Four special coaches stood waiting outside, all of them decked out in the family crest. For the chief mourners and family, I presumed. William Ormonde climbed into the front coach together with a very unhealthy-looking young man and two women, both veiled. One of the women had a very shapely behind beneath quite a tight black dress. The coaches pulled off towards the town with the rest of us following on foot.
Outside the very small church the mourners filed in slowly. It was a tiny church and at the last moment I decided that I had no stomach for sitting so intimately with such an ugly and bitter congregation, so I made up my mind to wait outside — the gathering afterwards would be bad enough. I needed to gather my wits, so I sat on a wall and enjoyed the fresh, cold air and the hoarse cawing of crows from the treetops of Minnes’ wood. When my behind got sore I went for a walk in the cemetery in search of the grave, a freshly dug hole. It was easy to find, in a small clearing beneath a giant oak tree surrounded by sanicle and periwinkle. Sanicle keeps away the surgeon, according to the French, whilst periwinkle stops nosebleeds when chewed. Neither of much practical use now for Anne Giles. The gravestone was small and arched, finely polished and chiselled.
Anne Ormonde
Born January 18th 1644
Died January 18th 1664
Thee didst hide thy face, and I was troubled.
Now shalt thou lift thy face unto God.
Composed by William Ormonde, no doubt; I was pretty sure it wasn’t from the Bible. Interesting that the husband’s name was ignored. Was the unhealthy-looking man with Ormonde her husband? Anne Giles died on the same day that she was born, her twentieth birthday.
Half an hour later the chief mourners emerged, and led a small procession up the shallow hill. I positioned myself that I might watch the woman with the shapely behind from the rear. The mourners took their positions around the grave and the local priest began to read from the Book of Common Prayer.
‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery,’ the priest read. This really is the gloomiest nonsense and I cannot abide it. What is the purpose in complaining how short a time we have to live on the one hand, then moaning that even though it is short it is also miserable? If it be so miserable then best that it is short — for those that are miserable. I am not myself miserable but will enjoy what life I do have and thank my blessings for it. Not waste my time decrying how short it is, for if I did that — then I would be truly miserable. Nonetheless some people were moved enough to cry, others even wailed, apparently in great distress. As the gratified minister read on, the coffin was lowered into the ground. Ormonde stood straight and still with his head slightly lowered. The woman whose behind made me want to whimper wept quietly. The unhealthy man that I now decided looked like a stoat, stood by himself, eyes fixed upon the coffin.
The priest paused to give the mourners time to take a hand of earth. Most did, and made their own farewells quietly while the priest proceeded through the rest of the service. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the stoat take advantage of the movement of people to step swiftly away. Once he was apart then he broke into a trot and ran quickly into the woods. I caught his eye for a second before he vanished. Though I felt some sympathy with his desire to be elsewhere, still it was an odd way to behave.
‘The love of God be with us all for evermore. Amen.’
Amen indeed.
‘Mr Lytle!’
Turning, startled, I found myself face to face with the woman with the behind. My heart skipped merrily and tripped through the fields singing songs of love. She lifted her veil and brushed back a hair from her forehead. Her nose was small and upturned at its tip; the end of it faintly freckled. Her mouth was wide and curved with full lips. Her hair was long and brown with a red sheen. Her eyes were green and looked straight into my soul. It was the face of the dead woman. My yard collapsed like a softly boiled mushroom.
‘My father told me about you and how you would help us.’ She spoke so softly that I found myself leaning forwards, stretching my neck like a chicken. I straightened quickly.
When did I offer help to her father? ‘You are Anne Giles’s sister?’
She bowed her head. ‘Mary.’
Though I expressed my sympathies, clumsily probably, for etiquette is not a particular strength of mine, I saw in her face that whatever she sought, it wasn’t kind words.
‘Mr Lytle, I pray that you will enjoy of our hospitality?’
Bowing awkwardly I contemplated with anxiety the prospect of going back inside that house with this group of wailing ranters. It was easier to do with an invitation, though, and I don’t suppose any would stop me leaving if I felt so disposed. I accepted her invitation.
‘Then I will see you at the house.’ She smiled at me with lovely white teeth then hurried away to her coach. Ormonde sat in it waiting, peering out through the little window like a malevolent rabbit.
At the house she squeezed my hand as I entered in the line and gave me a look with those green eyes that I found difficult to interpret — under the circumstances. If we hadn’t been exchanging pleasantries at her sister’s funeral then I would have been encouraged to tickle her chin. Her father nodded at me suspiciously and made the mumbling noise. It stopped once I had passed.
Once inside I did honestly try to make conversation with a couple of the more composed visitors, but my attempts fell flat. They looked me up and down as if I was a naked bearded woman. My mood brightened when I saw oysters, biscuits and mulled claret. I ate, then ate some more. There was nothing else for me to do in the absence of any that would talk to me.
‘Mr Lytle, come with me, please.’ Mary Ormonde appeared at my elbow like an angel of mercy. She steered me away up the staircase and into a library on the first floor. After shepherding me in she left me there while she went off to find a servant. They returned quickly, and the servant went straight to the fireplace and set about building a blazing fire.
‘This is the warmest room in the house.’ She sat next to me, close to the hearth, with her hands on her knees. Looking sideways, I found myself staring at her chest. ‘My name is Mary. It was good of you to come all this way, Mr Lytle.’
‘It’s not so far.’ I shrugged.
‘You said you are our cousin?’
‘That’s what my father told me in a letter. It comes as a surprise to me, I own. There again he is quite old now and not very sensible. I thought I ought come anyway, just in case.’
She smiled at me like a hungry dog. ‘My father says you are a wicked man without morals. Shrewsbury has devoted himself to your moral development because he owes a debt to your father.’
‘Did he say that?’
‘You have lain with many women.’
I didn’t really know what to say. It was not so many women — but I didn’t think that to be an appropriate response. Still she was looking at me. My lavender oil was mixing with whatever scent it was she was wearing and the brew was heady. I swallowed. I had come here to learn more about the Ormonde family and so far had found out little. Here I was in private audience with the sister — an ideal opportunity to find out all I wanted to know. All I had to do was stay calm and control my emotions. Then she reached over and put her hand on my plums. A strange thing to do to a man who might be your cousin, especially on the day of your sister’s funeral, but the world is a strange place and you can’t spend all your life shaking your head trying to make sense of it. That was about as far as my thoughts had progressed before she lifted her skirts and sat on my lap. Whilst I continued to contemplate, events developed their own momentum. Then, just as we were getting to the best bit there was a sudden crash. I jumped up, my heart pounding, Mary’s arms still clinging about my neck. Looking around, I saw a cloud of grey ashes drifting slowly through the shadows.