A Heart Deceived (22 page)

At last an “aaahhh-mehnn” rolled off the bishop’s tongue, and before they sat, she sneaked a sideways glance at Roland. Between her vigil in Joe’s room and the irregular hours Roland had been keeping, she’d not seen him in several days—not since his drinking spree. His dark hair was slicked back above a white collar, the scent of pomade and shaving tonic strong and peppery. When he met her gaze, his eyes looked clear, and the frown he gave her implied his usual condemnation. He appeared normal, though it felt odd to think of her brother as that.

Tension drained from her shoulders, and she sank onto the pew.

“Oh!” Pricks of pain dotted her backside, and she shot up, catching herself before regaining a complete stand. She pressed her lips tight to keep from drawing more attention than she’d already gained. Eyes burned into her back and her sides, and several heads turned from the pews in front. From his advantage in the lectern, the bishop glared down at her as if she’d recited the Lord’s Prayer backward.

Reaching behind, she cleared the bench, shoving aside sharp bits of metal, then sat as far as possible on the pew’s edge. As Fothergill resumed the Sunday reading, she palmed one of the objects, then opened her hand in her lap.

Beveled shaft, square head, sharp point … a horseshoe nail. Her brow crumpled in confusion. Why would there be a handful of those on her seat?

Roland leaned close to her, his breath hot in her ear.

“For want of a nail, the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the battle was lost.” His foot tapped in rhythm with the singsong verse. “We’ve lost, we’ve lost, we’ve lost.”

Miri stiffened and pulled away, all too aware that Roland’s antics had been noticed this time. Whispers passed around the sanctuary like an unholy wind. For the first time ever, she wished the bishop would drone a little louder.

Perched like a stone about to tumble off a cliff, she teetered in the thin place between the temptation to run out like a madwoman or wait to see what else her brother might do. The bench’s edge cut into her bottom without mercy. Next to her, Roland’s fingers tapped out a crazed rhythm on his knee. Minutes passed, or maybe hours, though it felt like days. This had to be the longest sermon she’d ever suffered through.

When summoned to stand for the benediction, she wavered on her feet. Thousands of needles prickled from her thighs down, sharper than the horseshoe nails. She wiggled one foot, then the other, trying to wake the sleeping flesh without losing balance—or looking as if she danced a jig.

The bishop had hardly finished voicing his “bless yous” and “keep yous” before Roland scooped up a stack of books at his side. He nudged her. “Go.”

She started to collect the nails, but he pressed into her.

“Go now, woman.”

Standing, she opened her mouth to argue but quickly shut her lips. The vacant stare that met hers shouted that Roland had already left. For once, she agreed wholeheartedly with him. The sooner he exited the sanctuary, the better.

She stepped aside, allowing him to pass, then regretted it as he crashed into Squire Gullaby.

Roland’s books went tumbling. So did the squire. Admittedly the squat man didn’t have far to meet the floor, but he landed with a rather harsh thud.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Roland’s tone accused more thoroughly than his words.

Onlookers, Miri included, sucked in a breath.

The squire’s brows drew together, forming a bristly thunderbolt on his forehead. Roland was too busy to notice as he plucked his books from the floor, but Miri knew a storm would soon break.

When Roland reached to grab a book from the squire’s lap, Gullaby beat his hand away—a loud, resounding slap. The kind that would leave red fingerprints across the back of her brother’s hand for the next hour.

Roland recoiled, hugging the volumes he’d already collected. Miri stared, frozen in place at the pew box’s door, unable to think of how to stop the horrid drama from escalating.

With a grunt, Mr. Gullaby planted himself upright, legs wide as if he’d not be toppled again by surprise. The glower he directed at Roland would have made a sane man think twice.

Roland merely sniffed. “You, sir, should watch where you’re going. Now, give me back my book.”

“You were the one who barreled into me!” The squire’s nose, red during the best of times, deepened to the hue of a ripe tomato. “Book indeed. I ought to book you right in the head, that’s what. Why … I ought to have you locked up, crazy fool.”

