Because of her, the ridiculous conversation in the dark, she could almost feel as if Verity were her own daughter, although there was only a handful of years between them.
“Are you sure you wish to come?” she asked now. “No one would misunderstand if you preferred not to.”
Verity shook her head a little. “I’d love not to come, but I can’t leave you to do it alone.”
“Your grandmother is coming,” Alicia replied. “I shan’t be alone.”
Verity gave a dry little smile; it was the first time Alicia had seen it. She had grown up a lot since her father’s death, or perhaps she had only now felt the freedom to show it.
“Then I shall definitely come,” she said. “That is worse than alone.”
At another time Alicia might have made some protest as a matter of form, but today the hypocrisy seemed emptier than ever. It was a time for substance, and form was irrelevant.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “It will be much less unpleasant for me if you are there.”
Verity gave a sudden, flashing smile, almost conspiratorial; then, before Alicia could make an answer, they both heard the old woman’s stick banging in the hall as she came toward them. Nisbett opened the door wide, right back on its hinges, and the old woman stood in the entrance, glaring. She examined both of them closely, every article of their clothing from black hats and veils to black polished boots, then nodded.
“Well, are you coming then?” she demanded. “Or do you mean to stand there all morning like two crows on a fence?”
“We were waiting for you, Grandmama,” Verity replied instantly. “We would not leave you to come alone.”
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. “He’s going to be as wet as a fish if he stands out here for long!”
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.