Papa,” she said to the empty seats beside her. “I should have known that sitting with you regularly was my privilege.” She whispered to herself now, “Typical Angelika. You’ve got to start noticing moments with other people, because they do not last forever.”

“Miss . . . Annnnnn . . . gelika . . . Fran . . . ken . . . stein,” an elderly man said, scaring her silly.

She tried not to gape, but Father Porter looked like he’d been buried six feet under since she saw him last. He was nothing but bone and blue-veined skin, and cloaked in robes fit for royalty. How he had the strength to bear that thick gold rope around his neck was anybody’s guess.

She heard herself ask: “How old are you?”

“The good Lord has given me my ninetieth birthday,” Father Porter replied.

“NINETY?” Her horror echoed around them like ninety-inety-inety-inety. She hurriedly got to her feet. “What I mean to say is, congratulations, and nice to see you again.”

He bore that same shrewd smile she remembered. “You have not changed one bit.”

“Thank you. I am here on business, to arrange wedding services.”

He blinked. “Congratulations are due in return, then.”

“For my brother, Victor.”

“Ah. Victor. The young man who told me I was never welcome to call upon him again. The young man who I hear such strange, unnatural things about.” Father Porter’s stare was difficult not to squirm beneath. He finished coolly, “I would ask you to speak to an aide. But we are fully booked.”

“This is a special request. Victor has a deep attachment to our family chapel. We wish for the service to take place there. If you could make one of your more—ah—nimble associates available, we will pay handsomely for the convenience. It is a fair hike, all uphill.”

Serene, he replied, “There is only myself, my child.”

“Oh. What about in neighboring parishes? Could a colleague be arranged?” She was beginning to feel panicked. Could he ride a mule? “Whatever will we do?”

“A donation may help bygones be bygones.” Father Porter’s rheumy eyes had a new gleam. “He may marry here, should that donation be sufficient. I will ensure he can pick his date, depending on the size of the affair.”

He folded his hands on his midsection. As imaginary Victor had predicted, Father Porter wore a ruby that could have fit in a nutcracker. It was a stunning stone, but the memory of children swarming in the dirt for coins was too fresh to admire it.

Angelika forced a pleasant smile. “The ceremony we have in mind will be five guests and will probably take five minutes. But we really are set on him marrying at home.”

“You have avoided this place a long time. Come.” Father Porter was apparently tired out by simply standing there, and he gestured for her to follow.

They took a door to the left, then walked to a vestry office. It was one short hallway, but by the time he took his seat at his desk, Angelika was sweating from witnessing his arduous journey. He appeared close to falling several times, and she had taken his arm out of necessity. She collapsed into the seat opposite his own, so thirsty she’d willingly drink from the vase of roses behind him.

He let her sit for a long time in silence before saying, “You think me quite ancient, don’t you, my child? I suppose you have not known anyone who has grown old. I still pray for your dear parents.”

She masked her flare of temper. “I confess I did not think you would still be working at your fine age.”

“I cannot retire.”

“Oh, is that against the rules?”

“I cannot retire,” he repeated with increased enunciation, making it clear she had interrupted, “until my replacement is sent.”

“He’d jolly well better hurry up,” Angelika said, then sank two inches in her seat when his lips thinned. “I’m sorry.”

“Every thought comes out of your mouth. You really have not changed.” Fingers creaking into a steeple below his chin, he stared at her. “You do not visit your parents’ graves.”

“We pay to have them maintained.”

“It is not the same thing.” He continued his staring.

She remembered how she’d strode toward the man in the forest with her eyes on his ring. Diplomacy, Angelika. Tread carefully.

She changed the subject. “I do not visit the village often. I was shocked to see how miserable it looks.”

“Poverty is a cycle that is hard to break.” He said this with utter sincerity as he sat on a small upholstered throne beneath a framed Botticelli. His hand lay flat on the desk, like the weight of the wine-red gem was too much.

His eyeline moved to a silver salver in front of her.

Angelika understood and took out her purse. She placed the shilling she had earlier negotiated onto it. Father Porter kept staring until she added a second shilling. Then a third. And a fourth.

