Hattie left the house just before sunrise the following morning. It had come to the notice of the rest of the household that Will was not an early riser. Most days he would not come down for breakfast until well after nine.

“Continental hours, he calls them,” Mr. Little noted.

Whatever they were, Will's desire to remain abed late each day meant Hattie had the run of the house to herself in the morning. It also meant she could slip out of the house without him asking her where she was going.

As part of her need to make amends not only with Will, but with the world, she knew the time would come when she would have to face returning to St. John’s parish church. As she dressed this morning she knew that time was now.

One of the unexpected outcomes of her work at St. John’s parish was her parent’s acceptance of Hattie moving freely between their home and the church without an escort. This decision had been the cause of the first of many rows between her father and Edgar.

“I know these streets better than either of them,” she muttered.

Rugged up against the chill of a mid-Autumn morning Hattie set out. She made good time along Long Acre Street and up Drury Lane until she reached Holborn.

When she got to Holborn she stopped on the opposite side of the street from St. John’s. She had spent many days inside the simple stone church, helping London's poor and needy.

The plain watery broth she prepared in the church kitchen when she was able to source ingredients, was often the only meal the church’s parishioners got.

She pushed back her shoulders, then crossed the street and climbed the steps to the front door. In a matter of minutes, she would know whether she was welcome to return or not.

Closing the door behind her, she stood in the dimly lit church and breathed in. Placing a hand over her heart, she whispered. “Home.”

As expected, nothing had changed since the last time she had set foot inside the plainly decorated nave. It had only been a matter of a month or so, but it felt like half a lifetime.

There were no beautiful lead decorative windows in St. John’s, only glass. The floor was a functional grey tile. The little money the parish had, was spent on charitable works. Two vases either side of the altar were the only concessions to color. Filled with red and white roses from the bequest of a deceased benefactor, they gave heart to the soul of the building.

The hacking cough which was the signature tune of Father Retribution Brown announced his arrival.

“Here I go,” she whispered.

As the minister slowly made his way through the side door entrance, Hattie waited.

“Father Brown?”

He turned and screwed his eyes tight as he tried to focus on her face. His initial look of recognition, was swiftly replaced with shock.

“Hattie? Good lord child where did you come from?” he exclaimed.

He looked to one side of her. Hattie shook her head.

Her, “Only me,” was met with a frown. Father Brown shuffled closer and took a hold of Hattie’s hand.

“So where are your parents and Peter? Has something terrible befallen them?”

It was the question to which she had spent most of the morning constructing a suitable response.

“My parents and your nephew are likely still at sea and somewhere off the coast of West Africa. They should be in Freetown by the end of the month. I chose not to go with them,” she replied.

Hattie waited. She had agreed with Will that the lies were to cease. The truth was, she was here in London and the others were not. There was not much else to say.

Father Brown’s aged weathered hand squeezed hers gently. He sucked air loudly into his lungs and then began to laugh.

By the time he let go of Hattie's hand, he was well into a rough cackle. She stood watching him, dumbfounded.

It was not the reception she had been expecting. Anger perhaps, even open dismissal would not have come as a surprise, but laughter was most certainly not something she had entertained in her thoughts. She found it rather unsettling.

Retribution Brown was a man Hattie had never been able to see clearly. He was more softly spoken than his nephew, but she had never felt at ease in his company. His name had always given her reason for pause.

“I don't understand,” she finally said.

Father Brown's laughter dimmed to a smile.

“That's because you have not fully accepted God's purpose for you. Though the fact that you are here, and not on your way to becoming a missionary’s wife, tells me he has spoken to your heart,” he replied.

Her parents were black and white when it came to their role in the church, Peter even more so. They had a calling to preach and convert, so therefore must she. Her role was well defined as far as they were concerned.

“I told that thick headed nephew of mine he had no right to force you into marrying him. He of course in his usual stubborn way would not listen. Your parents should never have encouraged him. I told your father the very same thing the week you left.”

She was taken aback by his words. Someone had seen her despair and she had been blind to it. Father Brown of all people had pleaded her case. If only she had known, so much of the pain which had followed could have been avoided.

“You grew a spine Hattie Wright, and I am certain that our heavenly father had a hand in it. He needed you for the church’s work here in London. Come,” he said.

Hattie followed him back through the door from which he had come. Soon they were in the small stone cottage adjacent to the church.

“The lighting of the candles can wait. No one will be at prayer this early in the day,” he said.

While Hattie took a seat at the kitchen table, Father Brown pulled two cups from the shelf and busied himself about the place. Once a week one of the parishioners would come to clean the house and restock the small larder, but other than that Father Brown was content to take care of himself.

“Has your brother taken you in?” he asked.

