at him in surprise, and he saw his delight mirrored in her face.
“The organist was always good,” he said, with proprietary pride, but she was gazing upwards, transfixed.
“The windows are wonderful. But look at that one”—she pointed—“it’s modern, isn’t it?”
Kincaid’s gaze followed her finger. “Ah. That’s the Bourne window. It’s my favorite, although it was installed just about the time I left home for London. It’s a memorial to a local farmer named Albert Bourne. It depicts God’s creations.” He pointed in turn. “See, at the very top of the arch, God’s hand? And below that, the swirl of the cosmos, then the birds of the heavens and the creatures of the sea, then the world’s wildlife.” His hand had traveled two-thirds of the way down the window. “But here’s the surprise. Here the designer moves from the general to the particular. Those are the rolling hills of Cheshire. And the house, there in the center, that’s Cheshire brick. Then the animals of farm and field and thicket, and there, on the right, the very best bit.”
Gemma searched for a moment, then gave a laugh of pleasure as she saw what he meant. “It’s a man, walking his spaniel through the field.”
“Bourne himself. No man could ask for a more fitting memorial—
or woman, either,” he corrected quickly, as she turned on him a look of reproach. “Although I suspect the dog is a springer, not a cocker like Geordie.”
“There’s Kit!” called Toby, who from his elevated height had been peering through the crowd shuffling in front of them. “And Lally.”
The teenagers were not near the front, as Kincaid had expected, but halfway down the nave on the outer aisle. There was a gap of several feet between, and when Kincaid neared the spot, he saw that they had filled it with coats, hats, and gloves.
“It’s the best we could do,” Lally said to her mother as their group reached the pew. “The church filled early. And people are giving us dirty looks.”
“Never mind,” Juliet told her. “We’re here now. We’ll squeeze in as best we can.”
“Where’s Dad?” Lally asked, as Kit stood aside to make room for them.
“Oh. He’s here somewhere,” Juliet said, as casually as if she had mislaid a handbag, but Kincaid thought no one was fooled, particularly Lally.
“I want to sit with him.”
“Well, you’ll have to make do with me for the moment,” snapped Juliet, her attempt at calm normality slipping. “You’re not to wander off looking for him. The service is about to start.”
Any further argument was quelled as the organ stopped and a hush fell on the congregation. As the family jammed into a space meant for half as many people, Kincaid with an arm round Gemma’s shoulders and Toby half in his lap, the processional began.
Kincaid slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of lessons and carols. He was home, and nothing had changed—or at least the things that had changed were for the better. He had his own family here now, Gemma and the boys, and he felt that at last all the pieces of his life had come together.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, the choir launched into “O Holy Night,” one of his favorite carols, and the congregation followed suit. Behind him, a clear alto voice rose. The voice was untrained, but powerful and true, with a bell- like quality that sent a shiver down his spine.
His curiosity overcoming his good manners, he turned round until he could see the woman singing. She was tall, with short blond hair going gray. Lines of care were etched into a strong, thin face he suspected was not much older than his own, and she seemed unconnected to the family groups around her.
As she became aware of his gaze, the woman’s voice faltered, then faded altogether as she stared back at him.
Embarrassed by the alarm in her eyes, Kincaid nodded and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then turned round and joined in the carol. After a moment, she began to sing again, hesitantly at first, then more strongly, as if caught up in the music.
Through the remainder of the service, he listened for her, but dared not risk another glance. He felt as if he’d stumbled across a shy animal that mustn’t be spooked.
Only one thing marred his pleasure in the mass. The last of the carols was “Away in a Manger,” a piece he had always disliked. He thought the lyrics saccharine, the tune impossible, and tonight it conjured up an image he’d tried to suppress. He glanced at Juliet and saw her standing tight-lipped, her face strained, her hands gripping the top of the forward pew. So she had thought of the child in the manger as well, this one no cause for celebration.
Then the recessional began and they filed slowly out after the choir, joining the queue of those waiting to pay their respects to the priest. Kincaid spotted Caspar Newcombe standing to one side, shaking hands and chatting with passersby, ignoring his wife and family as if they didn’t exist. Beside him stood a large, handsome man whose well-cut clothes didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was running to heaviness. His good looks and wavy fair hair made Kincaid think of a matinee idol, from the days when film stars had looked like men, not androgynous boys. He, too, was meeting and greeting, but not alone.
Beside him stood a tall boy with the stamp of the older man’s features beneath his bored expression, and fair hair that might wave if not cut stylishly short.
“Who’s the bloke with Caspar?” he whispered to his mother, who stood nearest him in the queue.
Rosemary looked at him in surprise. “That’s Piers Dutton. Caspar’s partner. I didn’t realize you’d never met him. And that’s his son, Leo. He and Lally are in the same class.”
So this was the partner with whom Caspar had taunted Juliet during their row. At first sight, Kincaid couldn’t imagine a man less likely to appeal to his sister—but then he’d not have wagered on Caspar, either.
“Caspar and Piers never miss a chance to oil their connections,”
said his mother, the softness of her voice not disguising the bite.
“The churchwardens are good clients.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise—”
Kincaid looked round as he felt a bump against his shoulder, followed by a murmured apology. A woman had nudged past him, slipping out of the queue and making her way towards the porch doors. Although she moved with her head ducked, avoiding eye contact with those she passed, he recognized the slightly untidy short hair, the slender body whose movement hinted at unexpected fitness.
It was the woman who had sung so beautifully, leaving as she had come, alone.
Chapter Seven
The Newcombes had walked back from church, the four of them together, Sam and Lally forging ahead with their father while Juliet lagged behind. They would have looked a proper family to anyone watching, thought Juliet, the children boisterous with the cold and the excitement of the occasion, the father doting, the mother tired from the day’s preparations.
But when they’d reached the house, Caspar had disappeared into his study without a word, and Juliet had gone up with the children.
Then, when she’d seen Sam and Lally settled and kissed them good night, she’d gone into her bedroom and carefully, deliberately, locked the door.
She leaned against it, breathing hard, her hands trembling and her heart pounding in her ears. It was over. Her marriage was over.
She couldn’t deny it any longer. She’d lived with the sarcasm, the veiled accusations, the ridicule, refusing to acknowledge the extent of the rot.
But tonight Caspar had gone too far. The things he’d said to her, his humiliation of her in front of her family, were unforgivable.
There could be no going back.
But how could she manage if she left him? What could she do? She had virtually no income; drawing a pittance of a salary, she only barely managed to keep her fl edgling business out of the red. Of course, she could do
