Mr. Balfour sat forward. “You have my attention.” Edmund gave him a piercing look, and the vicar held up his hands. “Rest assured I will speak of this to no one.”

  “Very good. He came home because he was ill. He died just yesterday.”

  The man rocked back in surprise. “I’m amazed I’ve heard nothing of it until now. How do you know the Haywards?”

  “I’m an . . . old friend,” Edmund said, anxious to get to the point. “Because of the circumstances, the Haywards do not expect nor want a traditional funeral. They plan to bury him on Thursday, and I thought to ask you to attend the burial.”

  The vicar uncrossed his legs, his surprise evident. “I cannot, even if I wanted to. I would be violating the statutes of the Anglican church, in which I am an active clergyman.”

  “I understand that,” Edmund said without apology. “But it isn’t a funeral, not really. It’s a small gathering where you would recite a few scriptures. Think of it more as comforting someone in mourning. Surely your duty requires that, no matter the circumstance.”

  “Do you know what Samuel Hayward was accused of? I don’t take my calling lightly, Mr. Fletcher. And I cannot jeopardize my position. Even if I can get around the rules on some technicality.”

  Edmund shook his head. “So, your children can associate with Miss Hayward, but you cannot be bothered?”

  “It’s not the same thing, and you know it,” protested Mr. Balfour.

  Edmund sat forward, trying his best not to appear desperate. “Let me put this in perspective, sir. You mentioned Miss Hayward comes late and leaves early—I’m sure you can guess the reason. Her mother died just after Christmas, her father has become a drunkard, and her only brother, who was wanted for murder and desertion and whom she hadn’t seen in three years, has just died. She is near to a breaking point. I cannot imagine what person might have a greater reason to doubt God than she. If there is any compassion in your soul, any feeling of tenderness for one of the Lord’s sheep, please, go offer what comfort you can.”

  Mr. Balfour sighed. “You appeal to a man’s guilt with such heartrending precision, I might recommend you consider becoming a man of the cloth yourself.”

  Edmund gave a mirthless laugh as he rose. “I must be going. The decision is yours.” He put his hat on, motioning for Mr. Balfour not to get up. “But I’ve read enough of the Bible to know the Lord spent most of his time with the outcast and chastised those who gave too much credence to the letter of the law. I’ll see myself out. Good day.”

  ***

  Edmund arose early Thursday morning, hoping to steal away from Claremont without being seen. He went to the stables and found the horse Clark had loaned him for his stay. The mare nuzzled his shoulder as he opened the stall.

  “You’re up at the crack of dawn,” said Clark, a few stalls down. “I don’t remember you being a man who enjoys early rides.”

  Edmund looked up in surprise. “I’ve something to attend to.”

  “What’s that you’re wearing?” Clark asked with a laugh. “You look like a stable hand.”

  “I’ve work to do.”

  “At this hour? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Having told Clark the story in its entirety, there was no reason for Edmund to skirt around the truth. “I’m going to dig Samuel Hayward’s grave.”

  Clark’s jaw dropped. “You? Surely there’s someone else who could—”

  “Should I leave old Mr. Warwick to it? Or perhaps Miss Hayward’s father should dig his own son’s grave.” Edmund’s voice was edged with bitterness, and he pulled on the strap of the saddle with great force. “She has no one, Clark. And it must be kept quiet.” He was breathing hard, surprised at his own vehemence.

  Clark nodded slowly. “It’s not a job for one man. Let me saddle my horse.”

  Once they arrived at the spot Mr. Warwick had directed, they worked without talking. Clark’s presence was welcome, for it kept Edmund from sinking into the despair that hung around them. The unfairness of the situation was difficult to fathom; how could Eleanor bear it?

  The repetitive motions were therapeutic, and Edmund enjoyed the work, the opportunity to give physical force to his feelings. Each shovelful of dirt he removed felt like it made the tiniest dent in the mountain of hurt he’d caused Eleanor. A penance of sorts. He worked hard, without stopping, as the sun began to make some headway in the sky. Sweat dripped down his neck and back, making his shirt cling to his skin.

