ancient languages, not only biblical but the great classics of culture as well. Sebastian had grasped his opportunity. He worked with zeal and remarkable self-discipline for so young a man, and had become one of the brightest of the students, taking first-class honors. Now he was doing postgraduate studies before moving on to a career as a scholar and philosopher, perhaps even a poet.
Mary caught Joseph’s eye and smiled at him, her face full of pity.
Gerald came forward. He was a pleasant, ordinary-seeming man, fair-haired, good-looking in a benign, undistinguished way. Brief introductions were made to the Corcorans, who then excused themselves.
“So sorry,” Gerald murmured, shaking his head. “So sorry.”
“Thank you.” Joseph wished there were something sensible to say, and longed to escape.
“Elwyn is here, of course.” She indicated very slightly over her shoulder to where Elwyn Allard was talking to Pettigrew, the lawyer, and trying to escape to join his contemporaries. “And unfortunately Sebastian had to be in London,” Mary went on. “A prior commitment he could not break.” She was thin, with fierce, striking features, dark hair, and a fine olive complexion. “But I am sure you know how deeply he feels.”
Gerald cleared his throat as if to say something—from the shadow in his eyes, possibly a disagreement—but he changed his mind.
Joseph thanked them again and excused himself to speak to someone else.
It seemed to stretch interminably—the kindness, the grief, the awkwardness—but eventually the ordeal was over. He saw Mrs. Appleton, somber and pale-faced, as she said goodbye to the vicar and started back to the house. Everything was already prepared to receive their closest friends. There would be nothing for the staff to do but take the muslin cloths off the food already laid out on the tables. Lettie and Reginald had been given time off also, but they would both be back to help with the clearing away.
The house was a mere six hundred yards from the church, and people straggled slowly under the lych-gate and along the road through the village in the quiet sunlight, turning right toward the Reavley home. They all knew each other and were intimately concerned in each other’s lives. They had walked to christenings, weddings, and funerals along these quiet roads; they had quarreled and befriended one another, laughed together, gossiped and interfered for better or worse.
Now they grieved, and few needed to find words for it.
Joseph and Hannah welcomed them at the front door. Matthew and Judith had already gone inside, she to the drawing room, he presumably to fetch the wine and pour it.
The last person was ushered in, and Joseph turned to follow. He was crossing the hall when Matthew came out of John’s study ahead of him, his face puckered with concern.
“Joseph, have you been in here this morning?”
“The study? No. Why? Have you lost something?”
“No. I haven’t been in since last night, until just now.”
Had his brother looked any less concerned, Joseph would have been impatient with him, but there was an anxiety in Matthew’s face that held his attention. “If you haven’t lost anything, what’s the matter?” he asked.
“I was the last one out of the house this morning,” Matthew replied, keeping his voice very low so that it would not carry to anyone in the dining room. “After Mrs. Appleton, and she didn’t come back—she was at the funeral all the time.”
“Of course she was!”
“Someone’s been in here,” Matthew answered quietly, but with no hesitation or lift of question in his voice. “I know exactly where I left everything. It’s the papers. They’re all on the square, and I left some of them poking out a fraction, to mark my place.”
“Horatio?” Joseph said, thinking of the cat.
“Door was closed,” Matthew answered.
“Mrs. Appleton must have . . . ,” Joseph began, then, seeing the gravity in Matthew’s eyes, he stopped. “What are you saying?”
“Someone was in here while we were all at the funeral,” Matthew replied. “No one would have noticed Henry barking, and he was shut in the garden room. I can’t see anything gone . . . and don’t tell me it was a sneak thief. I locked up myself, and I didn’t miss the back door. And a thief wouldn’t go through Father’s papers; he’d take the silver and the ornaments that are easy to move. The silver-rimmed crystal bud vase is still on the mantelpiece, and the snuffboxes are on the table, not to mention the Bonnington, which is quite small enough to be carried.”
Joseph’s mind raced, wild ideas falling over each other, but before he could put words to any of them, Hannah came out of the dining room. She looked from one to the other of them. “What’s wrong?” she said quickly.
“Matthew’s mislaid something, that’s all,” Joseph replied. “I’ll see if I can help him find it. I’ll be in in a moment.”
“Does it matter now?” There was an edge to her voice, close to breaking. “For heaven’s sake, come and speak to people! They’re expecting you! You can’t leave me there alone! It’s horrible!”
“I’d be happier to look first,” Matthew answered her before Joseph found the words. His face was miserable and stubborn. “Have you been upstairs since you came home?”
She was incredulous, her eyes wide. “No, of course I haven’t! We have half the village in the house as our guests, or haven’t you noticed?”
Matthew glanced at Joseph, then back at Hannah. “It matters,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be down in a minute. Joe?”
Matthew took a deep breath and walked to the foot of the stairs.
Joseph followed after him, leaving Hannah standing in the hall, fuming. When he reached the landing, Matthew was in the doorway to their parents’ bedroom, staring around as if to memorize every article there, every line and shadow, the bright bars of light through the window across the floorboards and the carpet. It was so achingly familiar, exactly as it had been as long as he could remember: the dark oak tallboy with his father’s brushes and the leather box Alys had given him for cuff links and collar studs; her dressing table, with the oval mirror on a stand that needed a little piece of paper wedged to keep it at the right angle; the cut-glass trays and bowls for hairpins, powder, combs; the wardrobe with the round hatbox on top.
He had stood here to tell his mother that he was going to leave medicine because he could not bear the helplessness he felt in the face of pain he could do nothing to ease. Joseph knew how disappointed his father would be. John had wanted it so fiercely. He had never explained why. He would say very little, but he would not understand, and his silence would hurt more than any accusation or demand for explanations.
And Joseph had come here later to tell Alys that he was going to marry Eleanor. That had been a winter day, rain spattering the window. She had been putting up her hair after changing for dinner. She had always had beautiful hair.
He forced his mind to the present.
“Is there anything gone?” he said aloud.
“I don’t think so.” Matthew did not move to go in yet. “But there might be, because it’s different somehow.”
“Are you certain?” It was a stupid question, because he knew Matthew was not certain. He simply wanted to deny the reality settling more and more firmly in his mind with each second. “I don’t see anything,” he added.
“Wait a minute.” Matthew put up his hand as if to stop Joseph from passing him, although Joseph had not moved. “There is something . . . I just can’t put my finger on it. It’s . . . tidy. It doesn’t look as if someone just left it.”
“Mrs. Appleton?” Joseph queried.
“No. She won’t come in here yet. It still feels like an intrusion, as if she were doing it behind Mother’s back.”
“Judith? Or Hannah?”
“No.” He sounded quite certain. “Hannah might look, but she wouldn’t touch anything, not yet. And Judith won’t come in here at all. At least . . . I’ll ask, but I don’t think so.” He drew in a deep breath. “It’s the pillows. That’s not how Mother had them, and no one here would rearrange them that way.”
“Isn’t that how most people have them?” Joseph looked over at the big bed with its handmade coverlet and the matching pillow shams just touching. It all looked completely ordinary, like anyone’s room. Then a tiny memory prickled as he deliberately brought back the image of telling his mother that Eleanor was expecting their first child.
