Page 81 of Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match
Where would Father Porter select for himself? She began to wander along the row, trying to guess what was premium real estate. She came upon a length of lime-green baby grass on a new grave.
“I told you I have been waiting for my replacement,” Father Porter said behind her, “and sadly, here he lies.”
Angelika raised her eyes, with a doomed feeling smothering her, and read the name:
FATHERARLONORTHCOTT
“A terrible shame,” Father Porter said, and now Angelika was sweating from every pore. The date of death, it was—“Six weeks ago, but I’m sure you heard what happened.”
She whispered, “No, I didn’t hear. How did he die?”
“His carriage was overturned by highway robbers, as they often are these days.”
Angelika swallowed. “Did he die... quickly?”
“No. The drivers took a strange route, and the carriage was found in a ravine.” Father Porter appeared to be genuinely saddened. “He was brought here alive and fought very hard through the night. Sadly, he returned to our Lord too soon. You can see he was very young.”
Angelika did the sums. “He was thirty-three. That’s very young to be a priest, is it not?” She found herself arguing vigorously. “There must be some mistake. How could he possibly replace you, being so young himself? That seems absolutely out of the question. It’s ridiculous. I cannot think of anything more ludicrous than a thirty-three-year-old priest.” She wiped her temple.
FatherArlo Northcott?
“He was, by all accounts, devoted to his studies, and lived in uncommon devotion and abstinence since boyhood. He led an exceptional life, though far too short.” Father Porter sighed. “A great loss to the church, and this village. I should have liked to have met him, to talk, to understand his faithand his planned direction for the parish. Now we must wait for another replacement to be found.”
“And he is definitely right here.”
“I don’t quite understand your meaning,” Father Porter said, his tone sharper—perhaps defensive. “Do you see a grave before you? I conducted the final rites myself.”
Angelika shook herself. “I just cannot ever accept the death of one so young.”
This is a coincidence. Won’t this be a laugh? A fine story, told in a lively way, by the fire?
“I see you are very moved. Would you like to light a candle for Father Northcott on your way out? We could pray.”
“I think I might like that.” Angelika really just needed to sit down again. She reallywouldpray, that Father Arlo Northcott was another man, who had traveled from a wide world teeming with other people. But at that moment, a gate squeak announced someone’s approach.
It was a man walking toward them, with his tawny-gold eyes locked on her face as though she were the only woman he would ever seek. He was tall, very handsome, and dressed as if someone with unlimited funds and a fine tailor loved him very much.
It was, of course, without a doubt, her love.
It was Will.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Angelika,” Will said when he grew closer, “I am here to escort you home.” He appeared flushed and slightly out of breath. “I met Jacob and some of my gardening crew heading back to Blackthorne Manor. They were plenty enough to escort Clara, and I didn’t want to leave you alone. I galloped the entire way back.”
She took a half step back, and he noticed the diminutive Father Porter for the first time.
“Forgive me, Father. I have interrupted.”
“Please wait with the horses. I will join you shortly.” She attempted to turn Father Porter with a hand on his elbow, but he was raising his eyeline up, squinting against the sun, and slow recognition dawned.
Father Porter looked sharply back to the gravestone, and so did Will.
“Father Arlo Northcott,” Will read out loud, and the priest’s eyes rolled closed.
Angelika managed to catch him. “Oh, God. Oh, hell.” She lowered his head carefully onto the grass, then folded her shawl into a pillow. “Father, Father. Can you hear me?” She patted his cheek and saw his eyelids moving. “He’s not dead.”
Will croaked, “He recognized me.”
