He glanced at her. ‘So that come judgement day, he will rise up and be facing his congregation.’
‘That is reassuring.’
Isabel stooped to collect up the dead flowers, replacing them with a handful of wildflowers she had picked from around the churchyard. She kneeled for a moment by the grave as if in private prayer.
Laying her hand on the ground, she said in a low voice, ‘I wish I had somewhere like this for William. I had no say in where he was placed. He went to that cold, unloving mausoleum.’
‘And yet you visit him every day?’
Isabel looked up. ‘How did you know?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve seen you. Isabel, forgive me for saying this, but it is easy to spend too long in the company of the dead.’
Anger flared in her eyes as Isabel rose to her feet to face him.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded, her voice sharp with reproach.
Sebastian held out his hand. ‘I apologise. I spoke out of turn. I have no right to judge you.’
‘No you don’t. Not when you still live with the ghosts of the past, Sebastian.’
She looked at him with those knowing eyes and Sebastian froze. Of course, the death of parents was a terrible loss, but it was part of life. The death of a child or the death of someone you loved more than life…?
Inez...
‘Tell me about Inez, Sebastian.’
Inez...
For a long moment he stared at her, the name echoing in his mind. How could she know? All the memories came rushingback, and once more he smelled the dust and the blood of that terrible day. He put his hand on a nearby gravestone to steady himself and brought himself back to the present.
Isabel watched him, no doubt waiting for him to speak about the one thing in the whole world for which he had no words.
He swallowed, trying to make his voice sound neutral as he said, ‘Coming home is not always a good thing, Lady Somerton. Sometimes there are memories that are best forgotten. How did you know… about Inez?’
‘You called me by her name... in London, when you were ill,’ Isabel said softly.
She made no further move towards him and he closed his eyes. He could not turn away now. She was entitled to an explanation.
He began, trying to keep his voice neutral, ‘Inez Aradeiras was the daughter of a Colonel in the Portuguese army. We had married in Lisbon, and she was on her way to join me with the regiment. Her father had sent an escort, but they were overcome by a band of French marauders. They killed every man and...’ He screwed up his eyes as he tried to contain the emotion that shook his voice, even now after all these years. ‘Inez was murdered by the French.’
He stopped there. Isabel did not need to know the rest. How he had failed to protect the one person he loved more than life itself. How it had been his misfortune to come upon the scene—and the revenge he had exacted on her murderers when he had found them.
How he wanted to die—had tried to die.
‘Harry Dempster and Bennet know the whole story, of course. They were there. The only other person I have ever told was my stepfather,’ he glanced up at the church, ‘here in this church, on the day I returned from Spain.’
He took a deep breath, remembering the day he had returned to Little Benning, still on crutches and in terrible pain. His faltering steps had taken him instinctively to the church, asif he needed to find a forgiving God, not the vengeful God of the Spanish churches.
His stepfather had been there and seated on the hard, stone steps to the sanctuary, in jerking phrases that barely made sense, even to his own ears, Sebastian had poured out his soul. Through it all the Reverend Alder had sat quite still, not one twitch of his face betraying any revulsion or horror or judgement at Sebastian’s tale.
Instead, the good man had risen to his feet and, placing his hands on Sebastian’s head, quietly pronounced absolution. As the words were murmured above him, the last wall of Sebastian’s reserve broke, and he had wept in his stepfather’s arms like a child.
He brought his gaze back to the woman who stood watching him. He hardly dared to meet her gaze, expecting to see pity, but when his eyes met her steady, unblinking gaze, he saw only understanding. She knew suffering and grief.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to slough away the memory of that awful day on a hot, dusty Portuguese road, but the stench of death now hung over both of them like a mantle.
What had induced him to confide in her, bring it all crashing back on top of him?
