by Charles Todd
From time to time where the hills dipped, late afternoon sun threw long golden beams across the water and through the trees on her right, spears of light. Prehistoric, she thought. Before Time began and Man had come trudging up this Valley. Somehow deserted—
And now that her grandfather was dead, it was. Deserted by the remarkable spirit that had made this emptiness her home and seemingly held the life of the Valley in the palm of a powerful and graceful hand.
She hadn’t realized just how much she had loved Francis Hatton. Not even in his last illness. Or rather the final heartbreak—for no mere illness could have struck him down so ruthlessly as the deaths of the cousins.
Beside her, Mrs. Lane said in a voice still thick with tears, “I don’t know how we shall get along without him!”
“We shall have to try,” Francesca answered the housekeeper, in an effort to offer comfort. I’m the head of the household now. Such as it is. It’s my duty. . . .
“Yes, Miss Francesca. But it won’t be the same. First the five lads, and now Himself.”
“Well. We must go on. He’d want that. We aren’t the only family in England to suffer—”
“No . . .”
But one could tell, Francesca thought, that Mrs. Lane believed that the Hattons had carried the heaviest burden.
“Did you know,” she asked, suddenly reminded, “that my grandfather owned land in other parts of the country?”
“No, Miss.” The finality of the word indicated that Mrs. Lane didn’t care. Like so many of the Valley’s inhabitants, her universe was here. The rest of England might as well be across the Channel.
Silence fell between them.
Behind them the carriage rumbled over the rough, winding road like a ship wallowing in the sea. Mr. Branscombe had pressed Francesca to stay the night in Exeter, but she had chosen to travel home with her grandfather’s servants. Hers . . . Hers, now. She must remember that.
Below the road the Exe ran like a tangled ribbon, meandering of its own will, sometimes dark in the heavy shadow of trees, sometimes bright with slanting sunlight. A pretty, secretive river that cleft the hills, dividing neighbor from neighbor. Most of them preferred it that way.
When the funeral was over, Francesca told herself, she must return to London and her duties there, interrupted by her grandfather’s illness and death. He would expect it.
But she had little heart left for meeting troop trains on their way to the ports, offering men hardly older than boys tea and buns, pretending to be cheerful, happy for them as they went off to glory fighting the Hun. She had also stood on the same drafty station platforms in the depths of the night when the wounded came through, carriage after carriage of them. No flags or tea or pretty smiling faces greeted those unheralded trains. The Red Cross came to them to see to bandages and offer water, to press cold, frightened hands, and to light cigarettes for those able to smoke. It was a bloody, barbarous business, walking through the carriages where so many lay in torment. And to think that these were the survivors. There were no trains for the dead. They were buried where they fell.
It had exhausted her, the suffering she had witnessed. She could face anything but that stoic suffering.
And the war that was to be finished by Christmas, 1914—the war that had swept away her five cousins in the madness of enlistments—was dragging on into its third year of stalemate and death, with no end in sight.
Her grandfather’s illness had come at a time when she would have given anything, done anything, to escape her duties. But the summons home had been bittersweet, and all she could do yet again was to sit and watch another man’s silent suffering.
I must be careful what I wish for. . . .
At first Francis Hatton could speak, although with some difficulty. She had looked forward to those brief conversations, and they had sustained her. Too soon, he had slipped into rambling monologues, leaving her behind. And finally that dreadful dark silence had engulfed him. Trapping his indomitable spirit in a slowly dying body. She had found it unbearable—
The horses clattered past the bridge and turned from the main road into the gates of River’s End.
Francesca sat forward, looking out at the small stone gatehouse where Wiggins used to live with his wife. Empty now and locked. Both had died when she was fourteen and never been replaced. Their daughter, Ellen, had cooked for the household until last year, when she had gone to live with her own daughter, war-widowed in Cornwall. Continuity . . .
Ahead the house was hidden by trees, but the road looped up the hill toward it as if confident of finding it in the end. And the old horses pulling the carriage just behind the motorcar knew their way, sensing home and oats and a blanket for the night.
The coachman, Bill Trelawny, had been with her grandfather for as long as she could remember, his back stooped now with age, but his hands on the reins still sure. He had taken Francis Hatton’s death the hardest. A man of few words, Bill had come sometimes in the evening to stand dumbly by the bed, such anguish in his eyes that Francesca had realized he would have happily died in her grandfather’s place if God had asked it.
At the breast of the hill the drive widened into a loop, and the uncompromising shape of her grandfather’s house rose with authority, like the man, gray stone pointed with white, chimney pots lined like soldiers across the roofs. Hers . . .
When the servants had been settled over their late tea, Francesca took the motorcar and drove herself (much to the horror of Bill—the coachman still tended to treat her as Mr. Hatton’s little granddaughter) to the church in what passed as a village but was in fact no more than a hamlet. Hurley had come into being to serve the needs of medieval drovers and carters who had passed up the Valley, and it owed its church to a benevolent Hatton in the sixteenth century whose eldest son had served with Drake and come home safely from savaging the Great Armada. Francesca had always wondered why the church had been consecrated to St. Mary Magdalene, the repentant sinner. An odd choice if it had truly been built to celebrate a valiant captain’s survival.
Small, stone, with a belfry barely worthy of the name, the building boasted nothing of special importance—no rood screen, no marble knights and ladies in the ambulatory, and only a single brass, which it had actually inherited from an earlier church in Somerset.