  “It’s as deep as we are tall,” said Clark, leaning on his shovel.

  Breathing hard, Edmund looked up in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed. “You’re right. We’d better get going.”

  ***

  “Can I help, miss?”

  Eleanor looked into the mirror to see Mrs. Keyes standing at the door. “Yes, thank you.” She’d been struggling with the upper buttons of her dress for the last few minutes. Mrs. Keyes crossed the room in several brisk strides and made short work of them.

  Eleanor swallowed, but it did nothing to remove the lump in her throat. Mrs. Keyes patted her back. “I think we’d best be getting down. Everything is ready.” Eleanor nodded in agreement.

  They exited through the back door. She felt grateful for Mrs. Keyes’s presence; Eleanor feared her knees might have buckled without the woman’s reassurance. The day was bright, inconsiderate of Eleanor’s grief. A healthy breeze ruffled her hair and whipped at her skirts. As they walked down the overgrown garden path and out to the small grove of oaks, she focused on taking deep, measured breaths in rhythm with her steps. It kept her mind focused away from the wandering that was sure to bring on tears.

  Mr. Warwick stood by the empty grave near the pine box that held Samuel’s body. Eleanor’s father stood next to him, swaying on his feet. His eyes were rimmed with red and held the glassed-over look of too much drink. Though her own eyes ached from holding back tears, Eleanor walked up and stood right next to him, keeping her shoulders back.

  She stared at the ground, and all she could think was how dark the dirt was. How black. She focused on the pile of heaped-up earth instead of on the pine box. The black dirt was fitting, for it matched the color of her dress. The color of mourning.

  All at once, it was more than she could bear. Without knowing what she was doing she walked forward and knelt at the simply made coffin. She traced the grain of the timber, rubbing at a deep knot in the wood. Suddenly she was sobbing, crying so hard she couldn’t breathe or see. Strong arms encompassed her from behind, and her father held her, smelling like whiskey and loneliness. She could feel the wetness of his cheeks in her hair.

  “I failed him. I should have stopped him,” cried her father. “I never should have let him go.”

  For the first time, Eleanor felt true sorrow for him, wondering if all these years he had blamed himself for not stopping his son from going off to the war that had ruined all of their lives. She clung to her father, struck with the sudden awareness that he was all she had left.

  Slowly the moment passed. Eleanor couldn’t bear to look at her father, but she held him close as the sobs ebbed and silence filled the space. They both stood, and Eleanor felt Mr. Warwick’s hand on her shoulder. She grasped it, holding it like a lifeline. They all stood in silence, no one really sure what to say or how to proceed.

  “I hope you won’t think I’m intruding. I wished to be with you in this difficult moment.” Mr. Balfour, the vicar, walked toward them, his approach tentative. His thinning red hair blew in the slight morning breeze. Any surprise she might have experienced was covered in grief, and she nodded her appreciation, eyes burning once more. She felt the slightest easing of her grief at his presence, feeling that it was somehow easier to let Samuel go with the vicar at his burial.

  The vicar recited a few short scriptures, and then an awkward silence permeated the space around them as Eleanor and her father grieved silently with the vicar and Mr. Warwick looking on. The vicar reached out and shook her father’s hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He turned to Eleanor. “I’m surprised Mr. Fletcher didn’t come. After his eloquent and persuasive speech to me the other day, I thought for sure he’d be here.”

  She merely smiled through her confusion, wondering what he

  could mean.

  Eleanor still puzzled over it up in her room an hour later. She leaned against the bedpost, resting her head. Her energy flagged, all of the strength she’d kept up for Samuel’s benefit depleted. Pulling off her shoes, she lay facedown on her bed, too tired to cry anymore. Her insides felt like a wasteland—miles of nothingness in every direction.

  Her body prone, all of the strain she’d been living under seemed to seep out, melting into the bed. An intense fatigue settled over her, and her body felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds. Images from Samuel’s burial played through her mind, fuzzy and vague. It hardly seemed real that she’d just said goodbye to her brother forever. Perhaps even now the box bearing his body was being covered by shovelfuls of dirt. She didn’t know who would actually fill in the hole; she hadn’t even thought to ask. Mr. Warwick had taken care of everything.

