She changed the subject. “I do not visit the village often. I was shocked to see how miserable it looks.”
“Poverty is a cycle that is hard to break.” He said this with utter sincerity as he sat on a small upholstered throne beneath a framed Botticelli. His hand lay flat on the desk, like the weight of the wine-red gem was too much.
His eyeline moved to a silver salver in front of her.
Angelika understood and took out her purse. She placed the shilling she had earlier negotiated onto it. Father Porter kept staring until she added a second shilling. Then a third. And a fourth.
He blinked and reanimated. “I have always said you possess a generous heart. I am surprised you are not married yet yourself, Miss Frankenstein.”
Thoughtlessly she replied, “I will be. Soon, I think.”
“And who is your intended?”
“You would not know him. He is from another town.”
“Sir William Black,” the father said, causing a chill to run down her spine. “A mysterious man, with a name that we cannot find in records. A man with no past, known by nobody, and rarely seen. Those who have seen him remark he is a fine-looking man; I pray a handsome face has not swayed your . . . generous heart.”
“How do you know that?” She answered her own question immediately. “Everyone knows everything in a small village.”
“I promised your dear papa that I would keep an eye on you.” And he did, for another agonizingly long minute. “Are you quite sure about this man? What is his standing in society? What is his fortune, his estate? Who are his parents, what is his annuity?”
Angelika puffed up. “These are all his own business. Not yours.”
His laugh cracked painfully. “The Frankenstein family is not for just any man to marry into, and I would venture that Victor has not done his due diligence. I should like to meet him, to assess his suitability. Why do you not attend Sunday services?”
“We have our chapel at home.”
“A chapel with no priest.” Father Porter now folded his hands in an ominous way. “I think we should pray together.”
“I would love to, after we sort out Victor’s wedding. He is marrying Elizabeth Lavenza, the firstborn daughter to Gregor and Isabella. Her mother hails from Majorca, Spain, although they have a country estate in England and Lizzie was raised here. They are dreadfully wealthy and not after Victor’s fortune. Her hobbies include writing and directing theater plays. I hope the entire village will enjoy the merry entertainment she will provide.”
She withheld that Lizzie’s plays were not always suitable for children. Gory violence, gory kissing, and almost always a ghost, or a disturbing creature visiting from the stars—but these were editable details.
“You are able to give me your sister-in-law’s pedigree, but not your own beau’s.”
Staring back was her only defense at this point.
“Victor marries here,” Father Porter said to the shillings, “or not at all. He’s a stubborn boy, but explain those two options to him as best you can. I will also require resumed weekly attendance at my services, and a long-overdue apology, and, naturally, an appropriate donation.”
Angelika showed her teeth. “May I ask what our donation could help achieve?”
He did not surprise her by how readily he answered. “Beneath the main altar is a deep crack, and it requires refurbishment. The opportunity should be taken to exchange it for white marble, instead of the present green, in keeping with the new frescoes. Should you be especially generous, our statue of Christ requires repainting. The artist is Italian, and his services are quite out of reach in our present budget.”
Marble, and a holiday for an Italian.
“And for the villagers? What would our donation afford them?”
He blinked like a toad. “I just explained that, my child.”
Angelika knew when she was beaten. “I will speak with Victor when I return home. Our next order of business is that we seem to have lost our dear old servant, Mary. We are afraid she wandered into town and succumbed to some foul play or accident.”
He was leaning forward to take the shillings. “I will pray for her.”
“Could you tell me if you have received anyone dead who was unaccounted for?”
The coins were put into the pocket of his robe. “Try the morgue. I hear your brother knows the way there.”
Rattled by his all-knowing tone, she stammered, “I did, and they told me that sometimes their dead start off here.”
This time, he didn’t blink. If he was selling bodies to the morgue to line his own pockets, he was a fine actor indeed.