A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,15

carefully, so as not to attract anyone’s attention. Stifling a sigh, Lucy tried to focus on the minister’s words. Master Hargrave would question them on the walk home. He saw it as his godly duty, as head of the household, to make sure they were properly instructed in the faith.

Today, the reverend was speaking on the weakness of woman, one of his favorite topics. In his great voice, he pronounced, “Woman is a weak creature, not endued with the like strength and constancy of mind as men. They are prone to all manner of weak affections and dispositions of mind, that—”

Lucy had heard this opinion before. She thought of Avery, and other men harmed by war and illness who, if they were lucky, were housed by family or a kind neighbor. Who were the truly afflicted among them?

Her woolgathering was interrupted when the door at the back of St. Peter’s banged open, letting in a refreshing stream of chill air. Heads swung around, and murmurs arose from the pews.

Bessie nudged her, and Lucy’s mouth fell open. A woman, naked but for a bit of sackcloth covering her female parts, was striding down the center aisle. Her skin was rubbed dark with ashes, and her eyes were intent on the reverend at the pulpit.

Lucas looked stunned and angry. “How dare she?” Lucy heard him say to Sarah.

The congregation grew silent, watchful. Old men, slumping in their pews, sat up. Mothers covered their children’s eyes. A man’s low whistle carried in the silence, only to be hushed, probably by his missus. The reverend scowled.

Standing before the pulpit, the woman raised her hands heavenward. She laughed, but Lucy shivered at the sound. “Who amongst thee is not a sinner?” the woman hissed.

Lucy was struck by the woman’s unfamiliar form of address. Thee. The sackcloth and ashes. A Quakeress! One of that wretched sort who were always getting themselves dragged off by the magistrate’s men and hauled away in carts. Pitiful creatures really, some not so much older than herself. The strangeness of their faith made them outsiders, outcasts from the community that had raised them.

“I am the trumpet of the Lord! I am his handmaiden!” The Quakeress cried, her sackcloth slipping precariously down one shoulder. “Heed my words! His judgment is coming upon thee, all thee who are sinners, thee who are false pretenders! A great plague upon thee all!”

Aghast and captivated by the spectacle, no one moved. The reverend, whose face had been growing a more mottled purple with each passing moment, finally regained his senses. “Harlot!” he shouted, shaking his finger at her. “How dare you interrupt this holy service of the Church of England!”

The crowd began to mutter in the pews. “Abomination!” Lucy heard someone hiss.

“Quackers!” someone else called.

The minister jerked his head at two men seated nearby. Jumping up, they each grabbed the woman under an arm and hauled her from the church, her feet dragging against the stone floor. Lucy blushed to see the woman’s sackcloth ride farther up her legs. The woman’s screams were cut off as the great oak door slammed shut.

The buzz that filled the pews died down with a single glare from the minister. Lucy wondered what would happen to the woman. Hauled off to jail, she supposed, probably to Newgate.

Finally, the minister offered the closing prayer, and the congregation began to move out of the dim church. The mist had cleared, and the day was bright but chilly. Blinking, Lucy was pulled up short by the sounds of a woman wailing and bursts of raucous laughter. She turned to see several boys casting rotten tomatoes at a hunched gray figure.

Shocked, Lucy saw that the Quakeress had been tied to makeshift stocks, even in this freezing cold. As Lucy watched, a rotten egg hit the woman square on her forehead, so that egg and shell dripped into her mouth. Her face was flushed and bleeding. Wrinkling their noses from the stench, some of the crowd began to move away from the spectacle.

“What in the name of heaven?” Adam had pushed his way through the crowd. His face creased. “Who strung this woman up?”

Some of the boys shifted their feet. A tall, skinny man dressed in tattered clothes stepped forward. He looked wiry and mean, like someone accustomed to a fight. “What’s it to you?” he sneered, kicking a small rock toward where Adam stood. The crowd that had begun to disperse began to sidle back, hoping for a bit of fisticuffs, some unexpected revelry