“Good morning, my lord.” Aunt Margaret smiled back at him.
He stepped out into the cool morning air and allowed them to precede him down the steps.
They were on their way to St. Swithin’s Church on the Paragon in the Wolcot area of Bath, where they worshiped every Sunday morning. It was a lovely old church that Amy had attended with her mother and Aunt Margaret since she was a small child.
When her mother was alive, her parents had maintained an amicable relationship but lived their lives separately. Papa and her brother, Michael, had resided in London, and Amy and her mother had lived in Bath with Aunt Margaret.
Mother had hated the noise and smell of London, whereas Papa loved the hustle and bustle of the city. Since there were two children of the marriage, there had to have been a time when they lived together, but for as long as Amy could remember, they’d had separate residences. She’d never questioned the arrangement, because it hadn’t seemed odd to her at the time. Not until she became a woman had she wondered about it.
The church was slowly filling up, and greetings and chatter among the congregants almost—but not quite—blocked out Mrs. Edith Newton’s organ playing. The poor dear was almost blind and hit the wrong notes on a regular basis.
They settled into their seats, and Amy looked around and smiled. As much as she loved writing about murder and mayhem, she also loved Sunday mornings, when her heart was at peace.
The sunlight streaming through the windows cast an ethereal glow over the congregation. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Move over.”
Amy’s eyes snapped open to see Eloise Spencer squeezing into the pew alongside her, pushing with her considerable hips to get Amy to make room.
“Good morning to you too, Eloise.” Amy slid over and grinned at her companion, who always looked as if she had just finished a race. Of course, she usually arrived at places having raced there. Between her peculiarity and Amy’s unconventionality, they made an excellent pair and had been close friends for ages.
Amy’s father considered Eloise a “hoyden.” Which was more than enough to recommend her to Amy.
“Have you started the new book yet?” Eloise attempted to rearrange her somewhat disheveled outfit.
Amy reached out and tucked a loose curl behind Eloise’s ear. “For the book club? The Sign of the Four?”
“Yes. I am finding it quite intriguing.”
Eloise, William, and Amy belonged to the Mystery Book Club of Bath, which held meetings every Thursday evening at the Atkinson & Tucker bookstore. They would read a book, then discuss it for a week or two, and then move on to another one.
“Actually, I’ve been working on my own book and haven’t started The Sign of the Four yet. I’ve run into some plotting problems that have me twisted in knots. But I understand The Sign of the Four is quite good.”
“Yes.” Eloise nodded. “I wonder when we will read another one of yours?”
Whenever the club decided to read one of E. D. Burton’s books, Amy had a difficult time not blurting out that she was the author. When she received her first contract from her publisher, Papa had insisted she use a pen name so no one would know his delicate, gently reared young daughter felt comfortable writing about bloody body parts and grisly murders.
“Soon, I hope. There are still two more they haven’t selected yet.”
In the six years she’d been publishing, Amy had written five books, the one sitting on her desk at home being the sixth. She had another month to meet the deadline for that one.
Mr. Palmer, the pastor at St. Swithin’s, walked up the center aisle to the front of the church and turned to address the congregation. “Good morning, fellow worshipers. I am happy you have joined us, and I ask that you all stand and greet each other before our service begins.”
The man was friendly and had a cheerful demeanor, unlike the last pastor they’d had. The previous reverend had been a sour man, all fire and brimstone. Amy had apologized to God for being happy when Mr. Benson was moved to another church and they got Mr. Palmer in his place.
The pastor stepped down and walked around, shaking hands, listening to sad tales, and pinching the cheeks of chubby babies. Since Amy had greeted everyone as they arrived, she remained in her seat and flipped through her Bible, looking for the verses on which this week’s sermon was based.
The church attendees settled down and gave their attention to Pastor Palmer. As usual, the sermon was uplifting, the songs off-key, and the company of friends alongside her comforting.
After leaving the line of congregants wishing the pastor a good day at the end of the service, Amy linked her arm through her friend’s and began to walk. “Eloise, please join us for luncheon.” She looked up at the Misses O’Neill, who both waved and then walked in their direction.
“I would like that,” Eloise said. “Is Wethington joining us as well?”
“Yes, I assume so. I didn’t ask him specifically, but he generally does.” Amy paused for a moment, regarding Eloise’s smug smile, and then said, “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no particular reason. Just curious.”
Before Amy could question her friend further, the two O’Neill sisters stopped in front of them. “Good morning, Lady Amy, Miss Spencer.”
William and Aunt Margaret were involved in a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Hewitt, so all the Misses O’Neill’s nosy questions would be directed to Amy and Eloise this morning.
“Good morning, ladies. It’s a lovely day, is it not?” Maybe Amy could keep the conversation light and ward off the usual inquisition to which the women were known to subject people.
Miss Gertrude and Miss Penelope O’Neill were sisters who for some bizarre reason pretended to be twins, even though they looked nothing alike and were separated by almost a foot in height. Miss Penelope was short, round, and dark haired,
