Her Convenient Husband's Return

‘You have been alone in the big house? With no one to talk to?’

‘Mrs Bridges loves to discuss the menus.’ He spoke in crisp tight syllables, like twigs snapping.

She was cruel, that woman. Selfish. Lady Graham, not the cook.

Without conscious thought, Beth reached again for him, taking his hand within her own. She felt its size and breadth. She felt the small calluses. This time he did not jolt away. Instead, with a soft sigh, he allowed his grip to fold into hers.

* * *

Ren wanted only to leave, to spring astride the nearest horse and ride and ride and ride until everyone and everything were but tiny pinpoints, minutiae on a distant horizon.

The carriage halted in front of the country church. The building was as familiar as his own face, its walls a patchwork of slate-grey stone criss-crossed with verdant moss. His glance was drawn to the graveyard, a place he and Edmund had tiptoed past, scaring each other with wonderful stories of disturbed ancestors, ghosts, spooks and clanking chains.

Now Edmund would join their number.

Ren looked also to the grassy enclosure with its clutter of uneven tombstones, clustered about the family mausoleum.

Edmund’s family.

* * *

The church was full. The villagers had placed vases of yellow daffodils at the end of every pew. Their blossoms formed bright dabs of colour against the darkness of the polished wood. Sunlight flickered through the stained-glass windows, splashing rainbows across the slate floor. Particles of dust danced lazily, flecks suspended and golden within the light. The atmosphere was heavy with hushed whispers, perfume, flowers and the shuffle of people trying too hard to be quiet.

Ren went to the Graham family pew where he’d sat as a child. The organ played. He could feel its vibration through the wooden seat. Beth loved that feeling. She used to say that she didn’t even miss her sight when she could both hear and feel each note.

The villagers looked at him, covert glances from across the aisle. He wondered how many of the farmers and tenants knew or suspected his questionable paternity? Did they despise him? Hate him? Pity him? Did he even have a right to mourn?

His gaze slid to Beth. Black suited her, the dark cloth dramatic against her pale skin and golden hair. Not that she would know, or even care. Beside her, Jamie sat solid and silent.

Ren did not know if their presence comforted or hurt. They reminded him of a time before loss, a time of childhood happiness, a time when his identify, his belonging had been without question.

His mother’s secret had shattered everything. Even his art no longer brought joy. Indeed, his talent was nothing but a lasting reminder of the cheap portrait painter who had seduced his mother and sired a bastard.

The vicar stood. He cleared his throat, the quiet noise effectively silencing the congregation’s muted whispering. He had changed little from the days when they’d attended as children, though he was perhaps balder. The long tassels of his moustache drooped lower, framing the beginnings of a double chin. Thank God for the moustache. It kept sentiment at bay.

The organ swelled, off key and yet moving.

They’d been here for their wedding. No spectators, of course. Just Beth and Jamie and the vicar with his moustache.

Ren swallowed. He could not wait to be gone from here. He wanted to escape to London with its distractions of women, wine and gambling.

In London, he was a real person—not a pleasant or a nice person—but real none the less. Here he was a pretender, acting a part.

In London, he could forget about Graham Hill and a life that was no longer his.

Slaughtered in a single truth.

* * *

Finally, as with all things, the service ended. Everyone rose simultaneously like obedient puppets.

Beth stood also, touching his arm, the gesture caring. Except he did not deserve her care. Or want it.

‘Best get this done with,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t need to stand with me at the door, you know.’

She tensed. He felt her body stiffen and her jaw tighten, thrusting forward. ‘I do,’ she said.

He shrugged. He would not debate the issue in the middle of the church. ‘Fine.’

They stood at the church entrance beside the vicar. Ren felt both the fresh breeze, combined with the warm, stuffy, perfume-laden air from the church’s interior. It felt thick with its long centuries of candle wax and humanity.

The tenants came in a straggling line. They gave their condolences, paid their respects with bobbing curtsies and bows. Strange how he recognised each face, but knew also a shocked confusion at the changes wrought by time.

And strange, too, how difficult it was to focus as though forming simple sentences involved mental capabilities beyond him. The vicar seemed to have an endless supply of small talk, caring questions and platitudes as though he stored them within his robes like a squirrel stores nuts.

Surprisingly, Beth also appeared aware of each tenant’s issues: births, deaths and crops. Her knowledge of such minutiae made him realise the level of her involvement. He had not fully recognised this before.

At last, when they had spoken to everyone and the steps had cleared, he turned to Beth, touching her arm.

‘I can’t go into the carriage yet,’ he said. ‘I need—’

He stopped. He didn’t know what he needed—a break from these people with their condolences who thought he mourned when he had no right to. Escape from the pain which clamped about his ribcage so that he could breathe only in harsh, intermittent gulps.

‘We used to go to service here every Sunday. The family and the servants. I remember Mrs Cridge, Nanny, would see us all around back to “get rid of them fidgets”.’

‘We can do that now, if you want?’

He nodded. He could not go into that carriage with its memories, echoes of their childish giggles. She placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to guide her as they stepped around to the other side of the church which overlooked the valley and winding stream.

‘I can hear it,’ Beth said, cocking her head. ‘The brook. Once you said it was as though the bells of a hundred fairy churches rang.’

‘Good Lord, what utter nonsense I used to spout.’

‘I liked it. You made me see in a way Jamie and Edmund could not. I suppose it is because you are a painter.’

‘Was.’

‘You don’t paint at all now?’

‘No,’ he said.

For long seconds, Ren stared at the expanse of green, the grass sloping into the twisting brook. The weather had worsened, the clouds thickening and dimming the light, muting the greens and making the landscape grey.

Beth placed her hand on his arm. He glanced down. Even in gloves, her hands looked delicate, the fingers thin.

‘Ren?’ She spoke with unusual hesitation. She bit her lip and he felt her grip tighten. ‘How long will you stay here?’

‘We can go to the carriage now if you are cold.’