Hands clasped, he shifted and looked over her head in the direction she had come.
“Visiting your parents’ graves?”
“Yes.”
“No regrets there, I imagine. They were the best of people, and they clearly loved you. You are more blessed than you know.”
“It does not feel like it some days, but you are right. John and I never wanted for anything.” Then why, she silently wondered, was John so unhappy? And bent on making everyone around him as miserable as he was?
Rebecca briefly laid her hand on Frederick’s arm, then turned and left him to mourn alone.
With a final look at her parents’ resting place, she departed the churchyard with little solace from the visit.
———
On the way back, Rebecca again strolled along All Saints Street, past the Swan & Goose, and then turned at Elderberry Lane.
A woman stood there, deep bonnet tilted up as if studying the modest, half-timbered house on the corner.
Rebecca almost went on past, but the woman’s walking stick and embroidered mantle struck her as familiar. She angled her head to see past the woman’s bonnet brim.
“My lady,” Rebecca exclaimed. “I am surprised to find you here.”
Lady Fitzhoward turned to her. “I simply went out for a walk to see something of this village you are forever talking about. Is that a crime?”
“Of course not.”
The woman favored jaunty hats. Rebecca wasn’t sure she had ever seen her in a poke bonnet before. Noticing Rebecca’s gaze linger on it, the woman frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing.”
“I did not wish to fuss with a parasol, which can be such a bother when windy.”
“True,” Rebecca allowed, although the day was quite mild.
If Lady Fitzhoward wanted to see something of Swanford, Rebecca would have thought she’d have chosen to visit Wickworth—a great house known for its striking architecture and beautiful gardens—rather than the ragtag shops and houses crowded cheek by jowl in this narrow lane.
Lady Fitzhoward thrust her stick toward the neatly painted sign on the door that readHenwick Cottageand asked, “Who lives here?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Brown and their five children. They have the linen drapers shop on the High Street but outgrew the rooms above it.”
“Ah.” The woman’s eyes lingered on the place, vaguely focused.
“Do you know them?” Rebecca asked.
“That is unlikely, is it not? Just curious. To hear you talk, you must be acquainted with almost everyone in the village.”
“At one time, perhaps.” When her father was vicar Rebecca had often gone with him to visit the sick and elderly.
Lady Fitzhoward glanced at a rope swing hanging from a sturdy oak beside the house, swaying slowly back and forth on a gentle breeze. She stared and seemed to sway with it.
Rebecca watched the woman with curiosity bordering on concern. Such a faraway look in her eyes. Such ... sadness.
“Have you been to Swanford before, my lady?”
“A lifetime ago.” The woman blinked. “Anyone named Westergreen hereabouts?”
“Not that I know of, no.”
