Brunswick Gardens (53 page)

Isadora sat in the front row, at a glance seeming grave and very composed. She was beautifully dressed, with a wide black hat whose brim swept up one side, adorned with black feathers. But on closer regard, her face was troubled. There was a tension in her shoulders, and she held herself as if some inner pain threatened and was about to explode. Her eyes were steady on the bishop’s face, completely unwavering, not as if she were interested in what he was saying but as if she dared not look elsewhere.

Across the aisle from her the slanting light through the high windows shed a prism of colors on Cornwallis’s head. He too kept his gaze fixedly in front of him, looking neither to right nor left.

Charlotte searched for Dominic’s dark head. He should be close to the front. Then she remembered with a jolt that he was part of the clergy, not of the congregation. He would surely have some official duty to perform. Until they called someone to replace Ramsay, this was his church.

Then she saw him. He was dressed in the robes of his office, and it startled her. He looked so natural, as if he belonged in
them, not as if they were put on for Sundays only. She realized in that moment how deep had been the change in him. He was not the Dominic she had known, only playing a new part; he was a different person, changed inside and almost a stranger. She was filled with admiration for him, and a bright, soaring kind of hope.

Clarice also was watching him. Charlotte could see her face only in profile, and naturally she wore a veil, but it was a very fine one, and the light glinted through it, catching the tears on her cheeks. There was a defiance in the angle of her head, and a very considerable courage.

Tryphena sat more sullenly, her fair skin making her black clothes and lace veil even more dramatic. She seemed to stare straight ahead of her towards the bishop, who was still speaking.

But it was Vita who was unmissable. Like her daughters, she was in black, but her dress was exquisitely cut, fitting her slender figure perfectly, and on her it had an elegance and a flair which was unique. The angle of the huge brim of her hat was perfect. It conveyed individuality, grace and distinction without being ostentatious. The veiling was quite obvious, and yet so sheer it shadowed her face rather than concealing it. Like Clarice, she too was watching Dominic, not the bishop.

The bishop finally wound to a close. It had all been predictable, very general. He had spoken Ramsay’s name only once. Apart from that initial reference, he could have been speaking about anyone, or everyone, the frailty of mankind, the trust in the resurrection from death to a life in God. It was impossible to judge from his bland, almost expressionless face what his own feelings were, or even if he believed any part of what he was saying.

Charlotte felt a surge of intense dislike for him. His message should have been glorious, and yet it was oddly without heart. There was no comfort in it, let alone joy.

When he sat down, Dominic rose to speak. He came to the pulpit. He stood erect, head high, a half smile on his face.

“I have not much to add to what has been said,” he began. His voice was rich and full of certainty. “Ramsay Parmenter was my friend. He held out the hand of love towards me when I was desperately in need. It was love unfeigned, love that knows no selfishness or impatience, love that looks gently on failure and takes no satisfaction in punishment. He judged my weaknesses in order to help me overcome them, but he did not judge me, except to find me worth saving and worth loving.”

There was not a sound in the whole congregation, not even a rustle of satin or scrape of broadcloth on barathea.

Charlotte had never felt prouder of anyone in her life, and the tears prickled sharp in her eyes.

Dominic’s voice dropped a little, but was still clear even to the very back pew.

“Ramsay deserves that we should extend to him that same kind of love; and if we are to ask it of God for ourselves, as in the end we all will, then can we, for our own soul’s sake, offer anyone else less than that? My friends … you may not have been blessed by Ramsay as I was, but please join me in prayer for his rest, and his eternal joy in heaven hereafter, when we shall know God as He has always known us, and we shall see all things clearly.” He waited a moment, then bent his head and began the familiar prayer, in which the congregation joined.

When the final hymns were sung and the benediction was pronounced, everyone rose to their feet.

“What are you going to do?” Charlotte murmured to Pitt. “You can’t arrest her here.”

“I’m not going to,” he muttered half under his breath. “I shall wait and follow her back to the house. But I won’t let her out of my sight, in case she speaks to anyone, persuades Emsley to change his evidence about the knife or even to destroy the originals of the letters … or gets rid of Dominic’s things out of her bedroom drawer. I can’t …”

“I know.”

