Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [38]
It was a pleasing thought; to remain here by the grave while the vicar droned on imperviously would be the final wretchedness. The old woman looked like a sodden black bird, feathers ruffled, her whole stance bristling with anger. Verity stood with her head down and her eyes lowered so no one could read her face; whether it was out of grief for her father or because in mind she was not attending at all, Alicia could only guess, but she imagined the latter.
Lady Cumming-Gould, of all people, had also elected to attend. Her dignity was as superb as always. Indeed, but for her deep lavender mourning, she might have been at a garden party, rather than standing by a yawning grave in a winter churchyard in the rain.
Major Rodney was there, shifting unhappily from foot to foot, blowing water off his moustache, obviously acutely embarrassed by the whole business. Only knowledge of duty could have brought him. He kept darting furious glances at his sisters, who had presumably nagged him into coming. They huddled together, round-eyed, like little animals woken from hibernation and longing to return home.
The only other person was Virgil Smith, enormous in a heavy coat and bareheaded. She could not help noticing how thick his hair was and how it had been cut level at the bottom of his ears. Really, someone should find him a decent barber!
The vicar began to speak, then became increasingly unhappy with what he was saying, stopped, and began again quite differently. There was no other sound but the rain, swirling in blusters, and the far rattle of branches in the wind. No one else spoke.
Finally he became desperate and finished at a positive shout: “—commit the body of our brother—Augustus Albert William Fitzroy-Hammond—to the ground”—he took a deep breath, and his voice rose to a shriek—“until he come forth at the resurrection of the just, when the earth yields up her dead. And may the Lord have mercy on his soul!”
“Amen!” came the response with infinite relief.
They all turned and made with indecent haste for the shelter of the lychgate.
When they were crammed together underneath it, the old lady suddenly made a startling announcement. “There will be a funeral breakfast for anyone who cares to come.” She issued it rather as a challenge, a defiance to them to dare not to.
There was a moment’s silence, then a murmur of thanks. Hastily they stepped out into the rain again and splashed through the water now running down the paths and climbed into their respective carriages, sitting wrapped in wet clothes, trouser legs and skirt hems sodden, while the horses clopped back through the Park. On any other occasion they would have trotted, but it would be unthinkable for one to hurry leaving a funeral.
Back at home again, Alicia found the servants prepared to receive, although she had given no such instructions. Once, in the hall, she caught Nisbett’s eye and saw in it a gleam of satisfaction. It explained a great deal. One day she would deal with Nisbett; that was a promise.
In the meantime she must force herself to behave as was expected of her. The old lady might have invited them, but she was the hostess because this had been Augustus’s house, so now it was hers. She welcomed them in and thanked them for coming, ordered the footmen to bank up the fires and dry out as much clothing as possible, and then led the way into the dining room where the cook had prepared an array of suitable dishes. It was hardly the day for cold food, even as rich as game pies and salmon, but at least someone had thought to provide hot, mulled wine. She doubted it was the old lady; probably Milne, the butler. She must remember to thank him.
Conversation was stilted; no one knew what to say. All the sympathies had already been expressed; to say they were sorry yet again would be so jarring as to be offensive. Major Rodney made some mumbled remark about the weather, but since it was midwinter, it was hardly a subject for surprise. He began on some reminiscences about how many men had