the paperback I was halfway through from my suitcase and whiled away a couple of hours until Ben rescued me with the announcement that he and I were to dine in solitary state in what had once been designated the morning room, but was now another storage area for furniture that Sir Giles had grouped together in vague hope of finding a dealer willing to cart it away. Unfortunately, his lordship had told Ben, in recent years there hadn’t been much of a market for Victorian ugly, and anything good had already been sold off. Or, I thought, plunging my fork into a delicious morsel of Lobster Thermidor, spirited away by daughter Celia. At least the overcrowding of the hall and drawing room was now explained. I pictured Sir Giles ordering the old handyman, now working for Miss Belfrey at Witch Haven (what was his name? Forester?), to heave the pieces of furniture into position for viewing, and when they didn’t sell, closing his eyes to their presence and sinking ever further into the Slough of Despond.
From the window I saw Lord Belfrey crossing the overgrown lawn with Alice Jones of the billowy hair on his left and Molly Duggan sadly prim on his right. I wondered while reveling in a meringue glace how Mrs. Malloy and Livonia were currently occupied. As it happened, I met them both in the hallway outside my bedroom after leaving Ben to prepare a late night five-course snack for Georges. I mentioned that I planned on going to church in the morning for Sunday service and asked if they had heard what time it would be.
“Nine o’clock,” responded Livonia promptly, adding with flushed cheeks that she had also decided to go.
“And you can count me in, Mrs. H. Never let it be said I don’t do me Christian duty come rain or shine, except of course when having a lie-in with a book or giving meself a manicure.” Mrs. Malloy went on to reflect on what she would wear, bemoaning that she had only the one hat with her and it was dented from the lamp shade. “That Mrs. Foot and her pranks! Admitted to me as how she dropped it over the banisters for a laugh. A cackle’s more like, the sad old crone. Still, I won’t go holding a bit of silliness against her should I get to be lady of Mucklesfeld. Live and let live is the way I see it. And to send that trio packing isn’t in me. Shame I can’t see that sort of compassion from the others,” she heaved a pained sigh, “especially that Judy Nunn as seems to think she’s the only body in the world as can get a job done right. Now, our Wanda might have been different if she hadn’t left us.”
Absence can be such a virtue! The three of us arranged to meet in the hall at eight thirty the next morning and I got ready for bed. It had been a long day. The ache of returning Thumper to his rightful owners came back in full force. I lay thinking of his dear furry face and form before drifting into sleep. The comfort of our few hours together stole over me, followed sharply by another memory-the sensation of being covertly watched while I stood by the ravine waiting for him to return from his foraging. Sometime later, I was vaguely aware of Ben creeping through the bedroom into his cubbyhole, and something in my muddled, half-submerged state shifted the ordinary into stealth, causing the echo of those padding footsteps to linger unpleasantly in my ears until sleep grabbed me back down into murkily disjointed dreams.
Suddenly I woke to lingering horror. In the nightmare the watcher in the woods had been Celia Belfrey, her features distorted into the ugliness of epitomized evil. Suzanne’s face was a beautiful, alluring version of mine. Witless creature to have put herself in the path of such hatred, but I should have screamed out a warning. Even a silent one would have shown willing. The suffocating powerlessness of dreams was a poor excuse. My chest hurt from the pounding it had taken, and slow, concentrated breathing was required before I felt steady enough to sit up and face the day.
A glance at my watch showed five minutes to eight, and a peek into the cubbyhole revealed that Ben was already up and undoubtedly occupied in toiling for Georges while very possibly also providing breakfast for every other hungry mouth. I had to rush in order to be downstairs to meet Mrs. Malloy and Livonia in the hall at the appointed time. Both had the well-ordered look of women who make Sunday church attendance a priority instead of shaking off bad dreams. Mrs. Malloy wore the hat on which the lamp shade had landed and a black satin suit with rhinestone buttons. Livonia was in a navy linen dress with a sweetly prim white collar. Very pretty she looked, with not a crease to be seen. My eucalyptus green skirt and blouse were riddled with them, and I regretted not wearing a cardigan even though the morning was delightful warm, with only fluffy lamb-shaped clouds appliqued on the blue gauze sky.
