An Act of Charity
By
Amanda Surowitz
Copyright 2013
Thin tendrils of smoke curled lazily, the vanilla and licorice flavored tobacco sweetening the air with its dusky scent. Maeve chewed the stem of her pipe and watched the entrance to the city church from inside the confessional booth. Apart from the nuns and monks, she saw no one.
She blew out a frustrated breath of smoke. Judging by the slowly brightening rays of morning light streaming through the colored glass, the bells would call the city people to worship soon. She hoped Quinn still planned to put in an appearance before then.
A priest crossed before her, studying an open Bible as he walked. Maeve held her breath when he stopped just outside her narrow field of vision. She hoped he only paused in thought and would move on.
“I’ve told you not to smoke within the church, Maeve,” the priest said. “For a moment, I thought the booth was on fire when I saw smoke pouring out.”
Maeve sighed in relief. Father Andrew would do his best to keep her concealed while berating her. He and most of the clergy who raised her were willing to overlook some of her flaws.
“It does look suspicious,” he added.
“Blame it on the candles or the incense,” she muttered.
“Nothing we burn in this church smells like your tobacco, my dear.”
“That’s a shame.” Still, she extinguished the pipe and stowed it in the pocket of her oversized coat. “Have you noticed any unsavory characters besides me in the church, Father?”
“Not inside, but Sister Mary did mention someone lurking about the cemetery a few minutes ago.” Maeve nodded to herself. It could be a solitary visitor, or someone watching the back door. “What does the person you’re waiting for look like?”
“A preening peacock.”
Father Andrew chuckled softly. “Another over-confident trouble maker with little regard for the law?”
“At least I confess my sins,” she grumbled.
“Sometimes twice in one day.”
Movement at the church entrance stole her attention. She smiled as Quinn sauntered in. He dipped his fingers in the basin of holy water and smoothed back his hair. Peacock, indeed, Maeve thought.
“I take it that is who you are waiting for?” Father Andrew said, distaste evident in his voice. “He looks worse than you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Maeve slipped out of the confessional, keeping her eyes pinned on the back of Quinn’s head. He sat in the third pew from the front. She started toward him, but Father Andrew pushed a closed Bible into her hands and headed to the back of the church.
Noticing the book didn’t close all the way, she was surprised to find a small letter opener wedged between the pages. Maeve shook her head and walked to the pews with the Bible tucked under her arm. Quinn turned as she sat behind him.
“I want to make this conversation as short as possible,” he began, adjusting the embroidered cuffs of his silk shirt.
“It will have to be short since you’re an hour late.” Quinn’s expression darkened. “You’re mad that a rather expensive collection of paintings was recently removed from your household, correct?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Quinn stroked his short beard to a point, the glittering ring on his finger distracting Maeve. She admired the ruby set in gold. The way he easily twisted it around his finger suggested it was too loose. It wouldn’t fit any of her fingers, but it was pretty—and probably worth a lot to the right merchant.
“Return the paintings at once. They’re more valuable to my family than they are to you.” Maeve opened her mouth to deny his accusation, but he held up his hand to stop her. “Everyone knows you’re responsible for most of the thefts in the last three years.”
“I like to remind them of that fact.” She ran her fingers over the cover of the Bible, gauging the emotions crossing Quinn’s face. He was angry with her, but not enough to violate the sanctity of the church. Yet.
“Was this just to get my attention?” he asked. Maeve smiled and shrugged.
“Partially,” she admitted, “but it was not my idea. I was told stealing your paintings would be quite a challenge—an acquaintance promised to pay well for my services. It wasn’t as difficult as she made it seem. I could have taken all your valuables right in front of you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Less exciting, but easy money for me.”
Quinn sputtered in outrage, earning more than a few wary looks from a pair of nuns lighting prayer candles nearby. Maeve locked eyes with one of them—Sister Mary—and silently told her not to worry. Mary did not look convinced. She and the other nun sat on the far end of the bench, a subtle reminder to Quinn.
He took a deep breath and kept his voice even and threatening. “Return my family’s paintings or I will strike at you any way I can.”
“You’d have to drag me out of here, first.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sister Mary cross herself. Above, the bells called the city to mass. Maeve smiled; she’d argued with Quinn long enough. “I have no intention of keeping or selling your paintings. Once my acquaintance arrives, I will have my money and you will have them.”
“He’s paying you here?”
“Yes. During the sermon.”
Quinn grumbled about the inconvenience, but remained seated as the church slowly filled with the city folk. Maeve waited patiently, pulling a tightly rolled note out of her pocket. She removed the knife from the Bible and discretely tucked it into her sleeve. Father Andrew probably meant it as a precaution against Quinn, but it was her other acquaintance who might render the blade necessary.
Father Andrew delivered the sermon, but Maeve barely heard it. She didn’t doubt the priest stared at her the whole time, willing the words to sink in, but she kept her attention on the woman sitting directly behind her. Maeve felt exposed when she knelt to pray with the congregation, especially when she felt the woman set a small pouch of coins by Maeve’s ankle.
The woman had a lot to learn about going unnoticed.
Maeve, however, took the small purse and slipped the note into Quinn’s hand when he eased back onto the pew. She withdrew her arm, but not before sliding the gold and ruby ring off his finger. It was too pretty to leave behind.
