FORTY-FOUR

Yael sat in the front pew at St. Mark’s. She attended the weekly service regularly, opening the clinic late that day. The women understood that it was her holy day. On Sundays, the crowd around the little door did not begin to gather until midday. Today she might be later than that in arriving. The women would still be there. They had a talent for patience.

After the service, Yael waited until every member of the congregation had departed. She removed her spectacles and rubbed the lenses on her handkerchief before returning them to her nose. It was as she suspected. Ernest Griffinshawe looked tired. His shoes were dusty and his surplice gray. He had lost weight since the days when he conducted divine service on the Star of the East. The man needed a shave and a haircut, she noted with satisfaction.

He hadn’t seen her, sitting on in the empty church. People didn’t see Yael. She had come to understand it as one of God’s blessings. And it was because he hadn’t seen her that when she called out his name, he jumped and let out a startled cry.

“I am so very sorry,” Yael said, rising from the pew and walking toward him, peering at him through the glasses just as if she had not been observing him closely throughout the service and after it. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“It is you, Miss Heron,” he said.

“Yes. It is me. Reverend . . .” Yael paused, as if what she was about to say was the source of some difficulty.

“Well?”

“Reverend, I am, despite my years and spinsterhood, a member of the female sex.”

The Reverend looked alarmed, as if he might be about to contradict her.

“And,” Yael continued, “as is well known, women are prone to changing their minds.”

Ernest Griffinshawe looked at her with doubt in his eyes. “About what have you changed your mind?”

Yael sighed.

“You had the notion some time ago that an Englishwoman could train your cook, your maid, to do things in the way they’re done at home. Of course, having run my dear father’s house for many years, I am accustomed to such duties. I well understand the inconvenience of poor housekeeping.”

Yael paused and looked up at him, her eyes fastening on the grubby surplice, traveling down to the dusty footwear, in which, she saw, string had taken the place of shoelaces.

“And, Miss Heron?” said the Reverend, sounding hopeful.

“I believe that I could find the time, on two afternoons a week, to make a contribution to the smooth running of your household.”

Reverend Griffinshawe beamed.

“Could you, Miss Heron?”

“I could, Reverend. Or rather, I would.”

“You would?”

“Yes.” Yael paused again, blinked, and looked around the church, assuming her vaguest expression. “If you would be so kind, Reverend, as to do something for me.”

Reverend Griffinshawe’s voice took on a more guarded tone. “What might that be, Miss Heron?”

Yael cleared her throat and spoke in a businesslike manner, looking the Reverend straight in the eye. “My families need food. I need money to purchase it for them. I will oversee your household affairs, if you will launch a weekly collection among your congregation to feed the hungry children of this city.”

Reverend Griffinshawe paused only briefly. “Done, Miss Heron.”