Page 24 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

After the prayer, the women introduced themselves.

The middle-aged woman was Mrs. Evans, the other was Mrs. Lewis, and the one with the basket was Mrs. Rothschild.

She unfolded the cloth covering the basket, and the delicious scent of fresh bread filled the area.

Amelia strained for a peek into the carrier.

It wasn’t bread but biscuits. She had never smelled a scent like it, a mixture of savory and sweet and something else.

“I must say, those smell delicious, Mrs. Rothschild.” The compliment came automatically from Amelia’s lips, and Kitty, also curious, chimed in as well.

“I’ve never smelled anything so pleasant.”

Mrs. Rothschild had a plain face, worn even, but her eyes glittered faintly at the praise. “Please, take one.”

Knowing how poor these women were, Amelia did not want to indulge, but Mrs. Rothschild insisted, and both she and Kitty took a biscuit.

It was unlike any biscuit Amelia had tasted.

It was not hard or dry but soft and sweet, resembling a miniature cake.

She heard Kitty murmur her appreciation and understood it wasn’t only she who thought the food extraordinary.

“Mrs. Rothschild, these are incomparable.” She stared at the last bite in her hand, regretting it was all that was left.

“Truly.” She popped it in her mouth. “I have never tasted a biscuit this delicious.”

“They are just biscuits,” said Mrs. Rothschild modestly. She had long eyelashes, and they were noticeable as she closed her eyes briefly.

“Just biscuits!” Kitty exclaimed. “No, they are not just biscuits. I have had just biscuits, and these are anything but. They are … I do not know what they are, but they are heavenly.”

The other women smiled at Kitty’s high praise, and Mrs. Lewis looked upward. “Heaven sent. That is our dear Mrs. Rothschild.”

Amelia imagined Mrs. Lewis praised God for all the good things in her life and dismissed the bad. Despite her well-worn dress and gloveless hands, she considered her graces abundant. Her gratitude was more telling than any piece of clothing.

Embarrassed by the attention, Mrs. Rothschild dismissed the subject by asking them about their acquaintance with Mr. Cross. “Did you know him well?”

“Very well,” Amelia said, sobering. “He had become a dear friend of mine. Perhaps I didn’t realize how dear until he was gone.”

Mrs. Evans murmured her agreement. “All who met him felt that way. All considered him a friend.”

“Everyone at St. George-in-the-East?” Kitty pressed.

Amelia was glad for the question. Caught up in the hospitality and food, she’d temporarily dismissed why they’d come in the first place. If possible, she wanted to glean information about not only Rose Rothschild but Mr. Cross as well.

“Not everyone,” admitted Mrs. Lewis. She shook her head. “I’m sure you read about the riots in February. Our parish isn’t what yours is.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate …” Kitty let the sentence trail off, perhaps not wanting to insult the women.

“It’s all right. It’s true,” continued Mrs. Lewis. Her face was as placid as a pond at midnight, honest and unaffected. “Our parishioners didn’t always appreciate Mr. Cross. The drinkers. The gamblers. The businessmen. They sought to throw him out for arguing against their trades.”

“That is unfortunate,” Amelia empathized. “I imagine the drinking establishments in the area did not want their customers transformed.”

Mrs. Rothschild bristled. She wore a dress that had grown too large for her, perhaps in her grief, and the mantle fell over her wrist. “Their care is money, naturally. It is how they survive. Without customers, they have no business. They rail against the factories, but my Rose made a decent living at the factory.” From beneath the collar of her dress, she pulled out a gold filigree cross necklace. “She even bought me this.”

“Beautiful.” Amelia admired the delicate necklace, surprised by the quality of the token. Rose Rothschild must have made a sufficient living indeed to purchase the jewelry for her mother.

“But the men who own pubs and gin palaces rely on alcohol to keep their families fed.” Mrs. Rothschild tucked the necklace back under her collar as if it was too precious for display. “The demand is high in this neighborhood.”

Amelia nodded in understanding. “A conundrum to be sure, for businessmen have to eat as well.”

“Mrs. Rothschild knows the problem firsthand,” said Mrs. Lewis. “Her husband owns the public house. Has for many years.”

“I atone for it by doing work here,” Mrs. Rothschild was quick to add.

“Most people need to make a living. It is nothing to be atoned for.” Amelia smiled gently.

“I have much to atone for, Lady Amesbury.” Mrs. Rothschild was resolute, like a sinner determined to make reparations for past sins.

“My friend was attacked after working in our pub. She lost the use of her leg, and when she did, her husband left her. She had no children, and her parents are long dead. Now she survives on the charity of others, doing laundry when she is able. I shall never forget it, and I shall never forgive myself.”

Mrs. Lewis put a hand on hers. “Oh, Louisa.”

The physical contact was no comfort to Mrs. Rothschild. She kept her gaze on the cross at the front of the church, determined to do what she must to make amends with God.

Obviously, Mrs. Rothschild felt an enormous amount of guilt for the accident.

It could have been the reason she was so devout.

It also might have accounted for her wish to see her daughter gainfully employed somewhere else besides the public house.

Having her daughter die must have only compounded her woes.

Grief could make one a bit unhinged. Amelia understood that not only from her own grief but also from the vast number of letters she received on the subject.

The church was Mrs. Rothschild’s respite, and Amelia imagined she would be willing to do whatever was necessary to apprehend Mr. Cross’s murderer.

But was Amelia willing to add to her burdens with her own? As she stared at the mother, so strong yet so fragile, she wasn’t as sure as when she first entered the church.