Free The Master of Phoenix Hall by Jennifer Wilde

only touch of color was a small window of green and blue glass immediately behind the pulpit. It caused the whole front area to become illuminated with blue and green as the sun struck it. I sat quietly beside Greg, fingering the well worn hymnal and waiting for services to begin.
    There was a slight stir in the back of the building. I heard something peculiar, as though wood were knocking on wood, but I didn’t want to turn around. Then I saw the striking couple come down the aisle. The girl was very thin, dressed all in pink, her hair pale, almost silver. She held the arm of the tall, sensitive looking boy with brown hair. He was leaning heavily on her and on an elaborate cane for support. The cane knocked noisily as they proceeded on down the aisle and moved into the front pew.
    I had no doubt that this was Laurel Mellory and her brother Paul. At least they respected the Lord’s Day, I thought. I could not keep my eyes off them, and I continued to study them throughout the long, dull sermon delivered in a monotone by a somber, stern-faced preacher. There was no feeling of uplifting such as I had experienced every Sunday in my church in London. It was tedious and uninspiring until the congregation began to sing, and then I was moved almost to tears. These voices were not trained, nor were they particularly good, but they were rich with a sincerity that made them beautiful. Greg’s voice was powerful, and he sang loudly, with conviction. My own voice seemed weak and timid.
    After the services were over, we stood on the front steps and Greg introduced me to many of the people of Lockwood. They all seemed to be very fond of him, and he talked amiably about their interests, asking a woman about a sick child, speaking to a farmer about plowing. He was clearly quite popular, a polished, educated man who had established an immediate contact with the uncultivated villagers. I stood to one side as he carried on a conversation with the minister. I was a figure of interest to all the people, not only because I was Lucille’s niece, but also because I had been on the coach when it was held up.
    A group of men were talking loudly about the robbery. I heard them speaking of search parties and inquiries by the constable. The money had been intended as a government loan to the people of Lockwood. With it they would buy seed and farming tools and livestock. That it was coming on a passenger coach had supposedly been a secret, and there was much speculation as to how the highwaymen had known about this. Feeling was high, and for good reason. The men of Lockwood felt that one of their own had betrayed them by giving out the secret, or worse—one of them was the bandit.
    I kept watching the door, hoping to see the Mellorys again.
    I was soon rewarded. They came out in a few moments, the boy leaning on his sister. Laurel Mellory was pale, with shadows enveloping her dark blue eyes as though the lids had been stained with a light blue dye; her face had a sad, haunted look. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but there was a delicate, fragile quality about her that was striking.
    Paul Mellory had a sensitive face—marred only by the bitter curl of his mouth. His dark brown eyes, shadowy with thought, were clearly not the eyes of a happy man. He was handsome, with the broad shoulders and straight back of a soldier. It must be a terrible thing for one so young and so full of life to have to walk with a cane, supported by his sister, I thought. Yet, he carried himself with pride, even arrogance, and I wondered if he resembled his older brother. He turned his head sharply and caught me looking at him. For a moment our eyes met and held, and then he looked away, the curl of his lips even more pronounced.
    What lost, miserable people, I thought, living in the luxurious vastness of the great house and yet each trapped in a small world of private torment. Laurel Mellory had been a failure in London. She was an old maid already, I