A Murder at Rosamund's Gate - By Susanna Calkins Page 0,92

I damn well wanted to.” Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he added, “We’ll resume this conversation when this is all over. Right now, I’ve some business to take care of that can’t be put off.”

“What? In London?” she gasped, still reeling.

“Yes. I may join the family later, if I can.” He gave a short laugh.

Lucy stared at him. Was he daft? He might not survive London, given the death and certain misery surrounding its inhabitants.

“Father is calling. You must go. For now, Lucy, take care, and Godspeed.”

WARWICKSHIRE

March 1666

20

Taking a break from packing, Lucy wandered out to her favorite stone bench at the Hargraves’ home in Warwickshire. It had been a long ten months since those terrible days in May, when the family had fled the city. Tomorrow, they would finally be journeying home, having had word that the plague had let up in London. To what they’d be returning, no one dared to guess.

The household had grown smaller—just herself, the master, Cook, John, and little Annie, who had become like her own true sister. Lucas, of course, had first stayed in London to minister to the sick and sinful, then spent some time in Oxford, where he had begun his theological studies. Adam had never come to the family home at all. He had chosen to remain in the city, for reasons only he and his father seemed to know.

She flushed now to think of his kiss and, even worse, her own foolishness. She forced herself to think instead of Sarah, who had stayed through the winter but then returned to her aunt in Shropshire. The magistrate had let his daughter leave, of course, but was puzzled by her request. Only yesterday, they had found out what Sarah had intended.

Lucy pulled Sarah’s letter from her pocket and smoothed it out. As was common, letters got passed around the family members and the household. No one noticed that several had ended up in her hands.

Dearest family,

I am most thankful to hear that you are well and in good spirits. Although I still miss dear Mother every day, I find that I am refreshed in my spirit, having become a handmaiden of the Lord. Ever since I found the light and joined the Friends (should you pass this letter to Lucas, our godly fellow, pray do not let him call me a Quacker! Although I will answer to Quaker), I have found my calling. It was God’s will, Father, that you sent me to Shropshire. I am preparing now to journey to Jamaica and Barbados with my dear aunt! Perhaps, after that, we will journey to Boston, and trumpet the Lord’s word there. I shall not come to London for a while, so that, Father, you will not feel you must send me to Newgate, under that terrible Conventicle Act. I hope, though, that we are together in spirit.

Yours in Christ,

Sarah

Lucy had seen the magistrate’s face when he first read this letter. Although he crumpled it in his hand, he had smiled wryly. “Well, that gypsy told Sarah she was going to travel, eh, Lucy? And that I wouldn’t like it? Maybe there’s something to all that chicanery after all.”

Beneath Sarah’s letter, Lucy had also hidden three letters from Adam. They were not addressed to her, of course, but rather to the whole family.

“Why would he write to me?” she softly berated herself. She stared down at the letters, trying to decide if she wanted to read them again. The papers were practically falling apart, she’d held them so often.

She sighed. Thinking about Adam felt disrespectful to the magistrate. He’d hardly appreciate his son cavorting with one of his servants, Lucy thought—although, over the last few months, Master Hargrave had seemed to welcome her as a daughter. When he had first thanked her for saving his life, in his grave and somber way, Lucy had felt embarrassed for them both, but a great tenderness had surfaced between them.

When the magistrate discovered her reading the same penny chapbooks they’d brought from London, he’d handed her a leather-bound copy of Shakespeare’s comedies.

“No more of that twaddle,” he had said, and after she was done, she found Jonson, Marlowe, and the like left for her.

The magistrate seemed to seek her out, too, asking her opinion on different matters and listening closely to her responses. Once he read her a passage from a bit of legislation that he was putting forth to Parliament, and she could only shake her head. “I