He blinked and reanimated. “I have always said you possess a generous heart. I am surprised you are not married yet yourself, Miss Frankenstein.”

Thoughtlessly she replied, “I will be. Soon, I think.”

“And who is your intended?”

“You would not know him. He is from another town.”

“Sir William Black,” the father said, causing a chill to run down her spine. “A mysterious man, with a name that we cannot find in records. A man with no past, known by nobody, and rarely seen. Those who have seen him remark he is a fine-looking man; I pray a handsome face has not swayed your . . . generous heart.”

“How do you know that?” She answered her own question immediately. “Everyone knows everything in a small village.”

“I promised your dear papa that I would keep an eye on you.” And he did, for another agonizingly long minute. “Are you quite sure about this man? What is his standing in society? What is his fortune, his estate? Who are his parents, what is his annuity?”

Angelika puffed up. “These are all his own business. Not yours.”

His laugh cracked painfully. “The Frankenstein family is not for just any man to marry into, and I would venture that Victor has not done his due diligence. I should like to meet him, to assess his suitability. Why do you not attend Sunday services?”

“We have our chapel at home.”

“A chapel with no priest.” Father Porter now folded his hands in an ominous way. “I think we should pray together.”

“I would love to, after we sort out Victor’s wedding. He is marrying Elizabeth Lavenza, the firstborn daughter to Gregor and Isabella. Her mother hails from Majorca, Spain, although they have a country estate in England and Lizzie was raised here. They are dreadfully wealthy and not after Victor’s fortune. Her hobbies include writing and directing theater plays. I hope the entire village will enjoy the merry entertainment she will provide.”

She withheld that Lizzie’s plays were not always suitable for children. Gory violence, gory kissing, and almost always a ghost, or a disturbing creature visiting from the stars—but these were editable details.

“You are able to give me your sister-in-law’s pedigree, but not your own beau’s.”

Staring back was her only defense at this point.

“Victor marries here,” Father Porter said to the shillings, “or not at all. He’s a stubborn boy, but explain those two options to him as best you can. I will also require resumed weekly attendance at my services, and a long-overdue apology, and, naturally, an appropriate donation.”

Angelika showed her teeth. “May I ask what our donation could help achieve?”

He did not surprise her by how readily he answered. “Beneath the main altar is a deep crack, and it requires refurbishment. The opportunity should be taken to exchange it for white marble, instead of the present green, in keeping with the new frescoes. Should you be especially generous, our statue of Christ requires repainting. The artist is Italian, and his services are quite out of reach in our present budget.”

Marble, and a holiday for an Italian.

“And for the villagers? What would our donation afford them?”

He blinked like a toad. “I just explained that, my child.”

Angelika knew when she was beaten. “I will speak with Victor when I return home. Our next order of business is that we seem to have lost our dear old servant, Mary. We are afraid she wandered into town and succumbed to some foul play or accident.”

He was leaning forward to take the shillings. “I will pray for her.”

“Could you tell me if you have received anyone dead who was unaccounted for?”

The coins were put into the pocket of his robe. “Try the morgue. I hear your brother knows the way there.”

Rattled by his all-knowing tone, she stammered, “I did, and they told me that sometimes their dead start off here.”

This time, he didn’t blink. If he was selling bodies to the morgue to line his own pockets, he was a fine actor indeed.

“Families bury their loved ones here, as you are well aware. If the body is unclaimed, then yes, that would be usual that they be sent to the morgue.”

Angelika’s appointment was now ended, apparently, because Father Porter was rising to his feet. He said, “Perhaps you would like to visit with your parents.”

He went to a side door, struggled with the handle, and then they were stepping outside. Angelika was relieved to spot Percy, still tied, and the church assistant continuing to sweep. Slow and steady, they toddled to the graveyard.

“Here,” Father Porter said, and Angelika was reunited with her mother and father.

“Our money has not gone to good use,” she said critically, meaning the moss and unkept grass. Noticing these details kept the squeeze of emotion at bay; there was nothing as terrible as seeing a loved one’s name and dates carved into granite.

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.

FatherArlo 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.