The Reckoning (37 page)

Lucy came up from London with her husband, Rosamund
and the boys for the funeral of her brother. Their other
surviving sibling, Harry, was at sea, somewhere in the West
Indies. Neither of them had seen him for so long, he was more
remote to them than Edward.

Lucy and James embraced. 'Now there's only the two of
us,' she said. She reached back to arms' length to look at him. This falling from the branch business, she thought, made you realise how the years were passing. She was thirty-nine now,
though she found it hard to believe most of the time, but
James would be fifty this year. 'We should see more of each
other,' she said. 'Families ought to stay together.’

He saw through her words, and smiled. 'Dear, tactless
Lucy,' he said. 'I may be down to be the next to go, but I'm
not going to pop off for a good few years yet.’

She didn't smile. 'I mean it, Jamie. What have any of us got
but each other? Yet we rarely meet.’

He kissed her cheek — something he had hardly ever done
in his life before. 'We'll make a point of it, from now on,' he
said. He glanced towards her husband, standing watching
them, his polite face unfathomable as usual. 'What a civilising
effect you've had on this wild girl, Danby. There was a time
when all she wanted was adventure.'

‘
That was never
all
I wanted,' she said briskly, pulling away from him, and looking around. 'The damage looked
appalling from the outside, but in here you'd hardly know. Thank God it wasn't worse, I suppose.' She may have been
fooling herself, but she didn't deceive anyone else for a
moment. As she looked around her, all those gathered in the
hallway could see the lost soul inside her, which was asking
for reassurance from the walls and furnishings, familiar since
childhood.

The chapel was crowded the next day — family, friends and
neighbours, servants and tenants filling the seats and aisles
and spilling out into the hall. Héloïse regretted again that
there were no flowers, no flowers in January for Edward, to
say goodbye to a dear friend and brother. She had done her
best with greenery, and perhaps, after all, evergreens were the
most fitting tribute to his particular qualities.

Evergreens and candles: it was like Christmas over again.
She wished she could feel the rejoicing a good Christian ought
that a soul was going home to God, but it had been too
sudden and violent and shocking, and she was going to miss
him too much. The best she could manage was a gladness for
the gift of his life, for the good that he had been, and for the love he had generated, which was represented by the number
of people who crowded into the chapel for his sake. He was
not a man people had spoken of loving, but here they all were
all the same, missing and needing him.

Here was his family – James, Sophie, Nicholas and Benedict; Lucy and Danby, Rosamund, Roland and Thomas; and
John Skelwith, his secret nephew. Mathilde was still in
childbed, of course, having been delivered safely of a girl on
the morning after the storm. They had not told her at first
about Edward's death, for fear of what the shock might do to
her, so soon after giving birth. Héloïse had visited her
yesterday for the first time, to see the new infant, and to
break the news herself.

It had been a great shock, greater than Héloïse expected.
Mathilde had wanted urgently to get up, to come to the
funeral today, and with difficulty Héloïse had persuaded her
that it was too soon. She had half expected her to appear all
the same, but evidently John had managed to convince her
that it would not be good for her in her condition. Mathilde,
Héloïse knew, had been particularly fond of Edward, and
they had been very close in the days before John Skelwith
came on the scene.

It was a good thing, really, that she had the new baby to
occupy her, and to give her an object of tenderness and
concern which would blunt the loss of Edward. They had
called the baby Mary, after John's mother. Héloïse supposed
it was inevitable. Mary was a good saint's name, anyway; and she was glad it had been a daughter. Somehow that was easier
to bear than a son. She thought Edward would have been
glad, too.

The Ansteys were there, John and Louisa and their
children, and the Pobgees and Micklethwaites, the Keatings
and Shawes and Somerses. Henry Bayliss, the newspaper proprietor, and his brother the physician were there, and
Havergill from the hospital, and Dykes the banker, and the
Applebys, and Colonel Brunton the magistrate – friends from
Edward's club, and colleagues from the various public
committees he had sat on from time to time in his crowded
life.

The tenants were there, and the spinners and weavers and
outworkers, and the Governor of the hospital and the head
master of the school, with an offering from all the boys. The
sphere of his influence had been enormous. There was so
much a man in his position could do for good or ill, so many lives he affected. There were a great many people with cause
to thank God for Edward Morland, for his industry and
energy, for his integrity.

