The Keeper of Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page B

speed his death, Parson,’ Hansard said. ‘And would you want that?’
    It was not a question that my tutor had ever propounded. I had been taught precepts and precedents, rules for a better life on this earth.
    I bit my lip. ‘I believe God would want you to ease his pain. If He chooses to call him to Him, then that is His Will.’
    He nodded. ‘Good. That is what I have already done. He will soon be quiet.’
    What of the sobbing woman even now clutching the poor sufferer’s hand and calling his name? ‘What can you offer to ease her pain?’ I asked.
    ‘I think that that is for you to do. She may not understand all the words of your prayers but she will know that they are being said.’
    At last the broken man fell quiet. It might have been a deep slumber, but for the great gasps for breath that seemed to tear his chest.
    ‘The death throes,’ Hansard murmured. ‘Pray God it is not long now.’
    For with each gasp the woman wailed anew.
    ‘Madam,’ I said softly, ‘will you join me as I pray?’
    To my horror, she stared at me, eyes wild. She raised her hand, pointing a finger in veritable accusation. But then she dropped it, and looked in bemusement at Hansard.
    ‘Our new parson, Maggie. Parson Campion. I think your good man needs all the help he can get, don’t you?’
    ‘He ain’t never been to church, not his whole life, I doubt.’
    ‘Not even to be baptised?’ I asked.
    ‘Does that count now?’ was Hansard’s swift rejoinder.
    ‘Find me a little water, Mrs Jenkins. Go, now, quickly. I will get my bag.’ It could only be an ex tempore baptism, but it was the best I could do.
    The little ceremony did not last long. Perhaps Luke Jenkins was quieter, more serene, as I read the fearsome but hope-giving words, Dr Hansard making the responses on his behalf, as if he were an infant. And then, in a request that brought tears to my eyes, Mrs Jenkins begged me to wed them on the spot. Such a rite demanded licence, witnesses – aye, and the consent of the poor dying man – for it to hold any legality. But how could I deny her at least an attenuated form of the service? It would bring her some solace in the black days to come. But still I doubted.
    Mr Hansard said in an urgent undervoice, ‘You have little time for quibbling, man.’
    I swallowed my fears. ‘Provided that you promise to come to church – soon – and let me baptise you and your children, then yes, Mrs Jenkins, with all my heart.’
     
    The children had had an earthly baptism by the time I reached home, Dr Hansard leaving his gig with Jem while he spoke to Simon, the verger, about the burial. Jem paraded them in front of me. They were all clean, all had had their hair trimmed or tied back, and their claws had been returned to the state of nails. They were wrapped in towels, like veritable Hindoos. But even as I stared, the smart clatter of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of another gig, capably turned into the yard by Mrs Beckles, a large bundle at her feet. To my delight she was accompanied by none other than Lizzie, themaidservant whose acquaintance I had made at the Priory. In the midst of our darkness was sudden light, as the sun spun her hair into a veritable halo. Even as her lips parted in a shy smile, her eyes caught something beyond me, and her face was transfixed.
    Involuntarily I turned. Jem’s eyes were locked on hers. Slow flushes rose on both sets of cheeks, his turning his weather-beaten features russet, hers a delicate rose. But perhaps I imagined all, for in a second, Jem was assisting Mrs Beckles from the gig, and I was handing Lizzie down, rewarded for my pains by a shy smile and modestly lowered eyes.
    Jem was all a-bustle with the horses, while Lizzie, seizing a familiar covered basket, ran to the tongue-tied children as if to gather them to her. Mrs Beckles was not far behind, soon delving into her bundle, and producing a variety of small garments, with which they covered the children’s limbs.
    So