When the service ended, Maeve ducked into the crowd and melted into the sea of faces as well as she could. She smiled when she heard Quinn’s angry shout a moment later. She tucked his ring and the bag of coins into her pocket and nearly danced down the front steps of the church.
She should have known better.
Her foot touched the last step when a hand snared her by the elbow and wrenched her away from the congregation. He pulled her around the shadowed corner of the church, nearly tossing her into the wall. She threw her hand out to catch herself, the other gripping the knife still hidden in her sleeve. A chill swept over her neck as she felt the woman’s presence behind her.
“You shouldn’t wear breeches. Men might mistake you for a whore.”
Maeve turned to face the other woman, taking in the low cut of her dress and the claret fabric stretched tightly over her generous curves. She sighed and pulled out her pipe, relighting the tobacco with a match.
“I have no intention of taking any of your customers, Isabella,” she said, puffing smoke in the other woman’s face. “I’ll direct anyone looking for a cheap thrill to you.”
Isabella’s mouth quirked, but she ignored the jibe. “I saw the note you handed Quinn and I want my money back.”
“You told me to remove the paintings from Quinn’s gallery. You saw for yourself they were gone this morning.”
“And according to your note, they are dow
nstairs in his kitchen. I told you to steal them, not hide them in his house!” She smiled as Maeve’s composure slipped. “I saw you pass it to him, and I got a chance to read it while he threw a fit over his missing ring.”
Willing herself to stay calm, Maeve shrugged and leaned her shoulder against the wall. “You paid me to remove them from the gallery, not the house. If you had a more specific plan for revenge, you should have told me or done it yourself.”
Isabella reached forward and twirled a stray lock of Maeve’s dark hair between her fingers. She forced herself not to react to the intrusion. “When he finds his wife’s family portraits, she will forgive him.”
She chewed the stem of her pipe, resisting the urge to laugh. A few paintings probably would not absolve a man of infidelity in his wife’s eyes. “Perhaps you should have hired an assassin, then.”
Isabella smiled darkly and released Maeve. “Perhaps I should have.”
She motioned to the man who caught Maeve earlier. A dagger flashed in one hand as the other reached for Maeve’s throat. In one fluid motion, she pulled the knife out of her sleeve and stabbed it through his outstretched hand.
He howled in pain, giving Maeve a chance to escape. She glanced back as she rounded the back corner, seeing Isabella chasing after her with the man’s dagger.
Maeve paused in the cemetery and considered her options. The gardening shack—close, but too easy for Isabella to corner her. The church—also close, and Isabella couldn’t harm her inside.
She ignored any other options as Isabella rounded the corner behind her, dagger raised.
Maeve bolted to the back door of the church, pushing past a monk on his way out. She had no time to apologize. The staircase to the bell tower was on her right, and she took the stairs two at a time.
When she reached the top, she put her hands on her knees and panted heavily. When her breathing evened out, she heard raised voices below her. They didn’t come from inside the church, but behind her in the cemetery. She peeked out from the window, unsurprised to find Isabella and her henchman arguing. He clutched his bleeding hand to his chest. As if sensing their observer, Isabella’s head tilted back.
“Go ahead and hide in the church, you little bitch!” she shrieked. “One foot outside and you’re dead!”
Maeve smiled and shook her head. It would be too easy to slip out without Isabella noticing. She turned to leave, but stopped when she saw Father Andrew standing at the top of the stairs. He had his hands on his hips and glared down his wide nose as if she were a misbehaving child.
“I think you have a few sins to confess,” he said. With that, he led her back down the stairs and to the confessional. For the second time, Maeve extinguished her pipe and climbed into the booth. When he settled on the other side of the screen, he sighed. “What have you done lately?”
“A man tried to kill me, but I stabbed him in the hand with a knife provided to me by a member of the clergy.” She heard the priest mutter quietly, unable to make out the words. “Just before that, I stole a man’s ring and delivered the news to him that his other property had not been stolen. I also cheated a whore out of her money and possibly inspired her to murder someone.”
“Delivering such good news does not make up for your other crimes, Maeve,” he said sharply. “And why were you doing business with a whore?”
“It wasn’t that kind of business, Father. She hired me to steal Madame Quinn’s family portraits. She thought this would anger the woman further and provoke her to leave her husband. I let Isabella and Quinn believe I stole the paintings. Once she paid me, I told Quinn the paintings were still in his house.”
“No wonder she wants to kill you.”
“She might also try to kill Madame Quinn.” Reflecting on her conversation with Isabella, Maeve decided mentioning it was a mistake. “I do feel badly about that.”
“Perhaps you should protect Madame Quinn to atone for putting her life in danger.”
“And what if she breaks her neck falling down the stairs? I can’t protect her from that.”
“Protect her from Isabella,” Father Andrew said. As much as she hated the idea, she did feel guilty for endangering the woman. Perhaps she could find a way to get Isabella banished or arrested. “Have you been charitable like you promised?”
“Yes, Father,” she said quietly. “I did not steal the paintings.”
“That is not charity.”
“I gave Quinn’s housemaid enough money to feed her family for a month.” She paused to pull the ring out of her purse and admire the color of the ruby. “I also suggested she move Madame Quinn’s family portraits out of sight until he requested otherwise.”
“You have an interesting idea of charity, my child.” He sighed and mumbled a prayer. “You make it difficult to guide your spirit to the gates of heaven.”
“Don’t worry, Father; I’ll pick the lock if I have to.”