A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,2

out the pockets of her black cotton gown.

Lizzie sat in stupefied silence, her heart pounding, her pleading gaze barely leaving Reverend Milson’s composed face. She kept expecting him to reveal the location of the pilfered brooch, like a conjuring trick. Was there some kind of moral they would be expected to draw from the way they were conducting themselves? she wondered dumbly. Was this a lesson in false accusation? Was Reverend Milson, even now, composing next Sunday’s sermon?

Poor Annie had collapsed into a heap and was sobbing into her apron. It struck Lizzie suddenly, that as the unfortunate maid had briefly left the room, her name was not really cleared by her pockets being found empty. Suspicion would remain hovering over her, and glancing around, she could see their guests were starting to whisper behind their hands at each other.

“Annie has been with us for over ten years,” she heard herself say weakly to Mr. Scott, but it was at this point she saw it was not Annie he was eyeing askance but Benedict Toomes, and he was not the only one. As though in a nightmare, Lizzie saw the hardening gazes of the company directed as of one accord toward the outsider sat among them. Of course, she thought dully. He was the only relative stranger in their midst. Everyone else present were friends of long standing and belonged to St. Joseph’s church. As though on cue, Uncle Josiah stood up, tugging on his waistcoat, his expression very grave.

As he cleared his throat to speak, old Mr. March jumped up from his seat. “I won’t sit idly by while we all eye our neighbors with suspicion. We have only one stranger in our midst this night, and I beg pardon Josiah, but we all know he’s a relative heathen!”

Lizzie froze as murmurs of agreement filled the room. She would have to act now, or things would be said that could never be undone. She surged to her feet. “I saw who took the brooch!” she announced croakily. “I saw the whole thing.” She felt her color rise as all eyes now swiveled to look at her.

Both Mr. March and her uncle dropped back into their seats, leaving her with the floor.

“That’s it, girl, speak the truth and shame the devil!” Mr. March uttered.

Feeling her mouth suddenly dry, Lizzie turned in mute appeal to Reverend Milson, willing him to take over now with some explanation for his seemingly inexplicable actions.

For the first time, Lizzie saw a crack in his tranquility. A little color crept into his cheeks and his eyes darted left to right. Oh no, she thought incredulously as her heart sank. There was no reasonable explanation, and he wasn’t going to confess. The realization was like a cold bucket of water being poured over her head. She felt as though she were in the midst of some awful nightmare.

“Speak out, Lizzie!” her uncle ordered strictly. “As the good book says, ‘Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed.’”

Lizzie raised a trembling hand, before dropping it again. “It was Reverend Milson,” she said hopelessly.

Those who did not gasp, drew in sharp breaths of disapproval. Mr. March uttered a faint cry.

“Lizzie!” her aunt burst forth in shocked censure.

“It’s in his breast pocket,” Lizzie added, briefly closing her eyes against the angry, hard stares of her family and friends. “I saw him put it in there. I believe it is there still.”

“I believe I speak for all present,” her uncle said shakily, after a moment’s stunned silence, “when I say that nothing could induce me to ask the good reverend to turn out his pockets!”

“Not quite,” cut in a cool, hard voice. It was Betsy’s fiancé, Benedict Toomes. Lizzie felt his sardonic gaze dwell on her for a moment before he turned it on the vicar. “If no one else will, I believe I’ll have to insist upon it.” The room was instantly silent as the grave.

“Oh no, Benedict!” Betsy protested, turning toward her fiancé and plucking at his sleeve with agitated fingers. He neither acknowledged her words or actions with so much as a glance.

“Empty it,” he said in a voice that could cut ice. “Now.”

Reverend Milson turned an unflattering shade of puce. “I really must object…” he bleated, even as his fingers obeyed the demand, fluttering to his breast pocket. He licked his lips and pulled out the corner of a large white handkerchief and in the process dislodged the brooch, which