Vita was coming down the aisle towards them, magnificent
in widow’s weeds, and yet processing more like a bride, her head high, her shoulders straight. She walked with extraordinary grace, refusing to lean on Mallory’s arm and completely ignoring her daughters, who came behind her. She stopped at the door and began to accept the condolences of the congregation as they filed past her in ones and twos.

Charlotte and Pitt were close enough to hear what was said. It was a bravura performance.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Parmenter,” an elderly lady said awkwardly, not knowing what else to add. “How you must grieve … I simply don’t know …”

“You are very kind,” Vita replied with a smile. “Of course, it has been dreadful, but we all have our dark nights to endure, each in our own way. I am most fortunate in the love and support of my family. And no woman could ask for better friends.” She glanced momentarily at Dominic, who was approaching. “For stronger, more devoted or more loyal friends than I have.”

The elderly lady looked a trifle puzzled, but grateful to be relieved of what she had feared would be a nearly impossible situation.

“I’m so glad,” she murmured, not seeing the look of incredulity in Tryphena’s eyes. “I’m so very glad, my dear.” And she hastened away.

Her place was taken by Mr. Landells. He had regained his composure and spoke well. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Parmenter. I know what it is like to lose a beloved companion. Nothing can ever make up for it, but I am sure you will have the strength and the comfort of time to help you find peace of heart.”

Vita needed a moment or two to formulate an answer for that. She looked to where the bishop was moving towards her along the aisle, then back to Mr. Landells.

“Of course,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “We must all trust in the future, however hard that may be. But I have no doubt whatever that God will provide not only all that we need but all that is best for His purposes.”

Mr. Landells’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “I admire you more than I can say, Mrs. Parmenter. You are an example to us all of fortitude and faith.”

She smiled her thanks. Tryphena was standing on the outside of her now, her back to the great doors, and Clarice stood on the other side, nearer the body of the church. Mallory hung back, obviously feeling guilty for even attending a Protestant service. He did not want to abuse the latitude which had granted him permission in the first place. It was worse than alien to him, it was all too familiar—and laden with memories of indecision, faith that was incomplete, argument and ritual without passion, statements equivocal and made without certainty. Charlotte also imagined she saw in the line of his lips a certain resentment, as if, while he did not wish to be there, he also was angry that Dominic should officiate even partially in something which should have been his. He had a long way to grow before he began to understand the kind of love Dominic had spoken of. She considered what injuries had been done to his belief in youth that it was such an easily damaged thing now. How many times did he think he had been let down?

Half a dozen more people passed by, each offering stammered sympathies and hastening away as soon as decency allowed them.

Another elderly lady came, nodding and smiling first to Dominic.

“I could not think what anyone could say which would ease my mind, Mr. Corde, but you did it perfectly. I shall remember your words next time I grieve and feel confused at anyone’s actions. I am so glad you were here to speak for poor Reverend Parmenter.”

“Thank you,” Dominic said with an answering smile. “Your approval means a great deal to me, Mrs. Gardiner. I know the Reverend Parmenter had a great regard for you.”

She looked pleased, and turned to Clarice and then Tryphena. Mallory hung back, as if he did not wish to be included.

The bishop was not part of the group. He nodded unctuously.

“Very kind of you to come, Mrs…. er …”

“I did not come out of kindness,” she said dryly. “I came to pay my last respects to a man I greatly admired for his gentleness. The manner of his death is irrelevant. When he was alive he showed me much generosity. He spent time with me and offered me what support he could.” She dismissed the bishop, leaving him pink-faced. She did not notice Isadora’s eyes lighten or her glance towards Cornwallis and see the answering softness in his face.

“I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Parmenter,” Mrs. Gardiner continued, looking directly at Vita. “I am sure you will feel it profoundly, and I wish there were some way in which I could help, but I fear that would be intrusive. I can only assure you that we, too, shall miss him, in our own way, and shall think of you with all the goodwill we have.”

