No. And yet it did. Not the tapping, but the understanding, the humor, and the friendship.
14
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER28, 1940
Ancestral earth scattered across the top of Uncle Elliott’s coffin in the ancestral plot on the ancestral estate.
Hugh clenched his hat in his hands by the graveside. Dust to dust. All that was left of a life brilliant and bold, selfish and generous, reckless and caring.
William Hastings brushed the dirt from his hands. An officer in the Royal Navy, Uncle Elliott’s oldest son had been at sea when his father was killed.
Hugh bowed his head as the vicar pronounced the benediction.
After the amen, the mourners turned to talk amongst themselves under a sky streaked with shrouds of cloud.
Joan Collingwood, Cecil’s widow, had a comforting arm around Mother’s shoulders, and Hugh stood beside Father, silent and still.
Joan shook her head, making the black veil on her hat shiver. “If only Uncle Elliott hadn’t spoken so rashly to that French reporter.”
“Elliott was always rash, even as a child.” Mother dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “In a proper newspaper report,editors would have removed his rash statements. But live on the wireless? Why, the BBC is as much to blame for Elliott’s death as the man who pulled the trigger.”
Hugh winced and edged away. This was why he’d resisted coming home for the funeral. His profession had been put on trial at Collingwood Manor, convicted, and sentenced.
At least Aleida’s presence kept a cap on the malignant comments.
Where was she? She’d been right behind him.
There, near a copse of ash trees with leaves of bright autumnal yellow, Aleida stood talking with Beatrice Granville. Beatrice and William and Cecil and Ridley had been inseparable friends.
Wearing a black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat, Beatrice extended her hand to Hugh. “I do admit, I was surprised to see Mrs. Martens here. She tells me she’s your guest.” The way she saidguest, she might as well have saidfiancéeorparamour.
Aleida’s wide eyes appeared dark blue against the dark blue of her hat and coat. “I told Miss Granville we’re friends, and I came to meet with the WVS in Buntingford.”
Beatrice’s smile tipped closer and closer toparamour. Aleida’s straightforward ways were misinterpreted in high society.
Hugh offered a rueful smile. “I admit I brought her for my dear mother. Knowing Mrs. Martens is a widow searching for her little boy—well, Mother’s filled Aleida with tea and biscuits. Having someone to comfort can serve as the best comfort of all.”
Aleida smiled as if he were actually rather wise. “She’s been most kind.”
“I offer my condolences on the loss of your uncle.” Beatrice shuddered and pressed her hand to her chest. “So soon after the loss of dear Cecil. Such a nasty business.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said. “It’s been quite hard on my mother.”
“Mr. Hastings could be a wrongheaded fool, and yet I was rather fond of him.” Beatrice frowned toward the grave. “If only I’d come to the party. I was invited. Perhaps...”
“You couldn’t have prevented it,” Hugh said.
“Thank you.” Beatrice patted his arm and excused herself.
Hugh gave Aleida his most contrite expression. “I apologize for making you the object of gossip.”
Aleida shrugged one narrow shoulder. “I’m to blame. I all but invited myself.”
“I’m glad you did. Think of the gossip if I’d stayed away.” Hugh affected a dowager voice. “How odd that Hugh didn’t attend his uncle’s funeral. You don’t suppose he might possibly be guilty of ...murder?”
He winced. Once again, making sport, and at a most inappropriate time.
But Aleida chuckled. “I wouldn’t worry. No one would suspect a jolly sort like you.”
