Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [61]
There was some argument as to where Jack Radley should ride; in the end, with great unease, Mrs. March took him with her, and William and Sybilla went in their own vehicle.
They alighted at the lych-gate one by one, and walked up the narrow earth and gravel path towards the old smoke-darkened, stone-towered church. The gravestones on either side were worn and green-rimed with age, inscriptions long since softened into blurred edges till one had to peer to distinguish them. Far towards the yew hedges and the long grass there were white ones, like new teeth. Here and there a bunch of flowers, laid by someone who still cared.
Charlotte took Emily’s arm and walked close to her. She could feel her shaking and she seemed thinner, smaller than she had thought. She could not forget for a moment that she was the elder sister. This was oddly like Sarah’s funeral4—only the two of them left—but Emily was far less vulnerable then. Then there had been boundless optimism under the sorrow, a sureness of herself that lay like a wide certainty underneath the surface grief and fear and was strong enough to outlast it.
This was different. Emily had not only lost George, the first man she had loved and committed herself to, but she had lost the confidence in her own judgment. Even her courage was a barer thing; not instinctive, but fought for—a broken-nailed, desperate clinging.
Charlotte’s fingers tightened and Emily reached for her hand. Mr. Beamish, the vicar, was waiting at the door, a thin, fixed smile on his face. His cheeks were red and his white hair fluffed, as if he had run his hands through it nervously. Now, as he recognized Emily, he stepped forward, extended his arm, and then hesitated and dropped it again. He murmured something indistinguishable that fell away in a downward cadence. To Charlotte it sounded like a bad psalm. Behind him his maiden sister shook her head fractionally and gave a little sniff. She touched her handkerchief delicately to her cheek.
They were embarrassed. Rumor, supposition, had reached them. They did not know whether to treat Emily as a bereaved aristocrat to whom it was their social and religious duty to extend every pity, or a murderess, a scarlet woman, a creature they should shun, as a good Christian example, and before they themselves were contaminated by her double sin.
Charlotte returned their stare without smiling. Part of her knew a moment’s empathy for their predicament, but a much larger part despised them; she was aware it showed in her expression. Her feelings always did.
Inside the church Mrs. Stevenson, somber and gentle, was holding Edward by the hand. His face was pale and looked so like Emily’s it was painful. He let go of Mrs. Stevenson’s hand and came to her, awkwardly at first, conscious of a new gravity; then as she put her arms round him he relaxed and sniffed fiercely, before straightening up again and walking beside her.
Mungo Hare was standing in the aisle beside the March family pew at the front. He was a large man with a fair, open face and blunt features. He held his head up and his eyes looked at Emily squarely.
“Are you all right, Lady Ashworth?” he said quietly. “I’ve put a glass of water on the ledge there, if you need it. It’ll not be a long service.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hare,” Emily said absently. “That is most thoughtful of you.” She slid into the pew with Edward, leaving Charlotte to follow her, then Aunt Vespasia and Eustace. She could hear Mrs. March clattering irritably in the pew behind and banging the hymnbook. She resented not being at the front, and she intended to make her displeasure known.
Tassie sat beside her, head down, hands folded in her lap. It was incredible to think of her as she had been last night; calm,