There was something else, too. She had said that a man must be a good Christian, and he could find no fault with that. He must learn to pray, as she did, in faith and utter confidence in the goodness of the Almighty. She was so certain, and at that moment, when he felt the foundations of his life crumbling, he wanted just a little of that certainty.
She had been entirely certain that smuggling was wrong. No matter that no one seemed to be harmed by it. No matter that wealthy men wanted their brandy and wine, and poor men wanted the extra coins to feed their children. It was wrong, and that was the end of it, and he would be better off to be hanged for his wickedness if that might save his immortal soul.
In his heart of hearts he could not disagree with her. Itwaswrong, it was illegal and if Sir Hubert Strong’s cellar had not contained several barrels of excellent French brandy, Kent would have been in very deep trouble now, and Eustace with him, and the family plunged into even more trouble than Nicholson had brought them. It was all very well to talk about loyalty to the family, but one of the sacred duties of any son is to do nothing to dishonour his family. If he were to be hauled before a judge for smuggling, then even if his father’s influence could ameliorate his sentence, there would still be disgrace and scandal.
Yet what could he do?
That night, he spent an hour on his knees at his bedside, trying to pray. His prayers were impassioned, it was true, but how could he be sure that they were heard? And what good could come of it? He remembered meeting Katherine in church when she was praying at the Lady Chapel rail. In despair at the disaster that Nicholson had inflicted on his family, he had asked if her prayers worked, and although she had not answered him, she had agreed that they made her feel better.
Kent did not feel better. It did not help that he had a meeting on Tuesday in the very church where he had seen her praying… where he had first met her, in fact, when she had looked so sorrowful in her blacks that he had wanted desperately to cheer her up, just a little. Even then he had been drawn to her, wanting to make her smile… to make her happy. And he had, for a while, until he had told her the truth about the smuggling. They had both been happy, for a while. Now he wondered whether he would ever be happy again.
Richards was in the church early, sitting in their usual pew and wearing a cheerful grin. “A good haul this time. Sixty-two barrels, mostly brandy, and some claret as well, but the winter storms will be upon us soon, so who knows when the next delivery will be? Won’t affect me, though. I’m getting out.”
“Getting out? Is that allowed?” Kent said, with a wry grin.
“Not as a rule, but I’m getting wed next week and we’ll be living with her family out on the farm. They’re honest, God-fearing folk, and if I start creeping about at night — well, you can guess how that would look. So I’m about to become an honest, God-fearing man myself.”
“You, an upright citizen?” Kent said, laughing.
“I know, I know, who’d have thought it, eh? But we can all change, when there’s a woman involved.”
“Can we?”
“Well, I hope so, cos she’s a real peach and I’d hate to make her cry. Tommy’ll let you know the exact dates for the delivery. Look after yourself, sir.”
“You, too. Oh, and my felicitations to you and Mrs Richards.”
With a wave and a wide smile, Richards disappeared, but Kent sat on in the empty church long after the heavy wooden door had thumped shut and deep silence had descended.
Get out?Was it truly possible?We can all change, when there’s a woman involved.Perhaps Kent could change, too. After all, Katherine was a peach, was she not? She was worth changing for, and even if she would never take him back, he would be a better man for it.
Slowly, he walked down the aisle and turned aside at the Lady Chapel. This was where he had seen her praying, kneeling at the rail, head bowed and eyes closed. At the exact spot where she had knelt, he lowered himself to his knees, bent his head and began to pray. He prayed for the strength to do the right thing, whatever that was. He prayed to become a better man — an honest, God-fearing man, if that were possible. He prayed for forgiveness for all his foolishness. And most fervently of all, he prayed for Katherine to be well and happy and perhaps find a man who deserved her.
It was the oddest thing, but he felt better. Calmer, perhaps. Less mired in grief and uncertainty. The clouds that seemed to have hovered around him had drawn back a little. He could not honestly say that the sun was shining on him, not yet, but the sky was less grey.
He rose, rather bemused, and began to walk back down the aisle. He had almost reached the door when it creaked open and a familiar form stepped around it. She gasped when she saw him, flushing scarlet, and would have turned at once and left again.
“No, do not go,” he cried out. “I am just leaving… there is no one else here… you will have solitude for your prayers.”
She turned again, hesitating, uncertain. He drank in the sight of her, becoming aware that she did not look at all well. Below the flushed complexion, he thought she was tired, her eyes not sparkling as they usually did.
“You are ill, Miss Parish?” he said quickly.
“No, no. I am… quite well. Thank you. And… and you?”
“I am well, also.” No, he was not well, not when he had behaved so abominably towards her. He might never be truly well again. But he could not say that, could not say any of the things that were in his heart. He knew he should apologise to her, but he had no idea where to begin. Instead, for what reason he could not guess, he said, “I have been praying.”
“Oh.” A glimmer of a smile. “Does it help?”
He smiled back at her, remembering, as she clearly did, their previous conversation on the subject. “Yes. Yes, it does. I bid you good day, Miss Parish.”
She curtsied, he bowed and stood aside for her to enter the church. Then he pulled the door quietly shut behind him and walked home to Corland Castle, knowing now what he had to do.
He knew something was amiss the instant he came within sight of the bridge to the front door. Corland Castle was a modern building but the architect, in a fanciful moment, had designed it with a dry moat all round, housing not water, but access to the basement level of the castle, and the underground stables and stores. Thus the entrance was reached by way of a bridge, and the distinctive figure of the butler could be seen standing at the near end of it, wringing his hands.
“Oh, Mr Kent! Your father will be so pleased to see you. You will be able to keep him quiet until the surgeon gets here.”
“Surgeon! Whatever has happened, Simpson?”
