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almost worth the lecture. A powerful, lighthearted man, Mr. Tomàs."
    "My father-in-law, Mr. Tomàs, was a good man." Barrington held his tone steady, tried to keep it and his thoughts rooted there, not Tomàs's worse half, his mother-in-law. While his father-in-law was a firebrand - warm and encouraging, the shrew was a blizzard - cold and mean.
    The weight of the morn fell again upon his shoulders, forcing him to slouch. He rested his aching hip against the well-worn chair. The bullet wound, Napoleon's parting present from the war. "Was my wife in much pain?"
    The man's bushy brow lifted. He raked through his tousled hair. What words did he search for? How much more horrible could the events be?
    "She was quite fevered. She said…she said some odd things."  
    The undercurrent in his voice held accusations. How did Barrington not think more of Amora's needs? How sorry was the state of their marriage? How would they get on after this loss? Accusations Barrington couldn't answer.
    "Has your wife ever been institutionalized?"
    Barrington sat up. Every muscle in his face tensed, almost snapping. "No. I don't know what you've come to peddle, but she is not in any state that needs to be sent away."
    "I was not suggesting anything of the sort. It was her fear of the doctor, her begging not to be locked away. She seemed to be reliving something."
    Barrington glanced at Wilson's jaw, the place he'd strike first if he let his temper free. "Just a nightmare. A delusion from the pain of losing our child."
    "My late wife, she miscarried a few years before birthing my boy. She took a tumble in the garden. She was never that healthy again." He cleared his throat and lifted his gaze. "Mrs. Norton had a lot of pain, almost too much pain."
    Barrington's heart broke again. Unlike the vicar, Amora still lived. "Sorry about your wife, Wilson."
    "I've reconciled with it, Mr. Norton. God gave us ten beautiful years. He gives and He takes away." He leaned forward. "The next few months won't be easy ones for Mrs. Norton. My wife was plagued with guilt. Me too, for not being there to catch her. Taking in a foundling child was a saving grace."
    "I see." Barrington looked down at his mahogany desk, inherited from his grandfather. With his thumb, he traced the etches, and then scooted papers along the blotter atop. Maybe they'd never have children. Would that be fine, no son with his skin, her eyes?
    "With your permission, I'd like to visit with Mrs. Norton in a few days."
    Something in his tone didn't sound like a ministerial visit. No, it seemed dire.  
    Barrington raised his head, glaring at the vicar. "What do you suspect?"
    Wilson stood and pressed his hands along the edge of the desk, between the piles of correspondence. "I've seen signs similar to hers, and these women became so desperate they took their lives. I won't let that happen again."
    Gut burning, Barrington jumped up and stepped into the minister's shadow. "My wife has never possessed such weakness. I will help her. She will be fine. Get out, vicar. Never come back."  
    The fellow nodded and left the room.
    Barrington heard the front door close. He sank into his chair and drew the rattle out of his pocket. He shook it, listening to the tinkles that sounded like flapping angel wings. He wondered how different things would be if he or God had chosen to be at Mayfair with Amora.

Chapter Four:   Something's Keeping You From Me

    Amora sat at her vanity pulling curl papers from her hair. Four weeks of doing nothing but eating warm porridge and milk may have strengthened her limbs but did nothing for her restless mind.  
    Since that horrid night, Barrington sat with her every day, bringing her the milk, reading her Shakespeare and bits of case law.  
    Not once did he mention the miscarriage. Not once did he accuse or condemn her.  
    He should yell or prepare his summation assigning guilt.  
    She lost their child. How much worse could his charges be than the ones repeating in her