“Need I remind everyone that we are in the house of God?” Bishop Fothergill closed in, and as he bent to retrieve the book in question, Miri’s heart stopped.

She knew that leather cover.

As it flopped open to the first page, a wave of recognition rippled across Fothergill’s face as well. “What the devil are you doing with Vicar Eldon’s Bible?”

Roland squared his shoulders. “For want of a nail—”

“Please!” Miri stepped between the huddle of men. If Roland continued at this rate, he’d be rooming at Bethlem Hospital by teatime.

She forced a smile. “As you’ve said, Bishop, this is God’s house. I am sure this is but a misunderstanding. Vicar Eldon left behind many things, and my brother has had the good will to safeguard each possession until his return. This is but one more to be stored safely away. If you don’t mind?” She held out her hand.

Fothergill frowned but placed the Bible on her outstretched palm. She wrapped her fingers around it and turned to Roland. “Here. I am sure you will see to this book with care. And an apology would be in order as well, I think.”

She waited, wide-eyed, every bit of her willing Roland to please, please, please beg the squire’s forgiveness. Behind her, Gullaby cleared his throat. The bishop’s surplice swished as he shifted his weight. Those parishioners yet watching held their breath.

Roland’s jaw flexed once. Twice.

But he said nothing.

Without looking back, Miri was sure the squire’s entire face was now red. Had she pushed everyone beyond the bursting point?

Roland’s chest expanded, and after an enormous exhale, he said, “Pardon me, Mr. Gullaby.”

Miri’s heart didn’t start, however, until her brother walked the length of the aisle and disappeared out the door. She turned to the men, who both wore scowls, one holy and one not, and discovered she’d been right. Mr. Gullaby’s face would easily anger a bull.

“Do forgive my brother, gentlemen. He’s not been well.”

The squire exchanged a look with the bishop, then tugged down his waistcoat and straightened wrinkles from his breeches. At last he focused on her. “Your brother treads in dangerous waters, Miss Brayden. Dangerous and deep. See if you can talk some sense into the man.”

Miri dipped a curtsey. She might more easily talk a chicken into giving milk.

As Miri fled down the aisle, Ethan stepped from the harbor of an alcove. He suspected she’d not been in any real danger, not in the full sight of God and man. Nevertheless, he’d kept watch over the disturbing scene. Her brother really should have waited until after morning prayers to uncork his brandy—or whatever his choice of poison was. It didn’t take a learned man to know drunken outbursts ought be saved for a different time and place.

A shaft of sunlight shone through the beams of an overhead window, casting the shadow of a cross at Ethan’s feet. A wry smile twitched his lips. Listen to him—denigrating Roland for drinking on the Sabbath when he’d committed oh-so-much-worse sins no matter the day. He lifted his face to the bright rays.
Forgive me, Lord.

Then, lengthening his stride, he caught up to Miri as she reached the door. “Allow me.”

She passed through with a thank-you and a strained smile—one barely more than a slight upturn at the edges of her mouth.

“May I walk with you?” Before she could answer, he fell into step at her side.

She slanted him a glance. “It appears that you are, sir.”

“Sir?” He lifted one brow and tilted his head, an expression he’d mastered as a young boy to garner sweets from the cook. “I thought we’d gotten beyond that by now.”

Her gentle “humph” neither chastised nor encouraged—so he muddled on. “About what happened just now, in the sanctuary, I mean—do you wish to speak of it?”

A warm pink stole over her cheeks. “There is nothing to say.”

“But Roland clearly was—”

“I can have no good word on the matter at the moment.” She averted her face and spoke to the wind. “Let us change the subject.”

“No.”

Her step faltered, and she snapped her face back to his, the dimple in her chin deepened by her frown. “Let it go, please.”

