Sunday Morning || St. George’s || July 1800 || @conradmowbray
Amelia sat nestled between her ladies in a gallery pew, like a pretty row of tulips mixed with baby’s breath, swathed in varying shades of pink, orange and purple and trimmed with lace.
To her left, Lady Peebles snored softly, her gusty breath tickling Amelia’s neck with each exhale. To her right, Ladies Tilbury and Boyle were making quick work of their samplers, stitching messages to one another that Amelia was determined to overlook. It was rather difficult to commune with God when surrounded by distraction, but Amelia endeavored to do her best, hands clasped in white-knuckled prayer as Lady Findley occupied herself by loudly whispering her personal thoughts on each member of St. George’s clergy as it related to matters of marriagabilitty.
“Amen,” she echoed alongside those members of the parish who had bothered to pay attention, and opened her eyes just in time to see a tuft of white fur slip out of the pew.
“Lottie!”
Her scandalized whisper was muffled by the beginnings of the sermon. The answering bark (more of a chirp really) had her silently asking for forgiveness as she slipped from her seat and out into the hall.
It was her own fault for bringing Lottie along, but the poor dear had been so unwell after nibbling on a lady’s skirt. She always did better in Amelia’s company.
There could be no doubting that the puppy’s vigor had fully recovered. Lottie scampered down the stairs, disappearing around a corner and leaving Amelia trotting after.
She slowed as they reached the main floor of the church. Lottie was silhouetted against row after row of parishioners, each in varying states of inattention but blessedly faced toward the altar.
“Lottie—”
Tiny white paws crept toward the very back row, fixated on an appetizing trouser hem. Amelia knew she shouldn’t have let Lottie chew on her slipper. She half-crouched, edging toward the dog and the gentleman whose trouser were unwitting pray. “Lottie, please.”
