The Disenchanted Widow by Christina McKenna

Author:Christina McKenna [McKenna, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literary, Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781611099539
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2013-08-27T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter twenty-six

Lorcan ran an appraising eye over the reassembled Blessed Mother. In the space of two hours he’d not only attached the head with quick-drying plaster but brought her back to vibrant life with some acrylic paint. The original had been crude, and that fact made his retouching easier.

The Virgin now sported a pair of rouged cheeks that would not look out of place in the Folies Bergère. A bad-tempered serpent at her feet had been revivified with a startling coat of phthalo green, its terrifying fangs brought out with some brilliant white. He’d reserved the gilding of the inside of the cloak until last. With that final application, the lady shone.

Perfect.

Now all he need do was wrap her up in a suitable length of cotton and deliver her to Father Cassidy.

“Butter? Check. Caster sugar? Check. Ground almonds? Check. Lemon juice? Check.” Bessie stood in the parochial kitchen, ticking off the ingredients on her recipe for lemon drizzle cake. It had been one of Mrs. Lloyd-Peacock’s favorites. “When life gives you lemons, make lemon drizzle cake!” she used to say.

Father Cassidy was in his study working on the parish accounts. She felt safer when he was around. Since hearing the strange noises upstairs, she’d tried, as far as possible, not to be alone in the house. If his secret lady friend or the ghost of old Judge Carson was hanging around up there, she’d no desire to bump into either of them, even in the daylight hours. Her employer still hadn’t requested that she clean his bedroom, which Bessie thought rather odd. But then, in the present circumstances, she wouldn’t be in any hurry to ask him. He could do as he pleased, so long as he paid her on time and didn’t ask too many questions. She smiled to herself; it was an amicable arrangement.

“Now, the flour…and…” She reached across the table and lifted a bottle of Bristol Cream sherry. “A nip of this to perk it up, and a wee sip to perk me up.”

She cocked an ear. Father Cassidy had a very light footfall due to the soft soles of his suede shoes. She couldn’t risk pouring herself a glass. He just might materialize in the doorway.

She listened, looked down at the bottle, decided she was safe enough, and sloshed some into a mug.

The sweet, syrupy taste hit the back of her throat, bringing back memories of half-forgotten Christmases. Her mother used to buy a bottle to carry her through those festive days—those inevitably stress-filled festive days. There were so many blighted Yuletides in Bessie’s childhood.

She gripped the mug, knuckles whitening. Just another sip. The clouds were gathering again. The sagging, rain-fat clouds she never seemed fully able to outrun. But she would not be swamped. She was a woman now. A vulnerable child no more.

She plonked the mug back down. Stepped back from the table.

At that moment the doorbell sounded.

“Damn!” She tore off her apron. Dived on the parsley plant and stuffed a generous wad into her mouth.

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