The Bishop's Daughter Read Free

alive."
    With that, Harry strode forward from the shelter of the trees and began to mount the Hill. He did not check his step until he reached the fringes of the crowd. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be about to cause consternation to others as he had Keegan by thus announcing his return from the dead. Yet glancing at the rapt expressions about him, Harry believed he could have dressed in a bed sheet and howled like a banshee without attracting attention. All eyes were riveted on Reverend Thorpe.
    Harry suspected that most of those about him had attended less to pay final respects than out of curiosity. Harry certainly did not blame them for that. He was curious as hell himself as to what monstrosity of Crosbie's lay concealed beneath that canvas.
    As he skirted the crowd, advancing ever higher up the Hill, the sound of the vicar's piercing voice began to carry to him in snatches. His cousin appeared to be delivering some sort of eulogy.
    "And I trust that our dear Lord Lytton is at this moment enjoying all the bliss of heaven."
    Harry grinned for he knew full well that the righteous Adolphus was mentally consigning his wicked cousin to the hottest of flames. Reverend Thorpe's speech became even more disjointed as he tried to enumerate Harry's many virtues and was apparently having difficulty thinking of any.
    At last the Reverend blurted out, "Er—a most godly man, an example to the entire community."
    Harry, who by this time had arrived behind the squire, within a stone's throw of the monument, nearly choked. Godly? He, who had scarce seen the inside of a church since his christening day? And even then he had been carried screaming into the vestibule.
    Harry saw that he had best step forward at once and save his cousin the embarrassment of coming out with any more such plumpers. But before he could edge past the squire's bulky frame, the vicar turned, stretching up one hand toward the canvas.
    The crowd collectively held its breath as the vicar intoned, "This solemn edifice has been erected by a grieving mother to the memory of the most generous and affectionate of sons, a brave and bold hero whose life has been so tragically cut short. But with this likeness mounted upon the Hill, Lord Harcourt Andrew Stephen Arundel, the fifth Earl of Lytton, will dwell among us forever."
    As the canvas came away, Harry expected to see some awful representation of himself in stone, garbed in full military dress in one of those stiff unnatural poses. As he gazed upward, he was as confounded as the rest of the assemblage. Mounted upon a plinth, rising to a full seven feet of glory, stood the muscular figure of man carved in Classical fashion, his tightly curling hair in nowise resembling Harry's own straight locks. But no one paid much heed to the head for the statue had been carved stark naked. Only the modest manner in which the figure held a sword before him prevented the full disclosure of his manhood.
    A stunned hush fell over the crowd, then many of the women present let out shocked and delighted shrieks, while the men exclaimed.
    "Damnation," the squire roared.
    "Abomination!" The outraged vicar staggered back as though he had uncovered the devil himself.
    "Exquisite," the Dowager Lady Lytton cooed, dabbing at her plump face with a black-edged handkerchief, taking pains not to mar the layering of paint meant to conceal her fifty-odd years.
    "Ridiculous!" said the squire's thin wife. "It looks nothing like Lord Harry. He was never so thick about the waist, and I am sure he had a much finer set of legs—"
    "Upon my word, madam." The squire leveled his wife an awful stare. "You seem to have made a thorough study of the matter."
    Mrs. Gresham colored. “I am sure that any woman--- er, I mean anyone who knew his lordship would say the same."
    By this time, Harry feared the only mourner present with tears glistening in the eyes was himself as he struggled to contain his mirth. But as his gaze chanced upon his cousin Julia,