A Kind And Decent Man. Mary Brendan
standing a way off, absolutely still—a solitary figure divorced from those by the graveside stamping frozen feet and huddling close together for warmth. She was sure he was staring at her as intently as she was at him, despite her veil and matted lashes distorting her view. And she quietly knew that after seven years he would look as she remembered him even though his features were indistinct. He looked statuesque outlined against a washed winter sky, and quite frighteningly imposing. He seemed more powerfully built. Perhaps he had grown broader, or perhaps it was just an illusion created by his heavy black greatcoat. A steamy haze froze before his face and this undeniable proof that he was not a figment of her imagination but a living, breathing man simultaneously cheered and alarmed her.
He must have just arrived, walked up alone from Hartfield to the chapel, for he hadn’t left with the mourning party. He was a head taller than any man here and impeccably attired; she would never have missed him.
Victoria dragged her gaze back to Parson Woodbridge’s kindly face as he concluded the funeral service and indicated to her that the pair of grave-diggers would like to continue about their business.
It was too final! She couldn’t yet relinquish the man who had cared for her, provided for her and her relatives. It was too soon.
Despite the empathy radiating from the friends and neighbours grouped about her, she felt alone and frightened, and that stomach-churning anxiety was now oddly intensified by the shadowy, remote figure on the edge of her vision. She suddenly wished that Daniel hadn’t insisted she write and ask him to come. Why had he? There had been no bond between them other than a distant kinship that neither man had ever sought to acknowledge or build on.
She became conscious of people looking more purposefully at her. Stiff fingers were being warmed with puff-cheeked breaths and chilled cloaked bodies batted with rigid arms. They were patiently awaiting a signal to leave.
‘Are you ready, Victoria, my dear?’ the parson enquired kindly as he took a pace towards her. ‘Come, my child, you’ll freeze,’ he coaxed, taking her arm gently and turning her about. ‘You can return later, when these men have done their work, with another pretty posy and a nice hot toddy inside you.’ He lifted a bony gloved hand to his bulbous nose set in a curiously gaunt face. ‘I do believe this is twice its normal size,’ he gently joked as he led her away. Sheeny grey eyes raised to his painfully purple proboscis and Victoria choked a hysterical giggle. She gratefully held his arm as they slowly made their careful way back down the frost-glistening grassy hillock to the shingle path that wound to Hartfield. The mourning party, approximately a score in number, fell into step behind them. A quiet murmuring among its members could be heard, conveying gladness that the ceremony was satisfactorily accomplished, and that a fire and a warming drink awaited them at Hartfield.
They would pass close by him, Victoria realised, for he had not so much as budged an inch from his isolated spot. Raising her head as she drew level, she turned; courtesy decreed she acknowledge him. Glistening grey eyes were immediately entrapped by a steady sapphire gaze. Powerless to break free, she glided on until looking across at him became impossible and she finally twisted her veiled face away and exhaled.
The blonde woman climbed the last mound. Pausing to draw a spiteful breath, she spied the snaking trail of mourners trudging away towards Hartfield. But her narrowed green eyes were almost immediately skimming back to the churchyard, targeting the sole remaining figure. Her interest quickened at his virile attractiveness, but it was his obvious affluence that drew forth a calculating smile.
Ignoring the open grave, the tall, impressive man strolled the rimed grass towards the shingle path. Feline eyes tracked him until he latched the lychgate, when they pounced forward onto the slightly built young widow far in the distance and close to the saintly parson.
The woman’s generous mouth thinned in malice. Wrapping herself more closely into the warmth of her thick cloak, she picked a careful path across the slippery turf. She glared boldly at the two labourers who began whispering as she approached. Leaning on shovels, they watched curiously as she stared down at the coffin partially obscured by a few scoops of rich dark soil.
Muttered curses, loud and crude enough to make the grave-diggers exchange an appreciative look, preceded earth piled along the edges of the grave being sent hurtling unceremoniously back into the void by a small booted foot. Then, with a dramatic swirl of her cloak, the blonde woman was hastening back across the fields in the opposite direction to the mourners and Hartfield.
‘Here, drink this,’ Laura Grayson urged her friend as she held out the glass of mulled wine.
Victoria gave her a grateful smile but her eyes were discreetly watching the door, sliding over familiar faces to find one she hadn’t seen for so long.
She felt neglectful now and ill-mannered. She had not so much as nodded to him in welcome or recognition. All she had done was stare like an idiotic fool. She so hoped he would enter the house and take a little refreshment before leaving. He had no doubt travelled from London. He must be tired…thirsty. Guilt and shame suddenly swamped her. He obviously felt shunned; she had written and invited him to attend the funeral, as Daniel had bidden her, yet done nothing to greet him. Daniel would have been rightly horrified by such lack of hospitality.
Her aunt Matilda entered the drawing room and immediately made for the roaring fire, a glass of warm wine grasped in each hand.
‘Your aunt Matty seems in fine form,’ Laura said wryly, but her troubled hazel eyes searched Victoria’s strained countenance. ‘Daniel would hate to see you looking so peaky. Remember those promises you made,’ she gently reminded her.
Victoria gave her friend a wan smile, then directed a speedy, searching glance at the ancient gentleman ensconced close to the wide hearth. It judged him to be quite comfortable and cosy. ‘Would you mind my papa, Laura, while I ensure everyone has some refreshment before they leave? It is so terribly cold and some have travelled far.’ Having received an immediate affirmative to this request from her friend, she hurried away.
People waylaid her to sympathise, making her pause to graciously thank them, but as soon as possible some inner desperation had her hastening on. She was sure he was here solely from his own sense of duty: he felt obliged to pay his last respects and would probably leave as soon as he deemed that achieved. The notion that he might go before they had even exchanged a few words, before she had even thanked him for attending, had her running.
Her black crape skirts were gripped in small white fists as she flew out into the chilly hallway and came upon him immediately, talking with the Reverend Mr Woodbridge. She stopped dead, her heart thumping so hard it was as though she had sped up three floors while searching for him in each of the fifty-two rooms that comprised Hartfield.
She paused to compose herself, noting that Jonathan Woodbridge had the appearance of a scrawny crow beside the expensively attired, athletic physique of the man who stood head and shoulders above him. He was listening with his lean, handsome face politely inclined towards the cleric’s sunken features. Both men saw her at the same time and as she moved forward again she silently gave thanks to Jonathan Woodbridge for his thoughtfulness. No doubt he had noticed the stranger in their midst and had taken it upon himself to welcome him. The people of Ashdowne were naturally hospitable folk. As she now classed herself amongst them, and was the largest landowner, she felt sadly lacking in duty. And duty was something Victoria had never shirked.
‘Mr Hardinge.’ She warmly greeted him, extending a small, gloved hand which he courteously, fleetingly touched. The extreme brevity of the contact made her withdraw it quickly and shield it amongst her stiff black skirts. But she cordially continued, ‘I’m so glad you have joined us today. It is an honour that you have travelled in such perilous weather to attend Daniel’s funeral. You are very welcome. Please come through into the warm.’ Perhaps he had misunderstood her invitation to seek the fire in the drawing room, she thought when he neither moved nor spoke, but she felt the intensity of his blue gaze prickling the top of her head. ‘May I fetch you some mulled wine? Something to eat? There is a spread upon the dining table,’ she coaxed huskily, including Jonathan Woodbridge in this invitation so she could avoid those penetrating sapphire eyes.
‘That sounds