Silent in the Sanctuary by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online

coal and switches, I’ll warrant.”
    Portia shot me an impish look. “Well, perhaps there will be other goodies to open instead.”
    This time I did not bother to pinch her. I merely opened my book and pretended to read.

THE THIRD CHAPTER
    How like a winter hath my absence been from thee.
    —SONNET 97
    The journey to Blessingstoke was quickly accomplished. The tiny station was nearly deserted. As it was a Monday, and still nearly four weeks before Christmas, the village folk were about their business, although a peculiarly spicy smell hung in the air, the promise of holiday preparations already begun.
    Father had sent a pair of carriages for our party, and a baggage wagon besides. There was a brief tussle over who should have custody of the hamper of food, but Portia prevailed, and I made certain to find a seat in her carriage. Somehow she managed to maneuver Alessandro into our small party, and Plum as well, leaving the newlyweds with the maids and the dogs. When Morag let her out of her basket, Florence perpetrated a small crime against Lysander’s shoe, and I made a mental note to ask Cook to find her a nice marrow bone when we arrived at the Abbey.
    No sooner had we left the station than word spread we had arrived. It was possible to watch the news travel down the road, just ahead of the carriages, for as we bowled past, villagers emerged from their cottages to wave. The blacksmith raised a glowing red poker in greeting, and Uncle Fly—the vicar and a very great friend of Father’s—lifted his hat and bellowed his regards. There was a stranger with him, a handsome, well-groomed gentleman who eyed us with interest as we passed. He was soberly but beautifully dressed, and he swept off his hat, making us a pretty little courtesy. His eyes caught mine and I noticed a small smile, only slightly mocking, playing over his lips. His expression was merry, comfortably so, as if laughter was his habit.
    “That is not a serious sort of person,” I observed as we rounded the bend in the road, leaving Uncle Fly and his jocular stranger.
    Portia snorted. “That is Lucian Snow, Uncle Fly’s new curate. I made his acquaintance when Jane and I were down this summer.”
    “Surely you jest. I would never have taken him for a churchman.”
    “Father says Uncle Fly is having the devil’s own time with him. He is always haring off to one of the other villages to ‘minister to the flock’.”
    “Oh, dear,” I murmured. “I do hope that is not the phrase he uses. How terribly earnest of him.”
    “Indeed. I imagine Father will have him to dinner whilst we are in residence. He will certainly invite Uncle Fly, and he can hardly fail to include the curate. Plum, I know you are an atheist, dearest, but do mind your manners and try to be civil, won’t you?”
    Plum, whose only interest in Italian churches had been the artworks they so often housed, gave a scornful look. “If Father is kind enough to supply me with game, it would be churlish of me not to join the hunt.”
    “That is a terrible metaphor. Mark what I said and behave yourself. Oh, look there. I see the Gypsies are in residence, just in time for the holiday.”
    Portia pointed to a cluster of brightly painted caravans in the distance. Tents had been pitched and cooking fires kindled, and at the edge of the encampment a bit of rope had been strung around to keep the horses penned. I imagined the men, sitting comfortably in their shirtsleeves in spite of the crisp air, mending harnesses or patching a bit of tin, while the women tended the children and the simmering pots. As a child I had joined them often, letting them plait flowers into my hair or read my fortune in the dregs of a teacup. But now the sight of the camp brought back other memories, bitter ones I wanted only to forget.
    Deliberately, I turned from the window. “Alessandro, tell me how you like England thus far.”
    The rest of the drive was spent pleasurably. We pointed out local landmarks to