Free Descent Into Dust by Jacqueline Lepore Page B

I’d thrown myself into the Romantic Era literature, caught up in the vagaries and sly hints Mr. Fox had thrown to me. Annoyed with myself, I put down the tome. Mr. Fox was leading me on a merry chase. And I followed along like a puppy eager for a morsel of meat. I did not need to play literary detective; I needed to confront him, I suddenly decided. Enough with his evasiveness and intrigue.
    Not for the first time, I considered going to Roger about Fox. About everything, for if there was danger to Henrietta, I must tell him. But here was the rub—what exactly could I tell him? Of the shadow at the tree, of the clouds advancing like a spectral invasion?
    The sound of the front door closing took me to the window, where I observed Mr. Fox trotting down the sweeping front steps, a sack over his shoulder. It was still very early. Now what was he about?
    Snatching my light cape from its cloakroom peg, I followed. Not a ripple of conscience plagued me as to the rightness or wrongness of what I was doing as I slipped outside and mademy way through the fading mists, keeping a careful distance from the tall figure striding purposefully in the direction of the village.
    We came to a church, an engraved sign informing me it was known as Sarum Saint Martin. Built in the Norman style, it was a small but imposing square of iron-gray granite with an artless, pointed spire. I paused, thinking myself a fool as I hovered at the gate of the churchyard. But I could not refuse the impulse. I was mad with worry for Henrietta, and I knew—I knew —Mr. Fox had some knowledge of what ailed her.
    I paused among a cluster of alder and larch. Mr. Fox faded into the fog that clung stubbornly among the gravestones, a ghost moving among ghosts. The markers were very old, some of them leaning to one side and streaked black with coal smoke, giving the appearance of a phalanx of weary sentinels. Among these, a man materialized beside a fresh mound of earth. He was standing quite still, head bent and hands clasped.
    Fox saw him, too. He hunkered down, instantly swallowed by the low-lying mist as he hid behind a large carved stone cross. I did the same after scooting forward for a better vantage point.
    The figure by the grave was hugely wrought, with massive shoulders and strong legs, arms curled under the weight of his muscle. He was dressed in a flowing cape. The dreary day was my enemy, for the light was too suffused to allow me to see plainly, but if my guess was correct, he was praying. Indeed, I was proved right when he grasped what I now saw was a large, laborious cross hung from the beads—rosary beads—and used it to make the sign of the cross, finishing with a slow, lingering touch to his lips.
    I realized now the short cape draped over his broad form was a surplice. And the white of his collar too small to be a cravat. He was a priest.
    Fox retreated, moving past me and on back to the house. He’d apparently been thwarted in whatever business had led him to the graveyard. I left as well, making fast for my room, once I gained the house, to change my ruined shoes and dress, for the hem was damp and spattered with mud.
    I now had one more mystery to add to my burden: what the devil was Mr. Fox about in a graveyard just after dawn? And why would the presence of a priest drive him away?

Chapter Eight
    H enrietta and Miss Harris were at the breakfast table with the family when I arrived downstairs a half hour later. “Mama promised I could join the adults as a treat since I had a lovely sleep with no nightmares,” Henrietta boasted. She fairly bounced in her seat with pride. “I know you are riding out today for a hunt, and Papa said last night I might watch from the veranda.” She frowned at me. “But you are not dressed for riding.”
    I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before taking my seat. “Indeed, I had quite forgotten today was the hunt.”
    “But you are going, aren’t you?” She looked at me eagerly. I saw admiration shine