A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,73
to him, nothing with which she could entice or threaten him. Nothing that would induce him either to marriage or to murder.”
“She was not a little twit!” Lucy said hotly.
Ignoring her, Adam said, “He is a man whose passions run deep, yet he is a man so self-interested that he will only pursue a woman until he has grown tired of her. As I suspect he did with our Bessie, and with my mother, another good-hearted but silly soul. It’s good that you are so little likely to tempt a man like him, or you, no doubt, would be his next prey.”
Stung by that last remark, and by what he said about Bessie, Lucy drew herself up in barely contained fury. “Bessie and me, maybe we’re just simple girls. Bessie was just a bit dumb, getting herself mixed up with a member of the gentry who would cast her off. Perhaps that’s what men of your kind do to a poor lass who has naught to offer but love.” Her voice became shrill. “We’ve got feelings! And Del Gado said he wanted to paint me, he said so! So I guess he sees something in me, even if I am not tempting to some!” Stifling a sob, she added, “If there is nothing else, sir, I am off to bed.”
Adam looked taken aback. “Lucy, I want to help, but I can only do what I can.”
Her fury blazed again, true and full. “I do believe, sir,” Lucy began hotly, “that you say you love the law and have studied all these wonderful books”—she waved her arm around the study—“and yet I do not think you can get beyond those words to see that the heart and soul, nay, the very life, of a good man are at stake.” She wiped away a tear. “William may not be the best man, but he is a good man, and honest and true, and he deserves that the law regard him as such. And Bessie, whatever you think of her, was a good and true lass, too, who deserves the same justice as the very highest of high. Our lot in life may be to serve the likes of you, but we deserve more, sir. We deserve more!”
Her voice having broken at the last, she fled, not daring to see the effect of her words. Running up the steps to her little room at the top of her house, she moaned, her face in her hands.
“What did I just say?” She groaned. She did not think Adam would have her discharged, but would he refuse to help William now? She cursed her heedless tongue and spent a restless night hearing her words repeated in her mind, until the sun bid her to her Sunday morning chores.
* * *
As the family was leaving the church the next morning, Lucy edged up to Adam, her cheeks flushed. The words she had said—nay, shouted—yesterday still echoed in her ears, but she had to know how her brother was doing. “I was wondering, sir, how is my brother? I forgot to ask when we,” Lucy stammered, “when we spoke yesterday.”
“As well as can be expected, Lucy,” he said, his tone cool. Clearly, he did not want to continue their conversation.
“I am seeing him today—”
“Lucy! Alone? That’s hardly wise!”
“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “Lucas is going to accompany me.”
“I see. Well, take care. You can let him know that I shall, of course, come with him on Tuesday morning.”
And then be done with him, and by extension be done with her as well, Adam’s tone seemed to imply. Their growing friendship had been checked; no doubt, the right and proper thing to do. An unexpected wave of sadness washed over her as she watched him leave the churchyard.
Within a few moments, Lucy found herself alone, waiting for Lucas, as the other parishioners climbed into waiting carts or passed down the dusty paths toward town or their homes. Walking among the peaceful stones and crosses, Lucy read the names and epitaphs on the graves. MARY WORTHINGTON, BELOVED WIFE. ELIZABETH MOORE, DEAREST MOTHER.
Lucy wondered idly about their lives. She wondered if that would be her one day, someone’s wife and mother, buried after a life of love and happiness. Such a life would probably not be surrounded by books. Her husband was not too likely to read much, just the Bible or some dreary sermons. She would miss the magistrate’s household, she thought, and though it was like to be