A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell (feel good books to read txt) 📕

can’t trust them, you know. All manner of swarthy types are about. Greeks and Brazilians, even two Arabs from Egypt, of all places. And I spied a gent with skin as black as night. Well dressed and comported, to be sure.”

“Kevin, watch thy prejudices. Simply because the visitors don’t look like thee doesn’t mean they are criminals.”

“I know. You’re always schooling me about my judgments. You yourself mentioned this Amado character was talking with Harrington and Bailey, though. He could have done in Harrington and made off with the plans.”

“He could have, and maybe he did, but not because he hails from Brazil.”

The tall case clock in the front hall chimed eight soft tones.

Kevin jumped up. “My sainted Emmaline is waiting supper at home for me. And I’m late.”

I started to stand, mending and all.

“Don’t yeh be after thinking of getting up, Miss Rose.” His Irish brogue always increased when he was feeling pressure or was in a hurry. “I’ll be lettin’ myself out.”

“Good night, Kevin,” I called after him. He was a smart man and a good detective. But why wasn’t a killer behind bars instead of somewhere on Amesbury’s streets? And, because at large was exactly where the murderer was, I did get up after the door closed. I clicked the lock firmly shut and drew tight against the night the last two open curtains.

Chapter Thirty-six

A light rain fell as I walked the ten minutes to the Friends Meetinghouse the next morning wearing my oiled cloak. David had offered to drive me in the buggy, but I’d said I wanted the time to clear my head. His headache was blessedly gone, but he’d chosen to stay quietly at home and catch up on his medical journals. He’d also hinted he might be concocting a delicious midday meal for us, which had gained him an extra kiss. I decided to postpone my conversation with him about seeking a headache consultation until later today.

I hung my cloak on a peg in the front hall and slid into a pew at a few minutes before ten. Faith and Zeb hurried in and sat next to me. I folded my hands and closed my eyes, ready to let the outer world slip away and leave God alone, as John Whittier had written in his poem about this very Meetinghouse. I held Kevin in the Light for solving the case. I held my dear David, that his headaches might cease recurring. And I held in God’s Light our growing child, who, now that I was quiet, made tiny flips within me.

After the rustling of latecomers stilled, I opened my eyes and glanced around. On the opposite side of the room was Prudence next to her husband. Sober, I hoped. John sat erect on the facing bench with the other elders, as he always did. My eyes flew wide open when my gaze fell on a pew near where John sat. The man I saw was Amado, the Brazilian, and he was staring straight at me. I closed my eyes, not acknowledging him. Was he a Friend? Were there Quakers in Brazil? Or . . . did he even live in Brazil? Perhaps he’d immigrated to our commonwealth and lived in a nearby city or even in Boston.

I’d only once been more surprised by someone’s presence at worship. It had been when a disturbed man had tried to set the Meetinghouse on fire two years ago. For now, I attempted to slow my breathing. I wouldn’t find the peace I sought—nay, desperately needed—by letting my brain dwell on unanswered questions.

And thus the worship passed in silence. This week no one was moved to stand and share a message from God, for which I was grateful. I always felt blessedly restored from a full hour of silence. As the church bells in town started to toll eleven, an elder stood and began the handshake of fellowship. After some moments of greetings, I filed out with Faith and Zeb.

“Zeb,” I murmured. “Did thee see the Brazilian thee mentioned? Amado?”

“I did. I don’t know what he’s doing here.”

“Neither do I.” But I waited to the side of the front steps. The rain had dwindled to a mist.

When nearly everyone had emerged, John walked out on the arm of the dashing Amado.

“Ah, Rose dear,” John said. “Has thee met our visitor?”

“Not to speak with. I am Rose Dodge.” I extended my gloved hand.

Instead of shaking it, the Brazilian lifted it toward his face. I opened my mouth to object, but it was too late. He pressed my hand to his lips, then relinquished it.

“Mrs. Rose Dodge.” I stressed my title, something I usually avoided. I wanted to be sure this flirtatious man knew I was married.

“I am Jorge Amado.” He pronounced his Christian name Zhor-zhee, as Zeb had. “I am honored to make the acquaintance of this famous man’s friend.” He gave a little bow, but as he straightened, he winked at me. He spoke with quite a strong accent, as Zeb had mentioned, but his words were perfect English. “I have sought out the great poet because I, too, dabble in the art.”

“He’s written some very nice pieces,” John said. “Alas, I can only read them in translation.”

“And I am very curious about your faith.” Jorge gestured to the Meetinghouse behind him. “I have never met a Quaker in my native Rio de Janeiro.”

“Thee is welcome to worship with us at any time,” I said. “And John is indeed a great poet.” I smiled at my elderly friend. Looking back at Jorge, I said, “How is thee finding our fair city? It’s quite different from Brazil, I should imagine.”

He laughed heartily. “Yes it is, in many ways. The food, the sea, the ladies, and of course, the weather. But alas, I now live in Boston.”

“And thee works in the carriage industry?” I asked.

“I have a position of some responsibility in the design department of the Kimball Brothers Carriage Company.”

An esteemed Boston producer of carriages. Which could make him very