Not much was said on the brief walk to the church. Livonia and Mrs. Malloy appeared lost in their thoughts, while I was still struggling to get the wheels churning. Mercifully, I had not made us late. We arrived at the church with five minutes to spare. Lingering in the entryway with its bulletin board and wooden racks of pamphlets, we were greeted by flapping hand gestures from a middle-aged man with a mechanically propelled walk, a port wine complexion, and miraculously black hair.
“Welcome! Welcome! Ever so lovely to have visitors at St. Mary’s in the Dell. Will you all be taking communion?” This question was asked in the manner of a maitre d’ suggesting it would have been the teensy- weensiest bit helpful if we’d phoned ahead for reservations.
“Would it be inconvenient?” Livonia asked, while edging toward the archway leading into the dimness of the nave. My suspicion that she had caught a glimpse of Dr. Tommy Rowley was confirmed by the sight of his eagerly turned profile from the back pew.
“Not at all,” the man glanced flurriedly at his watch before flapping us forward. “Our vicar, Mr. Spendlow, who will be starting in a ticky-poo, will be delighted for you to come to the altar.”
“We’re not vestal virgins if that’s what you’re hoping.” Mrs. Malloy sounded sourer than may have been intended. The temperature dropped precipitously and I hastened to make clear we were the jocular sort.
“She was a nun in a former life and it wasn’t for her.”
“Oh, I see!” Clearly he didn’t. Beckoning Livonia, who had been inching toward Dr. Tommy’s pew, into our orbit, he bustled us up the aisle close to the front. “Will this suit? Good, good! Enjoy!” He faded into the wash of pale light seeping in through the stained-glass windows as we seated ourselves, receiving nods from two women already ensconced to our right. Surreptitious glances sideways and over my shoulder revealed a respectable attendance. Admittedly St. Mary’s in the Dell was tiny, but in this day and age Mr. Spendlow (judging from the clerical collar) now emerging from a side door to ascend the pulpit had reason for confidence that God could still draw a nice crowd. Livonia sat holding a hymnal close as if it were a dear, familiar hand. Mrs. Malloy whispered to me that this was nice, although a bit poky compared to St. Anselm’s.
“Wonder if the ancestral Belfreys is buried under the floor.”
I compressed my lips in prayerful contemplation.
“Have to be a terrible squash, bunk bed style.” Her whisper rose.
Livonia’s chin was tilted in hopeful stillness.
The air was a distilled blend of mildew and beeswax, with a hint of incense wafting down through the centuries. Mrs. Malloy adjusted the hat before reaching down for a kneeler, which she proceeded to tuck behind her back.
“Might as well make meself comfy.”
Our two pew companions had their stares cut short when Mr. Spendlow started his opening remarks. He was a man his early thirties with a-to me-surprising ponytail and stubble beard. Ever ready to make assumptions, I anticipated a hip approach to the service in general and the sermon in particular, but to my relief all proceeded along traditional lines. The choir sang in and out of key to the accompaniment of some invisible personage thumping away on an organ, a minimum of bobbing up and down was required, and the sermon was a frank talk, delivered in a sensible voice, on the requirement for positive action, extending beyond our nearest circle into the larger community.
“I am speaking, my dear friends,” hands grasping the front of the pulpit he leaned forward in an earnest search of faces, “of those occasions when we allow ourselves to stand idly by-telling ourselves that speaking up… reaching out with words of compassionate concern to those we sense are in trouble… would be unwarranted interference. But it is my belief that it is our sins of omission that…”
A snore to my left from Mrs. Malloy, who had succeeded all too well in making herself comfy.
“… that may come back to haunt us… with those unutterably sad words, if only. If only, I had asked what I could do to help. If only, I had uttered those words of warning…”
“Shush!” Mrs. Malloy uttered the word with sleepy ferocity.
I had to make matters worse by elbowing her in the ribs.
“Yapping on in church when people are trying to get a bit of peace!”
“He’s supposed to talk,” I whispered. “He’s giving the sermon.”
“That’s his excuse! Give a man a soapbox and he won’t get off till somebody starts throwing rotten tomatoes.”
Livonia was sinking down in her seat; our pew companions had converted their stares into glares. But Mr.
