“Heard you were home but weren’t sure how long you were stayin’,” Mr. Bryant said. “The missus here said you’d be sure to call on the Prewitts and she were right, as usual.” He glanced fondly at his wife, who hadn’t spoken except to greet Edward.
She didn’t say much, but she couldn’t stop touching Edward, his arms, his shoulders, and once or twice his cheek, stroking him like a cat.
Like a long-lost son.
Lily waited in the gig, watching and listening. The conversation went much as the two previous, only this time it was about a boy called Peter. Another quick, honorable death, another tragic story, another memory to treasure.
Eventually, to Ned’s relief, Mr. and Mrs. Bryant took their leave. “Now, don’t be a stranger, lad. It does our hearts good to see you home again, so tall and hale, and with such a bonny sweet bride.”
Thank God he’d had Lily with him today; he’d never have coped otherwise.
Though it was her fault he was here in the first place.
And it was a moot point whether he’d coped or not.
He settled himself in the gig and took up the reins. In a last farewell, Mr. Bryant reached up and laid a warm hand on Ned’s arm. “Thanks again for taking such good care of our Peter—”
It was more than he could stand. “I didn’t take care of him! I got him killed! I got them all killed.” The words burst from him.
There was a short, shocked silence. The horse moved restlessly. Mr. Bryant’s honest country face crinkled in distress. “Nay, lad, don’t take on like that. You weren’t responsible. T’was war that got our Peter killed—war that killed all those lads. You were just one of the lucky ones.”
Lucky? Bitterness flooded him.
He said heavily, “It was my idea to join up, my fault they all came with me.” He was their leader—he always had been, ever since he was Robin and they his merry men. His dead men.
They’d followed him to the grand adventure and they’d all been killed.
Bryant snorted. “If you think that, you’ve forgotten what it was like. You—all of you lads—were mad for adventure, mad for the army. I was the same at that age. Most lads can’t wait to get a potshot at the enemy. They never think it might be them who gets shot.”
“But if I hadn’t taken them with me—”
“Whisht, lad, if not with you, some recruiting sergeant would have snapped them up—the country was thick with them back then. Mad to go, was our Peter, and no blame to anyone else.”
His brown eyes were kind and compassionate, and he tapped Ned firmly on the knee. “You mind what I say now. You took care of our lads the best you could, and when the worst happened—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “To know you were with Peter when he died, and that it was quick and clean . . .”
Every word was a lash. “He was a good friend,” Ned managed.
“Aye, and you were a good friend to him, to him and the other lads of the estate. I’m proud of my lad, and I’m proud of you—of all of them. Friends you were, from the time you could run, and friends you remained unto death.”
Ned fought to keep his face from crumpling. Breathe, he told himself. Don’t fall apart.
“Merrick Hird told us what you did for him and all the other lads.”
Ned stiffened. “Merrick Hird? But he’s dead.”
Bryant chuckled. “Don’t tell Merrick that. He’ll be sore put out to hear it. Came home with one leg less, but he’s alive and kicking still.”
“Oh, God.” He wanted to throw up. The last he’d seen of Merrick he was lying on the ground, on a makeshift stretcher in a welter of blood, nursing a bloody stump and swearing a blue streak. He knew then Merrick was done for. Men died like flies after the surgeon’s knives.
“You go and see Merrick,” Bryant recommended. “He’ll be right glad to see you. He’s living in the factor’s cottage now.”
“The factor’s cottage?” he repeated incredulously. Wild Merrick Hird in the factor’s cottage?
“Aye, a grand jest, ain’t it? He’s been your grandad’s factor for, oh, years now. Always was a clever lad, Merrick. Took losing a leg to make him slow down and start using his brain. Got a wife and kiddies and all. And a fine peg leg. You go along and see him.” He patted Ned’s knee again. “And don’t you fret no more, you hear me, boy?”
Unable to say a word, Ned flicked the reins and they drove on. He drove until they reached the abbey, Lily silent beside him, still holding tight to his arm.
The abbey was set in a cool green clearing, a remnant of ancient, mossy stones that had witnessed miracles and violence over the ages and now was simply offering peace.
They sat in the gig, not moving. “Oh, God, Lily, oh, God.” He pulled her against him, buried his face against her neck and just held her, shuddering and wretched until eventually it passed.
“Luke died in agony, both his legs shot off. Seth was gut-shot, the slowest, most horrible death you can think of. And Peter, Peter took two days to die. I lied, I lied to them all.”
She stroked his cheek. “You gave them comfort.”
“And it was my fault.” And then he confessed, there in that ancient holy place, witnessed only by the birds and the wild things and his wife, his blessed, loving wife, he told her what he’d never told anyone, the guilt he’d carried for years.
He told her how in one of their first engagements, first their major, then the captain, then the lieutenant had been killed. “And so it was up to me, Lily—I was next in command. And it was—” He tried to describe it: the deafening boom of the cannons, the incessant rattle of gunfire, men and horses screaming, blood and sinew, smoke and confusion—they couldn’t even