At her lowest point, Hattie knew she would never have lied to a priest. She was glad to be back on the road to being her old open book self.

“I have made other arrangements for the short-term. My brother does not know I am returned to England, but I shall seek him out when I am ready,” she replied.

Father Brown handed her a cup of pale, weak tea. The tea leaves were reused many times before being thrown out onto the small kitchen garden patch at the back of the vicarage.

“I see. So, my dear. Have you come back to continue your work with me?”

“Yes please. I would love to come home,” replied Hattie.

Father Brown scratched the scraggly strands of white beard on his chin. He pointed to a small wooden pail sitting in the corner. Hattie had carried that very same pail to and from the market more times that she could recall.

“Well I suggest you get to work on the measly carrots I managed to get from Covent Garden this morning. The traders are not as generous with me as they were with you. I think some of them might be angry with me for letting you go. Once you are done with them, I would be happy to hear your confession.”

Hattie wiped a tear away. There was nowhere else in the world that she would rather be than seated on the broken step outside the church peeling carrots.

She would take her time with the carrots. She had a long list of sins to compile for confession.

* * *

Hattie’s happy mood at being back at St. John’s and receiving Father Brown’s blessing lasted until she arrived back at Newport Street. Will's reaction to discovering she had ventured unaccompanied from the house was not so pleasant.

“I thought we had agreed you would be honest with me,” he said.

His words while delivered in an even tone, contrasted with his right hand which was tapping loudly on the breakfast room table.

“I didn't lie to you. I simply went out without telling you. You cannot expect me to wait around the house until you rise. Half the morning would be gone,” she replied.

After the unexpected joy of discovering Retribution Brown was more than happy to welcome her back into the fold, Hattie refused to allow Will's bad temper to get the better of her. He was welcome to be as angry as he liked.

It was not as if it was the first time she had made the trek across to Holborn on her own. And it wouldn't be the last if she had any say in the matter.

The thought did however give her pause. She pulled a chair out and took a seat at the table, unwilling to argue her case like a recalcitrant child made to stand before its displeased parent.

“I am sorry you were not aware of the arrangement which existed in this house before you took possession. I regularly make my way on foot to St. John’s and St. Giles,” she explained.

“Unaccompanied?” he replied.

And there it was, the reason for his wrath. He feared for her safety. As she wracked her brain for a suitable response, one which would not further invite his ire, Hattie observed Will. It was intriguing to watch a man such as Will work to control his emotions.

It was clear he did not enjoy his display of bad temper. She wondered if he felt ashamed of his apparent inability to control that part of himself. He was most certainly a man who liked to be in complete control of any given situation.

The tapping on the table ceased.

“I am not at all pleased with the notion of you wandering the streets of this city alone, especially when your care is my responsibility,” he added.

His voice was as calm as before, but she caught the hint of anger still simmering just below the surface.

“What would you have me do? I can't drag either of the Littles from their work about the house,” she replied.

“I could hire you a maid.”

Hattie's hands met tightly together beneath the table. She cracked the first knuckle.

“You know that is bad for your fingers,” said Will.

A rush of heat filled her cheeks. How many times had her mother instructed her not to crack her knuckles?

“I don't know, I haven't observed any particular problem which may be caused by it. I have tried not to, but it is as you have already noted, a nervous habit of mine,” she replied.

What Will didn't know, to Hattie's secret pleasure, was that cracking her knuckles was also something she did when she was happy.

If she had a maid in tow, there was a good chance she would be recognized. Questions would then be asked. It would not be long before the scandalous truth of the domestic situation at forty-three Newport Street became public knowledge.

The Bishop of London's widowed nephew living with an unmarried gentle society woman under his roof would be the talk of the ton. Worst of all her brother would find out and then there would be the devil to pay. Will would be able to pressure Edgar into accepting his offer to marry Hattie. She would not stand a chance of saying otherwise.

“I need to be able to continue my work. It is the reason I came back. A maid will make things difficult for me in the rookery. It will make me target.”

Her reply was slow and measured. She was not foolish enough to try and tempt the protective beast that lived within Will. She had to address her message to the other man that he was, the man who had a secret past. One she knew in her heart included living with danger.

That man would understand the need for her to move unseen among the streets of St. Giles. A maid would only bring unwelcome attention from the villains who also lived within the rookery.

He resumed strumming his fingers on the table. Hattie remained silent.

“I am not the least bit comfortable with this situation, but until I can convince you that this is not the life you should be living, I am prepared to go along with it. But, I reserve the right to change that decision if I feel that either your body or your reputation is under threat. Are we agreed?” he said.

Hattie nodded. “Agreed.”

She had been prepared to threaten to move to the vicarage at St. John’s. Will however, was not a man who took kindly to threats. She had won this round of the battle, and she knew not to push her luck.