Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(78)

He went to a side door, struggled with the handle, and then they were stepping outside. Angelika was relieved to spot Percy, still tied, and the church assistant continuing to sweep. Slow and steady, they toddled to the graveyard.

“Here,” Father Porter said, and Angelika was reunited with her mother and father.

“Our money has not gone to good use,” she said critically, meaning the moss and unkept grass. Noticing these details kept the squeeze of emotion at bay; there was nothing as terrible as seeing a loved one’s name and dates carved into granite.

She didn’t know what Father Porter wanted. Tears? Hands folded in prayer? “It is a fine spot,” she remarked. From where he was tied, Percy let out a piercing whinny.

Where would Father Porter select for himself? She began to wander along the row, trying to guess what was premium real estate. She came upon a length of lime-green baby grass on a new grave.

“I told you I have been waiting for my replacement,” Father Porter said behind her, “and sadly, here he lies.”

Angelika raised her eyes, with a doomed feeling smothering her, and read the name:

FATHER ARLO NORTHCOTT

“A terrible shame,” Father Porter said, and now Angelika was sweating from every pore. The date of death, it was—“Six weeks ago, but I’m sure you heard what happened.”

She whispered, “No, I didn’t hear. How did he die?”

“His carriage was overturned by highway robbers, as they often are these days.”

Angelika swallowed. “Did he die . . . quickly?”

“No. The drivers took a strange route, and the carriage was found in a ravine.” Father Porter appeared to be genuinely saddened. “He was brought here alive and fought very hard through the night. Sadly, he returned to our Lord too soon. You can see he was very young.”

Angelika did the sums. “He was thirty-three. That’s very young to be a priest, is it not?” She found herself arguing vigorously. “There must be some mistake. How could he possibly replace you, being so young himself? That seems absolutely out of the question. It’s ridiculous. I cannot think of anything more ludicrous than a thirty-three-year-old priest.” She wiped her temple.

Father Arlo Northcott?

“He was, by all accounts, devoted to his studies, and lived in uncommon devotion and abstinence since boyhood. He led an exceptional life, though far too short.” Father Porter sighed. “A great loss to the church, and this village. I should have liked to have met him, to talk, to understand his faith and his planned direction for the parish. Now we must wait for another replacement to be found.”

“And he is definitely right here.”

“I don’t quite understand your meaning,” Father Porter said, his tone sharper—perhaps defensive. “Do you see a grave before you? I conducted the final rites myself.”

Angelika shook herself. “I just cannot ever accept the death of one so young.”

This is a coincidence. Won’t this be a laugh? A fine story, told in a lively way, by the fire?

“I see you are very moved. Would you like to light a candle for Father Northcott on your way out? We could pray.”

“I think I might like that.” Angelika really just needed to sit down again. She really would pray, that Father Arlo Northcott was another man, who had traveled from a wide world teeming with other people. But at that moment, a gate squeak announced someone’s approach.

It was a man walking toward them, with his tawny-gold eyes locked on her face as though she were the only woman he would ever seek. He was tall, very handsome, and dressed as if someone with unlimited funds and a fine tailor loved him very much.

It was, of course, without a doubt, her love.

It was Will.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


Angelika,” Will said when he grew closer, “I am here to escort you home.” He appeared flushed and slightly out of breath. “I met Jacob and some of my gardening crew heading back to Blackthorne Manor. They were plenty enough to escort Clara, and I didn’t want to leave you alone. I galloped the entire way back.”

She took a half step back, and he noticed the diminutive Father Porter for the first time.

“Forgive me, Father. I have interrupted.”

“Please wait with the horses. I will join you shortly.” She attempted to turn Father Porter with a hand on his elbow, but he was raising his eyeline up, squinting against the sun, and slow recognition dawned.

Father Porter looked sharply back to the gravestone, and so did Will.

“Father Arlo Northcott,” Will read out loud, and the priest’s eyes rolled closed.

Angelika managed to catch him. “Oh, God. Oh, hell.” She lowered his head carefully onto the grass, then folded her shawl into a pillow. “Father, Father. Can you hear me?” She patted his cheek and saw his eyelids moving. “He’s not dead.”

Will croaked, “He recognized me.”

“Don’t you dare faint, too,” she threatened when Will stared back at the headstone with glassy eyes. “Keep your wits. Go into that side door there. Help, help!” She waved an arm at the sweeping staffer, who dropped his broom.

To the gravestone, Will asked, “Is that supposed to be me? Father Arlo Northcott? Father? I’m a priest? I’m a priest?” He was fast approaching hysteria.