his leg across the saddle and settled himself. 'You heard the news, Dorcas?'
'News, sir?'
'The King's taken Bristol. I suppose the Royalists will win now.' He grunted approvingly. 'Still, I suppose you've got other things on your mind. You were to be married tomorrow?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Not now, child, not now.' Fenderlyn said it gloomily, but the words were like an angelic message in her head. The doctor pulled his hat straight. 'It'll be a funeral not a wedding. Fine weather, Dorcas! Bury him soon. I suppose he'll want to rest beside your mother?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'll make sure Hervey opens up the grave. Heigh ho. Another one gone.' He looked up at the eaves of the Hall where the house martins had their nests. 'It comes to us all, child, comes to us all. Apoplexy, the stone, strangury, the gout, epilepsy, leprosy, botches, plague, fistula, cankerworm, dropsy, gut-twisting, rupture, goitre, fever, the pox, tetterworm, the sweat, gripes.' He shook his head, relishing the list. 'It's only the young who think they'll live for ever.' Dr Fenderlyn was seventy-eight years old and had never had a day's illness in his life. It had made him a cheerless man, expecting the worst. 'What will you do, Dorcas?'
'Do, sir?'
'I suppose you'll marry Mr Scammell and breed me more patients?'
'I don't know, sir.' There was a joy in Campion, a leaping joy because she did not know what the future held. She knew only that the marriage had been postponed and she felt as a condemned prisoner must when the gaoler announces a reprieve.
'I'll bid you good day, Dorcas.' Fenderlyn touched his whip to the brim of his hat. 'Tell that brother of yours to send me some urine. Never thought he'd survive weaning, but here he is. Life's full of surprises. Be of good cheer!' He said the last miserably.
Ebenezer had found his father dead, slumped over his study table, and on Matthew Slythe's face was a snarl that had been there so often in life. His fist was clenched as if, at the last moment, he had tried to hold on to life and not go to the heaven he had looked forward to for so long. He had lived fifty-four years, a good length for most men, and death had come very suddenly.
Campion knew she should not feel released, yet she did, and it was an effort to stand beside the grave, looking down at the decaying wood of her mother's coffin, without showing the pleasure of the moment. She joined in the 23rd psalm, then listened as Faithful Unto Death Hervey rejoiced that Brother Matthew Slythe had been called home, had been translated into glory, had crossed the river Jordan to join the company of Saints and even now was part of the eternal choir that hymned God's majesty in the celestial skies. Campion tried to imagine her father's dark-browed, ponderous scowl in the ranks of the angels.
After the service, as earth was shovelled on to her father's coffin, Faithful Unto Death Hervey took her to one side. His fingers gripped her arm tightly. 'A sad day, Miss Slythe.'
'Yes.'
'Yet you will meet in heaven.'
'Yes, sir.'
Hervey glanced back at the mourners, out of earshot. His straw-coloured hair fell lank on his thin, pointed face. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. 'And what, pray, will you do now?'
'Now?' She tried to pull her arm away, but Faithful Unto Death kept firm hold of it. His eyes, pale as his hair, flicked left and right.
'Grief is a hard burden, Miss Slythe.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And not one that should be borne alone.' His fingers tightened on her upper arm, hurting her. He smiled. 'I am the shepherd of this flock, Miss Slythe, and I stand ready to help you in any way I can. You do understand that?'
'You're hurting me.'
'My dear Miss Slythe!' His hand leaped from her arm then hovered close to her shoulder. 'Perhaps together we can pray for the balm of Gilead?'
'I know you will pray for us, Mr Hervey.'
It was not the answer Faithful Unto Death wanted. He was imagining emotional scenes in the Hall, Campion perhaps prostrate on her bed
'News, sir?'
'The King's taken Bristol. I suppose the Royalists will win now.' He grunted approvingly. 'Still, I suppose you've got other things on your mind. You were to be married tomorrow?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Not now, child, not now.' Fenderlyn said it gloomily, but the words were like an angelic message in her head. The doctor pulled his hat straight. 'It'll be a funeral not a wedding. Fine weather, Dorcas! Bury him soon. I suppose he'll want to rest beside your mother?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'll make sure Hervey opens up the grave. Heigh ho. Another one gone.' He looked up at the eaves of the Hall where the house martins had their nests. 'It comes to us all, child, comes to us all. Apoplexy, the stone, strangury, the gout, epilepsy, leprosy, botches, plague, fistula, cankerworm, dropsy, gut-twisting, rupture, goitre, fever, the pox, tetterworm, the sweat, gripes.' He shook his head, relishing the list. 'It's only the young who think they'll live for ever.' Dr Fenderlyn was seventy-eight years old and had never had a day's illness in his life. It had made him a cheerless man, expecting the worst. 'What will you do, Dorcas?'
'Do, sir?'
'I suppose you'll marry Mr Scammell and breed me more patients?'
'I don't know, sir.' There was a joy in Campion, a leaping joy because she did not know what the future held. She knew only that the marriage had been postponed and she felt as a condemned prisoner must when the gaoler announces a reprieve.
'I'll bid you good day, Dorcas.' Fenderlyn touched his whip to the brim of his hat. 'Tell that brother of yours to send me some urine. Never thought he'd survive weaning, but here he is. Life's full of surprises. Be of good cheer!' He said the last miserably.
Ebenezer had found his father dead, slumped over his study table, and on Matthew Slythe's face was a snarl that had been there so often in life. His fist was clenched as if, at the last moment, he had tried to hold on to life and not go to the heaven he had looked forward to for so long. He had lived fifty-four years, a good length for most men, and death had come very suddenly.
Campion knew she should not feel released, yet she did, and it was an effort to stand beside the grave, looking down at the decaying wood of her mother's coffin, without showing the pleasure of the moment. She joined in the 23rd psalm, then listened as Faithful Unto Death Hervey rejoiced that Brother Matthew Slythe had been called home, had been translated into glory, had crossed the river Jordan to join the company of Saints and even now was part of the eternal choir that hymned God's majesty in the celestial skies. Campion tried to imagine her father's dark-browed, ponderous scowl in the ranks of the angels.
After the service, as earth was shovelled on to her father's coffin, Faithful Unto Death Hervey took her to one side. His fingers gripped her arm tightly. 'A sad day, Miss Slythe.'
'Yes.'
'Yet you will meet in heaven.'
'Yes, sir.'
Hervey glanced back at the mourners, out of earshot. His straw-coloured hair fell lank on his thin, pointed face. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. 'And what, pray, will you do now?'
'Now?' She tried to pull her arm away, but Faithful Unto Death kept firm hold of it. His eyes, pale as his hair, flicked left and right.
'Grief is a hard burden, Miss Slythe.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And not one that should be borne alone.' His fingers tightened on her upper arm, hurting her. He smiled. 'I am the shepherd of this flock, Miss Slythe, and I stand ready to help you in any way I can. You do understand that?'
'You're hurting me.'
'My dear Miss Slythe!' His hand leaped from her arm then hovered close to her shoulder. 'Perhaps together we can pray for the balm of Gilead?'
'I know you will pray for us, Mr Hervey.'
It was not the answer Faithful Unto Death wanted. He was imagining emotional scenes in the Hall, Campion perhaps prostrate on her bed
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