“Thank you,” Vita said softly, her voice little more than a whisper. “You are very kind. As I have said to others, the only comfort is that I have such wonderful friends.” Her face softened into a sweet, faraway smile, but on this occasion she did not look at Dominic. “Time will heal all hurts. We must go on with our duty and we shall be made whole again. I know this as surely as I know anything.” She nodded. “You will see. We must go forward, ever forward. The past cannot be changed, only learned from. And I have no doubt whatever that other great leaders will come in the church, leaders whose words will inspire us all to reaffirm our faith. There will be a man whose fire and passion will disperse all our doubts and teach us again what it is to belong to the church.”

“That is very true,” Mrs. Gardiner said sincerely. “I do hope that all things work together for good for you.”

Vita smiled. “I have absolute faith that they will, Mrs. Gardiner,” she answered, and her voice rang with a conviction that made heads turn towards her.

The bishop looked startled and considerably disconcerted. In
fact, he seemed on the point of openly disagreeing with her, only Isadora glared at him so fiercely he closed his mouth again, not obedient so much as alarmed in case she had observed something he had not.

Cornwallis looked across at Isadora, and for an instant Charlotte saw a tenderness, unmasked by discretion, which made her catch her breath with the awareness of a world of emotion within yards of her, and to which the rest of the congregation was utterly blind.

More sympathizers passed Vita, each murmuring civilized words, fumbling for something to say, anything, and then escape.

When the last one had gone, Vita turned to Dominic, her face glowing.

“Now, my dear, I think we may go home again and consider this tragedy well conducted, and this part of it closed.”

“I—I suppose so.” Dominic was unhappy with her choice of words.

She held out her hand to him, as if she would take his arm, and he was a trifle dilatory in offering it.

He glanced at Pitt and Charlotte. There was fear in his eyes, but he did not retreat.

“Does it have to be here?” he said hoarsely. Instinctively, he had reached for Clarice’s hand. She moved closer to him and linked her arm in his, standing beside him, staring at Pitt not quite defiantly, but with a fierce protection which did not permit misunderstanding.

Vita looked at them with a frown. “Clarice, you are behaving very inappropriately, my dear. Please try to have a little more control of yourself.”

Clarice glared at her mother. “They have come to arrest Dominic,” she said between her teeth. “What do you think would be appropriate? I can’t imagine anything. My whole world is coming to an end. Perhaps I should just plant another white cross in the ground and carve on it, ‘Here lie my dreams’ and then take to my bed? I’m not sure how to go into a decline, but I
expect there is a book on etiquette for young ladies which will tell me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Vita snapped. “You are making a spectacle of yourself. Superintendent Pitt is here to pay his respects to your father, not to arrest anyone. We all know who was guilty, but I find it deplorable—in fact, close to inexcusable—that you should choose his memorial service to raise the issue.” She swung around to face Pitt. “Thank you for coming, Superintendent. It was very gracious of you. Now, if you will forgive me, it has been a most trying experience, and I should like to return to my home. Dominic?”

Dominic stared at Pitt, his eyes wide with amazement and hope. Clarice still had hold of him and did not move to free herself.

“I have not come to arrest you,” Pitt said quietly. “I know you did not kill Unity Bellwood.”

Clarice’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude and almost unbelievable joy. Without even thinking about the unsuitability of it, and those who might be watching her, she put her arms around Dominic and buried her head in his shoulder, knocking her hat wildly askew, and hugging him as tightly as she could.

“Clarice!” Vita said furiously. “Have you completely lost your senses? Stop it this instant!” She moved forward as if she would physically strike her daughter.

Pitt put out his hand and took her very firmly by the arm.

“Mrs. Parmenter!”

For an instant she froze, then turned angrily towards him, although her attention was still very plainly upon Dominic and Clarice.

“Let go of me, Mr. Pitt,” she commanded.

“No, Mrs. Parmenter, I am afraid I cannot let go of you,” he said gravely. “You see, I know that your husband did not kill Unity Bellwood. Neither did anyone else. She died completely by accident, only you saw your chance to blame a husband with whom you were disillusioned and no longer in love.”