A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,1

“I wanted to thank you for that pretty shawl pattern you dropped by yesterday. Why, it’s just the thing for my niece Hilda’s new baby.”

Lizzie leant forward. “I’m so glad, Mrs. Hedgcomb,” she replied. “I’ve made it several times, and it always turns out very nicely indeed. ”

She turned and apologized to old Mr. Scott, who she had inadvertently jostled. There were so many extra seats crowded around the dining room table tonight, it made it hard to avoid scraping elbows.

“Not at all, my dear,” he assured her, patting her arm. “Don’t give it another thought.” Lizzie smiled back at him and steeled herself to ask after his elderly father who suffered from the gout.

She was not sure at which point her attention started to wander. Mr. Scott always went into so much detail about his father’s maladies, and the buzz of conversation around the table somehow made it easier to disassociate from the gently plaintive voice as it unhurriedly ran through the elder Scott’s various ailments.

Lizzie nodded absently, her thoughts miles away as her eyes wandered over the flowers and the dishes of wax fruit stacked down the center of the table. She had just noticed that someone had spilled gravy on Aunt Hester’s pristine table linen when her eyes were dazzled by a flash of light. Glancing up, she saw the candlelight had caught Mrs. Lessing’s diamond brooch as sly fingers plucked it from her black lace shawl and dropped it into a discreet breast pocket.

Lizzie started, her disbelieving eyes travelling up from the breast pocket up to the serene features of Reverend Milson as he smoothly continued his conversation with Mrs. Lessing without even pausing to draw breath. She blinked. What just happened? Her eyes traveled back disbelievingly to Mrs. Lessing’s plump bosom. The shawl was bare of adornment for the brooch was gone.

“Lizzie, my dear?” She turned back blankly to Mr. Scott. “You must not take on so, my child,” he said with an indulgent chuckle. “He is a very old man, and it’s only natural that he feels his years at ninety-one.”

She nodded dumbly. “It s-seems hard the old gentleman should have to suffer so,” she managed to stammer from lips that felt strangely numb. Her mind was reeling. What had she just seen? Could Mrs. Lessing have asked Reverend Milson to take her brooch for safekeeping? she wondered. Could the brooch pin have become loose? Or a stone have fallen out? Madly, she scrabbled for a reasonable excuse for the vicar to have legitimately removed the brooch, but all the while, in the back of her mind, she kept remembering how his lips had flowed with speech while his fingers surreptitiously removed and pocketed the brooch.

Lizzie’s spirits plummeted. A horrible, cold voice told her it was undoubtedly theft. But it could not be! She argued with herself all through the next course as her hands turned clammy and she felt herself starting to perspire. She pushed the food around her plate, unable to put a single forkful into her mouth. What was she going to do? She had no choice. She would have to ask Reverend Milson to explain himself, she thought desperately. She would draw him quietly to one side and ask him what his purpose had been. There must be some reason she was not aware of; some motivating factor that would become clear to her with time.

It was as the last course of marbled jelly and cheese straws was being tidied away that Lizzie heard Reverend Milson clear his throat. “But my dear Mrs. Lessing,” he said in an upraised voice. “Where is your brooch? I could have sworn you had it on before supper.” Lizzie caught her breath in her throat as all eyes turned toward Mrs. Lessing.

“My brooch! My diamond brooch! It’s gone!” the shaken widow shrieked. There was the sound of chairs being hurriedly dragged back as people inspected the floor and immediate area for the missing jewel.

Aunt Hester stood up and, in an awful voice, called Annie back into the room. The unfortunate maid had only reached the hallway and was still holding an empty tray of crumbs. She hurried back and was soon reduced to incoherent tears.

“Every time I turned around you were hovering at my shoulder, girl!” Mrs. Lessing squawked.

“That was just to serve you vegetables, madam!” Annie wailed.

“Turn out her pockets!” Uncle Josiah ordered direly. Aunt Hester had soon whisked around the table and divested the servant of her starched white apron and turned