She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep when voices outside the door woke her.
A man and a woman were talking quietly near the top of the night stair.
She couldn’t make out their low words at first, but then the man’s voice rose.
“No!” he ordered sternly.
And the woman began to cry.
Uneasiness needled Rebecca. Should she get up and see what the matter was? Come to the woman’s aid, if aid was needed?Neither of them might appreciate a stranger’s interference, but she could not in good conscience do nothing.
Rebecca got up, put on her dressing gown, and slid her feet into slippers.
Tiptoeing across the small room, she pressed her ear to the door, but heard nothing. She gingerly turned the key and opened the door a few inches, then, seeing no one nearby, opened it farther and stepped into the passage.
Footsteps. She looked straight ahead and saw the figure of a man retreating down the dim gallery passage. A moment later, she heard a door slam somewhere to the right.
A quarrel of some kind, now ended, Rebecca decided. Relieved it was over, and to see no sign of a hooded figure, she thankfully went back to bed.
7
The next morning, Frederick awoke feeling restless. After dressing, he set out on foot along the North Road toward Wickworth, which stood on the opposite side of the village. Turning at Swanford Road, he approached the dower house nestled beside the estate’s long drive, lofty hedges lending it a modicum of privacy on the relatively busy street.
He stopped at the dower house to visit his mother and found her busy in her conservatory. She was pleased to see him, and irritated that Thomas had done no more than wave as he went past. Frederick followed her around the glass house she’d had built on since moving there, despite the high glass taxes. He dutifully expressed interest as she showed him her orchid specimens—ghost orchid, lady’s slipper, and spotted—and a newly imported staghorn fern.
After their visit, Frederick took his leave, but then hesitated on the drive. He supposed he could go into the house since he was so close, yet the prospect felt oppressive.
Instead he walked through the grounds and along the bridle way—the more peaceful, roundabout way to All Saints Church. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his neighbors. He did. And they,in turn, treated him with respect and deference. He simply was not in a sociable frame of mind, nor in the mood for idle pleasantries.
His solitary walk was soon disturbed, however, when he saw Rose Watts, his childhood nurse, walking from the wood toward the village, market basket in hand. He had always been fond of the woman, and could not in good conscience pass by without stopping to chat.
“Good day, Rose. How are you? In good health, I trust?”
The older woman smiled. “Ah, Master Frederick, what a pleasure to see you. Yes, I am well. And you?”
“Tolerable. Thomas is visiting. He took it into his head that we should stay at the abbey this time. He blames the ongoing renovations, but frankly, I think he finds the hotel more to his liking after his years in London.”
She shrugged. “Why not, if that’s what he wants?”
Frederick tucked his chin. “You surprise me. I thought you would decry the expense and call Thomas a wastrel.” He grinned, saying it partly in jest, but her lined face remained serious.
“Not worth disappointing your only sibling over such a trifle. Besides, might be just what you need.”
“What I need?” He eyed her warily. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know. Time to get out of that house and move on with your life.”
Frederick had almost forgotten how outspoken the woman could be. “Ah. Well, you have given me good advice in the past, so I will consider what you say.”
One wiry brow arched. “And when did the young ever listen to advice?” Now the twinkle returned to her eyes. “Good-bye, Master Frederick.”
He tipped his hat. “Good-bye.”
The woman ambled away, and he continued on toward All Saints.
Passing through the rear gate, he entered the walled churchyard—a shady haven of reverence and memories, filled with new and well-tended gravestones as well as age-spotted monuments tilting at all angles, their epitaphs worn unreadable.
Following the uneven path as it wound between tombs and trees, Frederick walked slowly from plot to plot, headstone to headstone, most of the surnames familiar to him, and many faces appearing in his mind’s eye to match the names of those now laid to rest.