He’d recant if it would remove the hurt in her eyes, but not even he could erase that much pain. “I can’t let it go. I see how your brother treats you, and yet your kindness toward him is nothing short of remarkable. Why do you protect him so? Is that not God’s job?”

“Do not think to preach to me! You have no idea—”

“But I do. I know exactly the kind of man he is.”

Her eyes widened, and he was hard pressed to know if the fire glinting in her gaze was from the sunlight or something deeper. “Don’t fret, Miri. I told you your secrets are safe with me. Come, come, where is your faith and hope?”

“In whom do you wish it to be? God or you?”

He smirked. “I would not presume so much. And neither would you if you knew of my past, but we are not speaking of me. We were discussing faith and hope. Do you not think God capable of caring for Roland beyond that which you are able?”

“I don’t argue that God
can
redeem Roland from his … situation.” She stopped and turned to him so quickly, her skirt swirled with a swish. “The question is
will
He?”

She gazed at him as if his reply had the authority to raise the dead. The desperation in her voice, the strain of the muscles in her neck, why … he might almost believe she’d never voiced this question to anyone before—not even to God.

“Seems to me that if you knew the answer, if you could see and know the every movement of God, then I daresay you would have no need of faith. Perhaps the real question is …” He paused, knowing that what he was about to ask might very well broadside her with as much force as when Newton had asked him. “Do you trust Him? Do you trust in God alone?”

For a fair amount of time, she nibbled her lower lip, lost somewhere deep in thought. Either she bit too hard, or the action dislodged raw bits of undigested truth that didn’t taste so good, for she winced.

Finally, she sighed. “To be honest, it’s hard to trust in someone I can’t see or touch, while a brother I love very much is coming undone before my eyes. Sometimes faith and hope are only words to me. Why cannot God simply come down here and be real? Something tangible. Flesh and blood and—”

“He did.”

A simple rebuttal, really, but her lips parted at the revelation. And he knew exactly how she felt. How many times had Reverend Newton pulled the same one-two truth punch on him?

“I guess … I never … thought of it that way before.”

“So the question remains. Do you trust Him?”

The fierce angle of her jaw softened. “I suspect that not only Roland’s life depends upon my answer, but mine as well.”

“And your answer is?”

She turned to resume their walk to the rectory.

His boots crunched on the gravel beside her patting slippers. Opposite sounds, but compatible in a soothing way, though he doubted she noticed. She was silent all the way to the front stoop of the rectory, where he could no longer follow. That he’d breached etiquette to travel this far to the main entrance could be construed as subordination to prying eyes. Hopefully there weren’t any.

She gained the first step, so preoccupied that she probably would have been halfway to her chamber before noticing she’d left him behind.

“Miri?”

Her mouth pursed into a small
O
as she faced him. “My apologies. I fear I am not the best of company today. And … well, you’ve given me much to consider.”

He grinned, happy to, for once, be on the thought-giving end instead of the receiving. “I don’t claim to be a scholar, but this much is true. God loves your scoundrel of a brother infinitely more than you do. And you, Miri, are more precious to Him than life itself—”

Just as you are becoming to me.
He swallowed back the words, but that did not stop the slow burn working its way up from his belly.

“Would that I had a faith like yours.” She leaned toward him as if by nearness alone she could grasp belief from his pocket.

“Ask.”

“But—”

He laid a finger on her lips. “Just ask. It’s that simple—and that hard. Sometimes faith is a moment-by-moment thing.”

The feel of her soft mouth beneath his fingertips scorched hot as a coal, and he jerked his hand away.

She frowned. “Is that a promise or a warning?”

“Yes.” He turned and crunched down the walkway alone. Whether she knew it or not, she could lob her own powerful questions.

24

“Blast it!”

Nigel stubbed his toe for the third time on a jutting bit of moss-camouflaged limestone. His worn boot provided precious little protection where the sharp edge had hit painfully close to his ingrown toenail. One more run-in with a rock, and he’d rethink this stealthy approach into Deverell Downs.