for Sebastian. I didn’t go around saying everybody else was heartless because they didn’t care! The world doesn’t stop for anyone’s death! And it doesn’t excuse making yourself a pain in the arse to everybody else!”
“Morel!” Joseph said sharply, putting out his hand to steady him.
Morel misunderstood the gesture and swung his arm back and let fly with a punch. It caught Joseph glancingly on the cheek, but it knocked him off balance, at least as much with surprise as from the weight of it. He staggered backward and just saved himself from falling.
Morel stood aghast.
Joseph straightened up, feeling painfully foolish. He hoped no one else had seen. He did not wish to pursue the matter, but it would be the end of his authority, and of Morel’s respect for him, if he simply let it go. Then the answer came to him instinctively. He took a step forward, and to Morel’s total stupefaction, he hit the young man back. Not very hard, but sufficiently to make Morel stagger. He was surprised by the skill he showed; a little more weight and he would have knocked him over.
“Don’t do that again,” he said as levelly as his pounding heart would allow. “And pull yourself together. Somebody shot Sebastian, and we need to keep our heads and find out who it was, not run around like a lot of schoolgirls getting hysterical.”
Morel took a shaky breath, rubbing his jaw. “Yes, sir,” he said obediently. “Yes, sir!”
Joseph knew he had handled the situation well, but he felt like a long walk and a drink by himself in some quiet pub where he could be surrounded by the warmth of laughter and friendship without having to participate in it. He was exhausted by other people’s emotions. He had more than a sufficient burden of his own. It was not yet a month since both his parents had been killed, and the loss was still raw.
Added to that, since Eleanor’s death had shattered his emotional world, taking the energy and the drive out of his faith, he had carefully rebuilt a strength out of reason, impersonal order, the sanity of the mind. It had seemed good, proof against the injuries of grief, loneliness, doubts of all kinds. It had cost him a great deal to create it, but the truth of it was a beauty sufficient to sustain him through anything.
Except that it wasn’t working. Everything he knew was still there, still true; it just had no soul. Perhaps hope is unreasonable? Trust is not built on facts. Dealing with man, it is wise not to leap where you cannot see. Dealing with God, it is the final step without which the journey has no purpose.
He dismissed the thoughts and returned to the present, more earthbound troubles. He seesawed between fear that his father had been right and the nagging, aching doubt that perhaps John Reavley had been deluded, losing his grip on reality. That thought hurt with an amazing fierceness.
Added to that, his cheek where Morel had hit him was scratched and definitely tender. He did not want to have to explain that to anyone, especially Beecher. Somehow or other the conversation would get around to the subject of Sebastian and end unpleasantly.
So instead of going to the Pickerel, with its familiar tables by the river and people he knew, he went along the Backs in the opposite direction, almost as far as Lammas Land. He found a small pub overlooking the fields and the millpond, and went into the bar. It was paneled with oak worn dark with time, and pewter tankards hung along the rail above the bar itself, gleaming in the sunlight through the open door. The floor was broad, rough beams and not long ago would have had sawdust over them.
It was early; there were only a couple of elderly men sitting in the corner, and a pretty, fair-skinned barmaid with a wealth of wavy hair tied in a careless knot on the back of her head.
She handed a foaming mug to one of the men, who thanked her for it with ease of habit. Then she turned to Joseph.
“Afternoon, sir,” she said cheerfully. She had a soft, pleasing voice, but distinctly broadened with a Cambridgeshire accent. “What can Oi get for you?”
“Cider, please,” he answered. “Half a pint.” He’d begin with a half, and perhaps have another half later. It was a pleasant place, and the sense of solitude was exactly what he wanted.
“Right y’are, sir.” She poured it for him, watching the clear, golden liquid till it stopped just short of the top of the glass. “Haven’t seen you here before, sir. We do a fair enough meal, if you’d loike a boite? Just plain, but it’s there if you fancy it.”
He had not thought he was hungry, but suddenly the idea of sitting here gazing at the flat water of the millpond and the sun setting slowly behind the trees was a far better prospect than going back to the dining hall. There he would have to make polite conversation while knowing perfectly well everyone was wondering what on earth he had done to his face, and making guesses. Sometimes tact was so loud it deafened one. “Thank you,” he said. “I probably will.”
“You’ll be from one of the colleges?” she asked conversationally as she handed him a card with a list of the possibilities for supper.
“St. John’s,” he replied, reading down the menu. “What sort of pickle?”
“Green tomato, sir. It’s homemade, an’ if Oi say so when maybe Oi shouldn’t, it’s the best Oi’ve ever had, an’ most folks agree.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have, please.”
“Roight, sir. What sort of cheese? We got Ely cheese, or a good local half an’ half.” She was referring to the half milk cheese, white and hard, half soft, yellow cream cheese. “Or do you like the French?” she added. “We moight have a bit o’ Brie.”
“Half and half sounds good.”
“It is. All fresh. Tucky Nunn brought it in this morning,” she agreed. She hesitated, as if to add something but uncertain if she should.
He waited.
“Did you say St. John’s, sir?” There was a faint color in her cheeks, and her soft face was suddenly a little tighter.
“Yes.”
“Did . . .” She swallowed. “Did you know Sebastian Allard?”
“Yes, quite well.” What could she know of him? “You did, too?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes flooding with tears.
“I think I’ll have my meal outside,” he said. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to bring it to me?”
“Yes, sir, course Oi’ll do that,” and she turned away quickly, hiding her face.
He walked out into the sun again and found a table set for two. Less than five minutes later the barmaid came with a tray and put it down in front of him. The bread was thick-cut with sharp crusts, cracked where they had broken under the knife. The butter was cut in small chunks off the yard, with a bright sprig of parsley on it, the cheese rich and fresh. The pickle was not one he had seen before, but the pieces were large and the juice of it a dark, ripe color.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a moment to appreciate it before he looked up and met her eyes. She was still troubled, hesitant.
“Have they—do they know what happened yet?” she asked.
“No.” He gestured to the other chair. “I’m sure the men inside will manage without you for a few minutes. Sit and talk to me. I liked Sebastian very much, but I think I may not have known him as well as I imagined. Did he come along here often?”
She lowered her eyes for a moment before looking up at him with startling candor. “Yes, this summer.” She did not add that it was to see her; it was unnecessary. It needed no explaining, for any young man might well have. He wondered with a coldness that still hurt, in spite of his growing acceptance of the facts, if Sebastian had used her completely selfishly, without her having any idea of his engagement to Regina Coopersmith. But surely this charming barmaid could never have imagined she could marry Sebastian Allard. Or could she? Was it possible she had no real idea of the world he came from?
“I am Joseph Reavley,” he introduced himself. “I lecture at St. John’s in biblical languages.”
She smiled shyly. “Oi thought that was who you must be. Sebastian talked about you a lot. He said you made the people o’ the past and their ideas and dreams into a whole life that really happened, not like just a lot of words on paper. He said you made it matter. You joined up the past and the present so we’re all one, and that makes the future more important, too.” She blushed a little self-consciously, aware of using someone else’s words, although she obviously understood and believed them herself. “He told me you showed him how beauty lasts, real beauty,
