Felicity?” she now inquired in a frosty tone. “Or are we to beard the lion in his den? Better still, are we to return home without venturing out of this nice, safe carriage?”
“There are times, Marjorie,” Felicity remarked with deceptive sweetness, “when I wonder how you would like being relegated to the laundry back at Redfern Manor.” With that dire threat she opened the door and swung out of the carriage, having learned to do so without her customary assistance on previous visits. Temporarily silenced by the threat, Marjorie followed her mistress.
The little mission overseen by the indefatigable Liam Blackstone was definitely unprepossessing on the outside. Unlike the mean little hovels that surrounded the aging brick building, it was a large, ungainly hovel, with a gloomy, dark-stained front and an inartistic sign proclaiming its services. That sign was the product of Mr. Blackstone, who had sharply spurned Miss Redfern’s more artistic hand.
Inside the place was as appealing as rigorous cleanings could make it. There was not a speck of dirt in the large, barren meeting room that also served as a communal dining hall for the poor of the area, and a chapel when Mr. Blackstone could gather the proverbial two or more people together. The kitchen consisted of a large open fireplace on one wall, with a well-scrubbed chopping table and several large soup kettles that always seemed filled with a steaming concoction comprised of aging vegetables, the gifts of area merchants, and various arcane cuts of meat that Felicity suspected originated from exceedingly peculiar sections of exceedingly peculiar animals. Indeed, whenever she had managed to sneak a visit to Mr. Blackstone’s mission, she was unable to eat anything but salt biscuits for twenty-four hours. But the poor, downtrodden unfortunates seemed glad enough for it, coming back to refill their cracked earthenware bowls as often as the long-suffering Marjorie would allow.
For once the great barren room was empty. A miserable fire was filling a small corner of the vast cavern with a great deal of smoke and less heat, and the long benches, white with scrubbing, were empty of their usual pitiful occupants. There was no strong scent of the redolent soup, and for this Felicity could only be grateful. Loosening the strings of her plainest bonnet, she ventured farther into the room, ignoring Marjorie’s hissed protests.
“Where do you suppose everyone is?” she whispered, shivering slightly. “There was no sign on the front, was there? Surely Liam would have let me know if the mission was to be closed.”
“I’m not so sure,” Marjorie said grimly, and Felicity felt a momentary panic in her breast. A panic that was partially allayed when the door on the far side of the room opened, and Mr. Liam Blackstone, vicar of this small, poverty-stricken parish, stepped into the room.
It was not in any way surprising that Miss Felicity Redfern would have tumbled head over heels in love with Liam Blackstone, although it was a wonder that one of her heretofore flighty nature would have stayed constant in the face of such unpromising response. But constant she had stayed, and her pretty, heart-shaped face became radiant as she smiled upon her beloved. Liam Blackstone did not smile back, though his eyes brightened momentarily.
At the advanced age of twenty-six, Liam Blackstone was prematurely weighted down with the cares of the world. Born with a somewhat romantic disposition, leavened with a strong streak of spiritual leanings, a large dose of warmhearted compassion toward the poor, and an unfortunate streak of puritanism that threatened to smother him with feelings of acute worthlessness, Liam Blackstone was a somewhat confused young man. None of this, however, showed in his face.
If Lord Byron was considered a well-looking gentleman, Liam Blackstone put him entirely in the shade. He had a noble brow, adorned with jet black curls, a classical nose, perfectly molded
“There are times, Marjorie,” Felicity remarked with deceptive sweetness, “when I wonder how you would like being relegated to the laundry back at Redfern Manor.” With that dire threat she opened the door and swung out of the carriage, having learned to do so without her customary assistance on previous visits. Temporarily silenced by the threat, Marjorie followed her mistress.
The little mission overseen by the indefatigable Liam Blackstone was definitely unprepossessing on the outside. Unlike the mean little hovels that surrounded the aging brick building, it was a large, ungainly hovel, with a gloomy, dark-stained front and an inartistic sign proclaiming its services. That sign was the product of Mr. Blackstone, who had sharply spurned Miss Redfern’s more artistic hand.
Inside the place was as appealing as rigorous cleanings could make it. There was not a speck of dirt in the large, barren meeting room that also served as a communal dining hall for the poor of the area, and a chapel when Mr. Blackstone could gather the proverbial two or more people together. The kitchen consisted of a large open fireplace on one wall, with a well-scrubbed chopping table and several large soup kettles that always seemed filled with a steaming concoction comprised of aging vegetables, the gifts of area merchants, and various arcane cuts of meat that Felicity suspected originated from exceedingly peculiar sections of exceedingly peculiar animals. Indeed, whenever she had managed to sneak a visit to Mr. Blackstone’s mission, she was unable to eat anything but salt biscuits for twenty-four hours. But the poor, downtrodden unfortunates seemed glad enough for it, coming back to refill their cracked earthenware bowls as often as the long-suffering Marjorie would allow.
For once the great barren room was empty. A miserable fire was filling a small corner of the vast cavern with a great deal of smoke and less heat, and the long benches, white with scrubbing, were empty of their usual pitiful occupants. There was no strong scent of the redolent soup, and for this Felicity could only be grateful. Loosening the strings of her plainest bonnet, she ventured farther into the room, ignoring Marjorie’s hissed protests.
“Where do you suppose everyone is?” she whispered, shivering slightly. “There was no sign on the front, was there? Surely Liam would have let me know if the mission was to be closed.”
“I’m not so sure,” Marjorie said grimly, and Felicity felt a momentary panic in her breast. A panic that was partially allayed when the door on the far side of the room opened, and Mr. Liam Blackstone, vicar of this small, poverty-stricken parish, stepped into the room.
It was not in any way surprising that Miss Felicity Redfern would have tumbled head over heels in love with Liam Blackstone, although it was a wonder that one of her heretofore flighty nature would have stayed constant in the face of such unpromising response. But constant she had stayed, and her pretty, heart-shaped face became radiant as she smiled upon her beloved. Liam Blackstone did not smile back, though his eyes brightened momentarily.
At the advanced age of twenty-six, Liam Blackstone was prematurely weighted down with the cares of the world. Born with a somewhat romantic disposition, leavened with a strong streak of spiritual leanings, a large dose of warmhearted compassion toward the poor, and an unfortunate streak of puritanism that threatened to smother him with feelings of acute worthlessness, Liam Blackstone was a somewhat confused young man. None of this, however, showed in his face.
If Lord Byron was considered a well-looking gentleman, Liam Blackstone put him entirely in the shade. He had a noble brow, adorned with jet black curls, a classical nose, perfectly molded
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