Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [37]
The old lady snorted. “Huh!” She looked venomously at Alicia. “I thought perhaps you were waiting for that Mr. Corde you are so fond of! Not here this time, I see. Perhaps he is afraid for his skin! After all, you seem to bury husbands more often than most!” She grabbed at Nisbett’s arm and went out, whacking the door lintel with her stick as if it might have moved out of her way were it more aware of its duty.
“It would hardly be appropriate for Mr. Corde to have come.” Alicia could not help defending him, explaining, even though the old lady was out of hearing and Verity had said nothing but lowered her eyes. “It is a very private affair,” she added. “I expect no one but the family, and perhaps a few of those who knew Augustus well.”
“No, of course not,” Verity murmured. “It would be silly to expect him.” Nevertheless there was a ring of disappointment in her voice, and as Alicia followed her outside and into the black-draped carriage, she could not help wondering why Dominic had not at least sent a message. Good taste would keep him from coming himself; that was simple to explain. Since he loved Alicia, it would be a little brazen to turn up yet again to an interment, but it would have been so easy to have sent a small message, just a sympathy.
A coldness jarred through Alicia which had nothing to do with the wind and the drafty carriage. Perhaps she had read too much into his flatteries, the soft looks, the seeking after her company? She would have sworn, a few days ago, that he loved her, and she loved him with all the excitement, the laughter ready to burst open at the silliest things, the sharing of very private thoughts and sudden understandings. But maybe it was only she who felt like that and had put her own joy into his heart quite falsely? After all, he had not actually said as much—she had assumed out of delicacy for her position’, first as a married woman, then as a very recent widow. Maybe he had not said so quite simply because it was not true? Many people loved to flirt; it was a kind of game, an exercise of skills, a vanity.
But surely Dominic was not like that? His face swam before her memory, the dark eyes, the fine brows, the curve of his mouth, the quick smile. The tears welled up and slid down her cheeks. At any other time she would have been mortified, but she was sitting in a dark carriage on a wet, bitter day, on the way to bury her husband. No one would remark her weeping, and anyway, under her veil it would take a careful eye even to notice it.
The carriage lurched to a stop, and the footman opened the door, letting in a blast of icy air. The old lady got out first, holding her stick across their legs so they could not precede her. The footman helped Alicia. It was raining even harder, and the water ran round the brim of her hat and fell off the front, blowing into her face.
The vicar spoke to the old lady, then held out his hand to Alicia. He was never a cheerful man, but he looked unusually wretched today. Far inside herself she half smiled, but it would not reach her lips. She could hardly blame the man, even though she did not like him. After all, it was an occasion for which he probably had no precedent, and he was at a loss to know what to say. He had stock phrases of piety for all the foreseeable events—baptisms, deaths, marriages, even scandals—but who could expect to bury the same man three times in as many weeks?
She could have laughed, albeit a little hysterically, but she saw in the distance the slim, elegant figure of a man, and for a moment her heart lurched. Dominic? Then she realized it was not; the shoulders were squarer, leaner, and there was something different about the way he stood. It was Somerset Carlisle.
He turned as she picked her way through the puddles on the path and offered her his arm.
“Good morning, Lady Fitzroy-Hammond,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry this should be necessary. Let us hope they get it over with as quickly as possible. Perhaps the rain will cut the vicar’s desire to expound.” He smiled very slightly.