Appointed to Die Read Free Page A

Chapter for the roof over your head, and with no prospects of a man ever wanting you. It was no secret in the Close that Miss Marsden would like to become Mrs Brydges-ffrench; the possibility of this actually happening seemed highly unlikely to Rowena. It was true that Arthur Brydges-ffrench was not exactly a prize catch, but at least he had a good position – especially if he became Dean – and Evelyn could certainly never hope to do better. Retired now, and in her early sixties, Miss Marsden looked exactly what she was, or at least had been: the headmistress of the local infants’ school. She always dressed smartly, if dowdily, and wore her auburn-tinted hair in an old-fashioned French roll. The dress that she was wearing tonight almost concealed the unfortunate tendency towards plumpness that she’d fought unsuccessfully all her life, and as she inclined her head to Canon Kingsley, Rowena observed her slightly stilted manner of speech, caused by the self-conscious way that she pulled her upper lip down in an effort to conceal her slightly protruding front teeth. She was definitely someone to be pitied, as was the poor Canon who so unexpectedly had to share her company this evening.
    Canon Kingsley, though, betrayed no discomfort. He showed every evidence of interest in her conversation, nodding away as he tucked into his meal. He was definitely enjoying his food, Rowena noted, and that endeared him to her – she hoped he’d remember, when the time came, what a good cook she was. As the most recent addition to the Cathedral Chapter, who had in fact been in his position of Residentiary Canon only a few months, John Kingsley was not well known to her. But from what she’d seen of him thus far, there was nothing to dislike – apart from his daughter, of course. His manner was always gentlemanly, in a somewhat abstracted way, and there was something serenely spiritual about his long, pale face, topped as it was with a soft sheaf of silvery hair. Tallish and willowy, he was as ethereal as an attenuated saint in an El Greco painting.
    His daughter took after him in build, observed Rowena, as well as in her pale complexion, and she’d made the most of it by dressing in a pastel Laura Ashley print dress. Rowena could see her animated face clearly as she turned towards Jeremy Bartlett, the blue-green eyes fixed on him and a smile curving her mouth. A shameless flirt, Rowena told herself acidly. Jeremy should see through her in a minute.
    Jeremy showed no signs, though, of tiring of Lucy Kingsley’s company; his back remained turned relentlessly to Rowena. She felt like crying: for weeks she’d worked planning this evening, not only to impress the members of the Chapter with her culinary skills, but also to let Jeremy know, in a subtle way, what a good wife she would make for him. She would grace his home and his table with her elegance and her good taste. She would entertain for him, help him to make a real name for himself in the cathedral world. He was a relative newcomer to the Cathedral Close, having sold up his London architectural practice and moved to Malbury as Cathedral Architect less than a year before. In that time Rowena had made little headway with him – hardly surprising, really, as he was such a recent widower, and presumably still in mourning – but she entertained great hopes of a breakthrough soon. Recently there had been tantalising hints, in his manner towards her, that he was not unaware of her charms, and until this evening that had been almost enough. He was such a fascinating man, with so many interests, and she thought that underneath his restrained and urbane exterior she could sense a passionate nature that matched her own. He was certainly attractive, as well, for a man who must be nearly fifty, with his ashy blond hair shading naturally into silver and his neatly trimmed beard covering a well-shaped jaw. Straining her ears, she caught snatches of their