Anne Perry - The Angel Court Affair

“So what do you propose to tell them?” he asked as mildly as he could. “What is it that makes someone wish to hurt you?”

“I cannot truly say why someone would want to harm me,” she replied smoothly. “But I have had several threats of death that I know of. I believe that there have been others from which Ramon has protected me.”

“Only Ramon? Not Melville Smith?” he asked immediately.

The smile was back in her eyes-amusement, not warmth. “No. The ones I did receive were handed to me by Melville. His protection is not of me, but of the faith we share.” There was no other expression on her face or in her voice. She was leaving him to draw his own conclusions as to her feelings.

“Do you trust him?” he inquired.

She was startled. It showed in her eyes for an instant, and then was gone. “You are very direct,” she responded.

This time the amusement was his. “That troubles you? I’m afraid I have neither time nor inclination to be more tactful. Do you trust Mr. Smith?”

“I trust him to do what he believes to be in the interest of the faith.” She looked directly at him as she spoke. “I do not take for granted that that will always be what I believe. But before you ask me, no, I do not think Melville will hurt me.”

“Does he wish you to stir up controversy?” he pursued.

Now there was appreciation in her face. Her feelings were as swift and as visible as light and shadow on water. “An excellent question, Commander. I am not certain that I have an easy answer for you.”

“Do you listen to his advice?”

“Of course. But I do not always take it.”

He could imagine their confrontations. Melville Smith would likely be the arrogant type, insistent, perhaps afraid for her, certainly exasperated. She would be fierce, certain of herself, quite plainly listening to him only as a matter of courtesy. She would still do exactly what she wished.

“What are you going to tell people?” he asked, returning to his earlier question. He was increasingly curious to know what this unusual woman believed in, what it was that she cared about so intensely that she had to tell strangers of it, even if it might cost her her life. Was she hysterical, touched by delusions? She would certainly not be the first. History was full of women who saw visions and profoundly believed them to be from God. Joan of Arc was burned alive because she would not deny her “angels.”

But this woman in front of him, in a simple, dark blue dress, did not seem in the least emotionally overwrought. In fact she appeared to be cooler than he was.

She smiled, and for an instant he saw uncertainty in her eyes. Then it was gone again. It was not doubt of herself, but perhaps of him.

“I am going to tell them that they are the children of God,” she said levelly, watching his face. “As is every human being on earth. That there is no other kind of person.”

“Why should that upset them?” he asked, wondering as he said it if it was a stupid question, or if it was exactly what she had intended him to say.

“Because children are required to grow up,” she replied unwaveringly. “If we are the children of God, rather than simply creatures of His hands, then we may eventually become as He is. Not in this life, but now is the time to begin, to make the choice that this will be our path. And growing up can hurt. Lessons must be learned, mistakes put right, some errors paid for. Ask any child if he will find it easy to become like his father, especially if his father is a great man.”

She smiled slightly, almost in self-mockery. “But what disturbs many people more, what is in fact the ‘blasphemy’ they cannot abide, is that if we may one day become as God is, then it follows logically that He may, in the infinite past, have once been as we are now. Which is, of course, why He understands us totally; every fear, every error and every need. And possibly even more terrifying to some, He knows that we can do it, that we can become like Him-if we are willing to try hard enough, pay the price in effort and patience, humility and courage, and never give up.

“Most of us want something immeasurably easier than that, far smaller and safer. That is the devil’s plan for us-stunted, eternally less than we could have been.”

“You are saying that men and God are the same thing?” Pitt asked incredulously.

“Only in the sense that a caterpillar and a butterfly are the same,” she replied. “There is no safety, nothing to be bought except by the growth of the heart and the soul. And that is frightening to many. It changes all the rules we thought we knew. There is no hierarchy, except of the ability to love with a whole heart. Obedience is not enough, it is only a beginning. It is a small thing, compared to understanding.”

“Are you frightened?” he asked after a long hesitation.

“Yes.” Her voice was very quiet. “But the only thing more frightening would be to deny what I know is true. Then I would have nothing left at all.”

“We will see that nothing happens to you,” he promised. But as he excused himself and turned away he was sure there was nothing to fear. Her ideas might well be offensive, especially if taken seriously, but no more so than any of the activists who wanted economic reform, higher wages, votes for women. Even if what she preached was blasphemy, he did not think that would be enough to disturb anyone to active violence.

The meeting was far better attended than Pitt had foreseen. Word had spread that Sofia Delacruz was controversial, and many people had turned up out of curiosity if nothing else. The large preponderance of them were women.

Pitt checked in with Brundage, and with the regular police, going around the doors, watching the crowd, looking for anyone excitable, furtive or who seemed out of place.

Sergeant Drury was clearly annoyed at being taken from his regular duties for what he considered a frivolous purpose. He was broad-shouldered, a little corpulent, and he stood at the main entrance with a somber look. A gaunt woman in black took in his presence appraisingly, but did not speak.

“She’s come to complain, that one,” he observed to Pitt, who was standing near him. “But I can’t see her being dangerous, can you? What the devil do they think is going to happen, sir? Nobody’s going to throw a bomb at this woman! From what I hear, the anarchists would be on her side!”

Pitt’s reply was prevented by the presence of a large woman passing by. She glanced at Drury and nodded her approval.

“Ma’am,” Drury acknowledged her.

Pitt gave a nod to the sergeant and moved on. He was looking at other entrances, and the increasing crowd, when he spotted Charlotte. It was the familiar angle of her head that drew his attention, and the unique grace with which she turned to the young woman beside her. He smiled with pleasure, until he realized with a jolt that the “young woman” was Jemima. Her long chestnut hair was wound high on her head and she wore one of Charlotte’s plainer hats. She was lovely. He had known her all her life, and yet suddenly his daughter seemed almost a stranger. He stared at her a moment longer before he was interrupted by one of his own men coming to repeat a slightly unpleasant exchange. Suddenly he was aware of a cold shiver of warning. The letters to Sofia had not threatened argument, or even ugly or embarrassing scenes-they had threatened death. He must see that it did not happen, not just for Sofia’s sake, but for everyone here, including Charlotte and Jemima.

Fifteen minutes later the hall was nearly full. Glancing around it from his position by the stage, Pitt could see less than a dozen empty seats among the five hundred he estimated were in the room. There was a low buzz of conversation. A few heads turned to recognize acquaintances, but the air of expectation prevented the simple pleasure of gossip.