Francesca had stepped over the long memorial brass set in the flagstones on her way to the Hatton pew every Sunday she had attended church services here. The only time she could remember looking at it closely was when the cousins had attempted to duplicate the spectacular armor the figure wore. Otherwise she’d passed by what everyone in Hurley simply referred to as the Somerset Brass, without giving it a second thought.
But now this name had taken on a new meaning.
Do you wish to keep the properties in Somerset and Essex?
She walked down the aisle, her heels echoing in the autumn silence, and stopped to look down at the figure.
Early armor. The time of the Edwards, Simon and the cousins had decided, eagerly examining each detail. That wonderful chain mail. The sword in its elegant belt. The spurred, steel-clad feet. A man of some standing, to merit a memorial nearly as long as he must have been tall in life.
She knelt on the chill stone floor, and tried to read the Latin that bordered the figure. Tracing the incised letters with her fingers, she could make out part of the inscription. Something about peace . . .
The door of the church scraped open, and Francesca looked over her shoulder to see the rector just stepping into the shaft of sunlight that pointed, like an accusing finger, in her direction.
“Miss Hatton!” William Stevens exclaimed, shocked to find her on her knees in the middle of the church. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Good afternoon— No, I’ve just come to look at the brass. I don’t think I’ve ever really examined it before. Can you read the words here?”
He came toward her, limping. He had been wounded at Mons, his face raked and part of a foot cut away by shra
pnel as he ministered to the wounded and the dying. A man of perhaps thirty-two, old for the shredding flail of war. And sent here to a secure and undemanding living while he healed in spirit as well as flesh. There were whispers that he walked the churchyard late at night, talking to the dead. Francesca thought perhaps he simply found it hard to sleep without dreaming.
“It’s Medieval Latin,” he was saying. “I’m no scholar. I’ve often wondered myself how it should best be translated. See, there’s an abbreviation. I know that much. And that word is peace—and there is the word for sin . . .”
“I expect he lived a rather brutal life,” she observed. “And needed whatever forgiveness he could find.”
“Most likely. At a guess, it reads, ‘For the sins of my youth, I have paid. God accept my soul and grant it peace.’ ” He grinned. “It depends on where you start deciphering it. But it’s a prayer we could all make.”
“It’s always been called the Somerset Brass. Do you know why?”
“Not really. But I’ve heard that this church was scraped together from bits and pieces languishing elsewhere. Your grandfather could have told us, I’m sure. The flagstones in the choir are said to be from a convent in London. The brass here is from Somerset—and that baptismal font from Essex.”
“Essex—” she echoed.
“Yes. A good many villages vanished in the plague years, you know. People died, houses and churches fell to rack and ruin. And of course not much later there was Henry the Eighth letting Cromwell loose on the monasteries. I shouldn’t be surprised if these things were rescued and brought here by the founding family to give the sanctuary some air of age. A baptismal font was not a common thing, you see—in the old days, it gave a church status to have the right to baptize. A mark of religious significance.”
“I didn’t know that.” She rose, dusting her hands and the front of her skirt. “But why Somerset—and Essex? Did the Valley have ties with such places?”
“Lord, no, not to my knowledge. Although, as I said, whoever gave us the church may have done.”
He paused, as if not wanting to change the subject until she was ready. “About Friday—”
“The funeral.” Francesca sighed. “I understand Mr. Branscombe has made all the arrangements.”
“But you may change whatever you like,” Stevens assured her. “I don’t expect—given the war—that we shall see a great throng here for the service. What’s important is that it should please you.”
“That’s kind.” Her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “I should like to be sure the music includes his favorite hymns—”
“I’d thought of that, and believe I’ve managed to do rather well.” Stevens’s scarred face smiled, giving the sinister set of its lines in repose a warmer appearance.
“Thank you.” Looking around her, Francesca said, “We have no memorials to my cousins, do we? I’d thought my grandfather would have seen to that.”
“Your grandfather had a difficult time coming to terms with their loss. Especially young Harry. I don’t think he needed reminders in brass or stone. Would you care to see to it?”
“Yes. By all means. Would black marble be out of place here, do you think? Black for mourning . . .”
“The church is gloomy, too dark perhaps for black. White is also the color of mourning. And of youth dying before its time.”
“Yes,” she said again, thinking about it. “I like that choice. I’ll see to it—afterward.” Looking into the troubled brown eyes, she added impulsively, “You were in the war. Was it very terrible? I’ve seen the wounded in London, and that’s grim enough. I can’t imagine being on a battlefield, and knowing that death was coming— watching the men beside me drop and not move again—” She faltered, and then confessed, “I wonder about my cousins, you see. No one told us how they died—the letters only said that they’d been brave and didn’t suffer. Which is a lie if I ever heard one!”
“Some of the men suffered terribly.” Stevens answered her with bitter honesty. “Screaming in pain, or lying there in silence, which is somehow worse, trying to be—brave about it. But sometimes it’s quick enough. With no time for thought or grief or pain. They may be the lucky ones.”
Francesca nodded. “I pray my cousins were among them.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charles Todd is the author of The Murder Stone, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, A Test of Wills, Wings of Fire, and Search the Dark. He lives on the East Coast, where he is at work on the next book in the Ian Rutledge series, A Cold Treachery.
Also by Charles Todd
A Test of Wills
Wings of Fire
Search the Dark
Watchers of Time
And available now in hardcover
from Bantam Books
The Murder Stone
LEGACY OF THE DEAD
A Bantam Book
Copyright © 2000, by Charles Todd
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-036076
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