Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [176]
Tonight, 5 November, he wasn’t on duty in London, he was standing among the revelers in an attractive village high on the Downs and beside him was the widow of a friend who had died in the Great War. She had invited him to come down for the occasion. “You must, Ian! It will do both of us a world of good. It’s time to put the war behind us, and try to rebuild our lives. . . .”
He had no life to rebuild, but she did, and Frances, his sister, had urged him to accept the invitation. “Elizabeth has mourned for two years. It won’t bring Richard back, will it? I think we should encourage her, if she’s ready to shut the door on all that. And it will do you good as well, to see more of old friends. You’ve buried yourself in your work for months now!” The last accusing. And then Frances had added hastily, “No, I’m not matchmaking. She would do as much for either of us, if we were in need, and you know that as well as I do.”
It was true. Elizabeth was one of the most generous people Rutledge knew. Richard Mayhew had been very fortunate in his choice of wife.
She was a slim woman in her late twenties, with sparkling dark eyes and a wry sense of humor. Her presence was brightness and warmth and a belief that life could be good. It was—almost—contagious.
And just now, he was in need of warmth and brightness, to chase away other shadows . . .
Clinging to his arm in the press of people, Elizabeth was saying, “Richard loved all this, you know. He loved tradition and the . . .”
Rutledge lost the thread of her words as the Guy, flamboyant in dress and hanging from a long pole, was brought into the square and carried triumphantly around the unlit fire. A deafening shout of approval rose, and as Rutledge glimpsed the painted mockery of a face, its wild eyes and flaring nostrils, the grinning mouth, the bits of someone’s wig straggling about the ears, he had to laugh. What was lost in talent had been made up in exuberance.
“Aye, exuberance,” Hamish agreed, “with a wee touch of Auld Clootie . . .”
The devil. Only a Scot with generations of Covenanters in his family tree would make such a comparison.
Rutledge responded silently, “The first James was your king as well as ours. Or have you forgotten?”
Hamish, considering the matter, replied, “We didna’ care o’er much for him.”
The Guy was closer now, dancing a jig on the pole, and Elizabeth was laughing like a girl. “Oh, Ian, look, he’s wearing those masquerade clothes I found in the attics and donated to the committee. Wouldn’t Richard have been delighted—”
On the far side of the crowd, someone had lit the fire, and the flames began to fly through the dry brush, reaching for the harder wood. Applause greeted them. In the garish light, the Guy took on a realistic life of its own, the straw-stuffed limbs jerking in time with the booted feet of its minders as it was paraded before an appreciative audience. Shouts of approval and the word “Traitor!” mingled with laughing cries of “Into the flames with him!” and “God save King James and Parliament.” The shrill, giggling voices of children taunted the Guy, a counterpoint to parents warning their offspring not to venture too close to the fire: “Mind now!” or “Stand clear, do!”
And in the light of the flames, lit just as garishly as the Guy, was a face that Rutledge’s gaze passed over—and returned to— and recognized—
But from where?
He went cold with a sense of shock he couldn’t explain. A knowledge that was there, buried deep in the brain, concealed by layers of denial and blank horror. And yet rising to the surface with the full force of his being was a single realization—he didn’t want to know the answer —
There was danger in searching for the answer—
He stood motionless, his body rigid, his arm stiffening in Elizabeth’s grip. But she was entranced by the spectacle, and unaware. He was physically caught up in his surroundings,