  Mr. Balfour’s brief eulogy had indeed been a surprise. But it was the vicar’s presence, more than his words, that had brought Eleanor comfort. Samuel deserved to have a man of God at his burial.

  But still she couldn’t make sense of it. After the way she had treated him, why would Edmund involve himself and request Mr. Balfour attend Samuel’s burial? Her chest filled with unexpected warmth at the gesture. Did his consideration know no bounds? A different sort of ache spread through her, distinctive from the pain of Samuel’s loss. Eyelids heavy, the weight of exhaustion overcame Eleanor, and she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the canopied bed. Eleanor lay under the covers, in the brief moment between sleep and wakefulness, where reality seemed difficult to grasp. Like water through a sieve, the truth slowly trickled into place. She was back home in her own bed. They had buried Samuel three days ago. As her mind cleared, the cold, hollow feeling returned, filling her with a deep ache. She stayed where she was, cocooned in her blanket, fighting the weight of grief that had turned her bones to lead.

  The last three days had a foggy, dreamlike quality to them. Eleanor felt directionless; she could see no path forward. Samuel had been her reason for going on, for enduring the loneliness and disapproval the world had shown.

  She threw off the covers in a huff, unwilling to let thoughts of pity take over like the poison they were. She would go down to breakfast today; it would be a step in moving forward.

  The little motions of dressing and arranging her hair helped to slough off some of her malaise, and she entered the breakfast room to find Mr. Warwick seated at the table with her father. Both men stood as she walked in. It was with some difficulty that Eleanor kept the shock from her face, for her father looked better than he had in some time. Gone were his dirty and rumpled clothes. His hair, though still long, was combed back neatly.

  “Father, I didn’t expect to see you,” she said before she could stop herself.

  He sat back down, shrugging away her surprise. “Yes, I have to get a bit of an early start this morning.”

  Her heart sank. She should have known. He never stayed away from the gambling tables for long. She went to the sideboard and picked up a plate, her appetite waning.

  Mr. Warwick glanced over at her. “We’re going fishing this morning.”

  Eleanor almost dropped her plate. Fishing?

  He nodded, answering her unvoiced question. “Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Clark invited us to join them over at the pond.”

  She stiffened at the mention of Edmund. “Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Clark? I thought Mr. Fletcher had returned to Herefordshire,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady even as her hands shook. She filled her plate, her mind racing.

  Mr. Warwick smiled at her as he scooted his chair back. “His plans have been delayed. And I’m sorry to leave you alone for the morning, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  “It’s of no matter. I have plenty to keep myself busy.” She set her plate down and spread her napkin in her lap. Her heart slowed as she forced Edmund from her mind.

  Her father set down his napkin and rose from the table. “Well, we’d best be off. You’ll have to excuse us.” He straightened his cravat as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands.

  “I hope you both have a pleasant time.” She looked at him, his efforts at resuming normalcy tugging on her heart.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

  Mr. Warwick bent down and kissed her head. “Get outside today,” he counseled. “Some fresh air will do you good.”

  Eleanor had never been one to put off difficult things, so after breakfast she spent the morning going through Samuel’s belongings. She folded his clothes, placing them in a trunk to be packed away in the attic. In one pair of his pants she found his ticket for the ship that had carried him across the Atlantic and back home to England. She held it in her lap, relieved that he’d made it home, that she’d been able to see him one last time.

  In his satchel she found his old officer’s uniform. As she pulled it out, something slipped to the floor. Her hair comb. The one she had given him the night of the ball. Clutching it to her chest, she let out a slow breath. He’d kept it. She wondered why he hadn’t sold it, if he’d held on to it just to have something from home. She put it in the drawer of her vanity.

  A knock at the door brought her out of her thoughts. Mrs. Keyes appeared. “Miss, you have a visitor. A Lady Linfield.”

