Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 8, Wiltshire, 1876

Chapter 8, Wiltshire, 1876

Miranda had stopped crying. Now she stood beside Matthew, his arm across her shoulders, and watched drops of rain race down the window of their small, attic bedroom. Beyond the neighboring houses, was a pasture containing a herd of sheep. She wondered why sheep did not care about the rain like people did, they just wandered about eating grass or doing whatever else they wanted. Sheep were so lucky, they didn't have to care about it being the Sabbath or breaking God's Commandments.

"I'm sorry for what happened," she said, leaning into her stepbrother.

Earlier that day, after returning from church, Miranda had been sent to the back parlor to play with the only toy allowed on the Sabbath—a wooden ark with carved animals that belonged to her older cousin, Edgar. Her dolls were taken away on Sundays.

She played alone on the floor while Matthew and Edgar sat in the drawing room, taking turns reading Bible excerpts aloud to Uncle Alfred.

She thought it was unfair they were not allowed Sundays anymore, not since they had come to live with their uncle. When her stepparents were still alive, she had spent the weekdays looking forward to Sundays. After church, there were trips to the park to feed the ducks and run about on the grass. In the evenings they had music and games. Now there was only our Lord's Sabbath, with its boring rules about what you must do and could not do. Rules that made the day drag like an unhurried snail across a flagstone.

The drawing room was separated from the back parlor by a pocket door and through it she heard first Edgar and then Matthew murmuring while Uncle Alfred occasionally corrected them in that sharp voice of his.

From the first time she met Uncle Alfred, when she and Matthew came to live here, she thought everything about him was sharp and liable to cut. He had sharp, piercing eyes and a thin, hooked nose. He was very tall and thin and when he stood both his elbows and knees were always bent at sharp angles. His whiskers seemed made of wire like one of the brushes found in the kitchen.

Mrs. Archer, the cook, told her once, that Edgar's mother died bringing him into this world.

Miranda was surprised, but not by the idea of death, which to her meant a person disappearing suddenly, never to be seen, or heard from again, because God had called them back to heaven. What truly surprised her was that her Uncle Albert had once been young and must have been in love.

She heard Edgar's voice continue to drone on when Matthew opened the door and waved for her to come over to him.

"I've been excused to use the outhouse," he whispered. "You can come with me to the yard and feed Queen Doretha if you like, but we must be quick."

"Oh yes, please," she said.

Queen Doretha, a large chicken with pure white feathers, strutted haughtily around the yard, keeping her distance from the other fowl as if they were beneath her. Miranda liked all the animals and gave them names, despite Mrs. Archer insisting it was silly, but Queen Doretha was her favorite.

As they went down the hall, Matthew made his tiptoe movements so exaggerated and comic, Miranda had to put her hand to her mouth in order to suppress a giggle.

As they neared the kitchen, the warm, inviting smell of freshly baked scones filled the air. She expected to find Mrs. Archer, but the kitchen was empty. The scones, browned on top and bottom but creamy white in the middle, cooled on a wire rack on the large table, beside a jar of strawberry jam and a bowl of golden clotted cream.

Queen Doretha was soon forgotten as Miranda felt her mouth water and her stomach rumble. She reached out to take the nearest scone, but Matthew caught her hand and pulled her back.