Page 2 of A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter

As he cleared his throat to speak, old Mr. March jumped up from his seat. “I won’t sit idly by while we all eye our neighbors with suspicion. We have only one stranger in our midst this night, and I beg pardon Josiah, but we all know he’s a relative heathen!”

Lizzie froze as murmurs of agreement filled the room. She would have to act now, or things would be said that could never be undone. She surged to her feet. “I saw who took the brooch!” she announced croakily. “I saw the whole thing.” She felt her color rise as all eyes now swiveled to look at her.

Both Mr. March and her uncle dropped back into their seats, leaving her with the floor.

“That’s it, girl, speak the truth and shame the devil!” Mr. March uttered.

Feeling her mouth suddenly dry, Lizzie turned in mute appeal to Reverend Milson, willing him to take over now with some explanation for his seemingly inexplicable actions.

For the first time, Lizzie saw a crack in his tranquility. A little color crept into his cheeks and his eyes darted left to right. Oh no, she thought incredulously as her heart sank. There was no reasonable explanation, and he wasn’t going to confess. The realization was like a cold bucket of water being poured over her head. She felt as though she were in the midst of some awful nightmare.

“Speak out, Lizzie!” her uncle ordered strictly. “As the good book says, ‘Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed.’”

Lizzie raised a trembling hand, before dropping it again. “It was Reverend Milson,” she said hopelessly.

Those who did not gasp, drew in sharp breaths of disapproval. Mr. March uttered a faint cry.

“Lizzie!” her aunt burst forth in shocked censure.

“It’s in his breast pocket,” Lizzie added, briefly closing her eyes against the angry, hard stares of her family and friends. “I saw him put it in there. I believe it is there still.”

“I believe I speak for all present,” her uncle said shakily, after a moment’s stunned silence, “when I say that nothing could induce me to ask the good reverend to turn out his pockets!”

“Not quite,” cut in a cool, hard voice. It was Betsy’s fiancé, Benedict Toomes. Lizzie felt his sardonic gaze dwell on her for a moment before he turned it on the vicar. “If no one else will, I believe I’ll have to insist upon it.” The room was instantly silent as the grave.

“Oh no, Benedict!” Betsy protested, turning toward her fiancé and plucking at his sleeve with agitated fingers. He neither acknowledged her words or actions with so much as a glance.

“Empty it,” he said in a voice that could cut ice. “Now.”

Reverend Milson turned an unflattering shade of puce. “I really must object…” he bleated, even as his fingers obeyed the demand, fluttering to his breast pocket. He licked his lips and pulled out the corner of a large white handkerchief and in the process dislodged the brooch, which fell with a heavy thud onto the tablecloth where it glittered up at him accusingly.

Shocked silence reigned for one awful moment, and all that could be heard was the steady tick of the grandfather clock. Then Mrs. Lessing pounced on her brooch with a suppressed squawk and lifted it to press it to her lips. “Thanks be!” she breathed reverently.

Reverend Milson drew himself up. “How did that get there?” he blustered, raising his eyes heavenward. “Good gentlemen, I assure you I have no earthly notion.”

He was lying. As her faith in her idol withered away, Lizzie dropped like a stone into her seat and sat winded as the babble of excited conversation rose in a deafening swell. She felt like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Her limbs felt weak and strangely heavy.

“Someone must have placed it there!” said Mrs. Hedgcomb shrilly. “It’s an outrage to try to discredit a man of the cloth and besmirch his blameless character. Hester Anderson, I’ll not set one foot in this godless house again, and I’ll warrant I am not the only one!” Her words were greeted with a chorus of indignant agreement from the company at large.

Aunt Hester’s mouth fell open, and she looked about in dismay at the angry faces of her guests. “B-but, Ada!” she stammered, wringing her hands. “No one could think that dear Reverend Milson could ever do such a wicked thing!“

“You seem to forget,” Benedict Toomes’ voice cut across them all like the crack of a whip, “that there is a witness here present who saw Reverend Milson steal the brooch.”

Lizzie drew a pained breath as, once again, she felt the burning gazes of reproach fall upon her of everyone present. She raised her eyes from contemplation of her hands in her lap to meet them.

“Lizzie,” intoned her uncle sternly. “Do you mean to say you stand by this outrageous assertion of yours?” He was coldly furious, Lizzie realized. Furious with her.

Lizzie stiffened her spine. “I do,” she said simply. “I must. I saw Reverend Milson take the brooch and slip it into his own pocket.” She met first her uncle’s eyes, then slowly went around the table meeting everyone else’s. All fell away from hers, save for Benedict Toomes. His bored into her so searingly that she felt almost scorched.

“May the good Lord forgive you,” said Reverend Milson piously, though he gazed at some point over her left shoulder, steadfastly refusing to meet her eye.

“And you,” Lizzie responded automatically, as though in church.

“Lizzie!” her aunt choked, deeply shocked.

Benedict Toomes gave a nasty laugh, and the whole table erupted into chaos.

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