  Eleanor knit her brow in confusion.

  “Formerly Miss Louisa Clark, who was recently married,” clarified Mrs. Keyes.

  “Louisa?” she echoed in shock. Why would Louisa be here? What could she possibly want? “I heard she had married but I . . . I’ll be right down.”

  Taking a deep breath, Eleanor attempted to calm her nerves before she went to meet her guest in the drawing room. Louisa stood near the window, looking out into the garden, when Eleanor came in, and Eleanor had a moment to study her. Louisa seemed older, her dark hair fashioned in an intricate style, her peach dress new and cut in the latest design. Even the way she held herself seemed unfamiliar.

  “Eleanor!” she said, turning, a broad smile filling her face.

  “Lady Linfield,” said Eleanor, her voice hesitant.

  Louisa crossed the space between them in an instant. “Oh, please, I cannot bear to hear you say that. I hope I may always be Louisa to you.”

  Eleanor nodded and gestured for Louisa to sit. They sat on a small sofa with little distance between them, but the silence seemed to echo through the room.

  “I must congratulate you,” Eleanor said. “I hear you were recently married.”

  Louisa smiled. “Yes, just this past month. And Beatrice too.” At the mention of Beatrice they both went quiet. “It’s actually part of the reason I’m here today. I—we—hoped you might come to dinner tonight. Since both Beatrice and I married in London, Mother insisted on hosting a small wedding celebration here in Canterbury on our behalf. I know it’s late notice, but it just came to my attention that you had returned from the shore. I do hope you’ll come.”

  “Oh, well, I . . .” Eleanor cast her mind about for what to say. She couldn’t admit to being in mourning. And it was not as if they had any prior engagements. “Well, we do have some family in town . . .”

  “Oh, Mr. Warwick, yes. Clark mentioned as much. Of course, he’s invited too, as well as your father. We wish all of you to be there.”

  Louisa’s expression held such genuine hope Eleanor couldn’t bear to say no. “It is fitting for your friends to gather and congratulate you. Of course we will come.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t be happier. It wouldn’t be right for you not to be there.”

  Eleanor gave her a reserved smile, still unsure of what to make of all this. Life had been such a whirlwind of late.

  Louisa straightened. “I hope you’ll forgive me for rushing off, but Mother is expecting my help.”

  “Of course. Do not think of it.”

  They rose together and shared a shy look as each curtsied, and Louisa took her leave.

  The minute she was alone Eleanor went upstairs to fetch her bonnet. Mr. Warwick was right. She needed some fresh air, especially in light of the dinner tonight. A rush of nerves assaulted her as she walked out the door.

  A rainy spring had produced the deep-green grass that had lasted even this late in the summer. Golden fields of barley stretched off to Eleanor’s left, waiting to be harvested. Some of the trees had just begun to change color, and their brittle leaves rustled in the wind. Eleanor slowed her pace, enjoying the quiet sounds of nature.

  Her thoughts quieted in the afternoon sunshine, and Eleanor felt inwardly pleased, if still a little uncertain, at Louisa’s gesture. But just thinking of tonight filled her with all sorts of anxiety. What would it be like to see Beatrice again? Though she hadn’t dared ask, Eleanor hoped Beatrice shared Louisa’s desire to become reacquainted. Perhaps this was a step toward reconciliation.

  And would Edmund be in attendance? It seemed certain he would. Perhaps she could find a way to express what his gesture of inviting Mr. Balfour to Samuel’s burial meant to her. With the afternoon sunshine on her back, Eleanor felt stirrings of hope for the first time since Samuel’s death.

  ***

  On his way to the drawing room to meet the other guests before dinner, Edmund turned the corner and almost ran straight into Miss Louisa. Lady Linfield, he reminded himself. “Lady Linfield, you’ll have to excuse me. I was not paying attention.”

  “As I’m sure your mother scolds you enough, I shall not endeavor to do so,” she said with a smile.

  “You are right about that,” he agreed, still marveling at the change in her. The woman before him was so different from the shy and quiet Louisa of three years ago.