Father Moineau conducted the service so beautifully and so
movingly that it was impossible for any listener not to weep;
and that, Héloïse thought, was as it should be. The tribute of
tears was the good man's mead. Edward's coffin was lowered
into the vault – where less than two years ago they had buried
Fanny and her stillborn child – and the stone was replaced.
And then the ceremony was over.

Later, when the guests had gone away, the vault was reop
ened, and a second, smaller coffin was lowered to be placed next to the first. It was not something that the family would
speak of to outsiders, for there were some who might think it
inappropriate or pagan, or even blasphemous; but for those
who had loved him and known him best, it seemed right and
comfortable that Edward should be buried with his good dog
to sleep beside him in death, as he always had in life.

*

Mr Cripps, the assistant manager of Harding and Howell's,
opened the door with a profound bow, and a deferential
murmur of 'Good morning, your ladyship!’

Rosamund, buttoning her glove, was about to pass out into
Pall Mall but drew back with a breath of annoyance. It had
begun to rain since she came in. It looked as though it would
only be an April shower, but she was wearing a new hat of her
own design of which she was particularly proud, and a
wetting would ruin it. It was a close-fitting cap of pale green
damask, stiffened with ribs of darker green velvet, with an
edging of tiny artificial flowers which framed her face, and
topped with a large silk rose. Even a spot of rain would be
disastrous.

‘
Your ladyship's carriage —?' Cripps murmured enqui
ringly.

‘
Is to meet me in Bond Street,' she said shortly.

‘
You should have brought an umbrella, my lady,' Moss
said, which was dangerously close to 'I told you so', particu
larly as she knew her lady hated carrying the wretched things.

Rosamund frowned. 'I suppose I must wait until it stops,'
she said.

‘
I should be happy to summon you a hackney, your lady
ship,' Cripps began, but a gentleman passing by in the street
had turned his head at the sound of Rosamund's voice, and
came across to her, smiling from the shelter of a very large,
black umbrella like a young tent in mourning.

‘
Why, Lady Rosamund! What a pleasant surprise.'

‘
Why, Mr Hawker!' she replied in kind. 'You do seem to
appear at the most opportune moments.'

‘
How kind of you to think so. I was just cursing the rain,
but now I see it was a gift from the beneficent gods.' He gave
her a comprehensive and admiring look from her confection
of a hat to her green morocco boots which made her blush
with its frankness. 'It would be a great pity to spoil such an
enchanting
ensemble.
Please allow me to be of service to you.
I am completely at liberty, and this is, as you see, a very large umbrella. Where do you wish to go?'

‘
Chelmsford House is only a step down the road, my lady,'
Moss piped up daringly from the rear.

Rosamund refused even to hear her. 'I have an errand for my mother at Martin's in King Street, and then I am bound
for Bond Street, where my carriage is to collect me in an
hour.'

‘
Excellent,' said Hawker. 'Then will you take my arm,
ma'am?’

Rosamund stepped out and under the umbrella, leaving
Moss to follow and get wet, which was her punishment for
daring to suggest Rosamund subject herself to Chelmsford
House and her future mother-in-law on a morning when she
meant to be free and enjoy herself.

‘
I suppose you must be very busy, shopping for your
wedding-clothes?' Hawker said conversationally. 'I believe
June is the month to be honoured, is it not?'

‘
You know about it, then?' Rosamund said, not very
surprised.

‘
Nothing else is talked of in the best circles,' he assured her solemnly.

‘
Yes, we are to marry in June. It was to have been
February, but we had to put it off, you know, because of my
uncle's death.'

‘I heard about that. It was very shocking,' he said gravely.

Rosamund raised her brows. '
You
say so? I understood you
were at outs with my uncle Ned, even more than with my
uncle James.’

Hawker shrugged. 'One does not generally wish death on
people, simply because one has quarrelled with them.'

‘
I believe you are growing mellow with age, Mr Hawker.’

He ignored the mockery. 'And it is shocking to think of
that noble old house in ruins.'

‘
Hmph. Well, your information is at fault there. It was only
one wall and a chimney that came down — bad enough, of
course, and then poor Uncle Ned — however, I don't wish to
talk about that, even if it is a rainy day.'

‘
Quite. Life must go on. And June is a better month for a
wedding, anyway. But, tell me, I'm curious, what changed
your mind?'