turned to see who had entered.
‘Tom!’ Brent could scarcely keep his voice to a whisper and, leaving his Mother and sister, went rapidly to his brother’s side. Tom smiled in greeting, but put a finger to his lips and listened attentively, or appeared to, his head bowed in silent prayer as the voice of the clergyman droned on.
The old man’s hands which had occasionally plucked the coverlet of his bed were now still, his face waxen, his cheeks sunk. His pulse had stopped, nothing stirred. Long before the exhortation was finished Sir Francis Delamain had joined that company to which he had been called. He was dead.
When the voice ceased no one spoke, cried or uttered a word. If anyone grieved for the old man they did not show it; not even George showed it. He stood staring at the dead countenance and then as the minister removed his stole and closed his book, George, Sir George, turned to him and bowed. Only Tom remained, with lowered head, his lips still moving. Tom in his own way, in the Latin of the old faith, was bidding the soul of Sir Francis Delamain prepare itself for its meeting with its maker.
George opened the door and announced to the servants assembled outside that his grandfather was dead. They bowed or curtseyed, acknowledging his succession, and then they entered one by one and stood or knelt by the master few had loved but whom they had served for so many years. One or two of the women, overcome by the solemnity of the occasion, even wept.
Tom raised his head, inclined it again in the direction of his grandfather and then went up to his Mother and kissed her. She embraced him, leaning her head for a moment on his shoulder and then she groped for his hand and allowed him to lead her from the chamber. Brent and Emma followed while George remained until the last of the servants had paid their respects.
When the last one left George closed the door and went up to his grandfather’s bed. He gazed for a long time at the immobile body, his face showing, by the spasms that passed over it, more expression than for many hours.
In so far as he was capable of the finer emotions that uplift the human spirit George had loved the old man. They had been two of a kind – unimaginative, unemotional, thrifty, hardworking, respectful towards lawful authority. Both cherished a long-held goal; the aggrandizement of the Delamain estates, the glory and enhancement of the name Delamain.
The old man had spent too much time in Cumberland, not enough circulating in the court and business circles in London. George Delamain intended to make good this omission – he would work doubly hard, at home and at court. He was determined that before many years were out the King would ennoble his family with a barony and to this end he would spend any amount of money, devote any amount of time. George meant to establish a great baronial family, a power not only in the county but in the land.
‘You have served the family well, old man,’ he said in a whisper.‘Be sure I will extend the fruits of your stewardship until the name Delamain rings through the length and breadth of the land.’
George took the still, dead hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he placed it on the old man’s breast and raised his own hand in a gesture of farewell before snuffing the candle and striding purposefully from the room to claim his inheritance.
In the privacy of her own chamber alone with her children, Susan Delamain broke down at last, having maintained so impassive, so serene a face during the long agonizing hours of the old man’s death. This was all changed by the arrival of Tom, whom she hadn’t seen since she made her furtive journey to France for his solemn profession as a monk of St Benedict seven years before, in 1737. She had pretended to be visiting her home, her brother John and his children at Furness Grange in Cumberland, but a desperate voyage from Whitehaven to France had followed and two treasured days with her son until the
‘Tom!’ Brent could scarcely keep his voice to a whisper and, leaving his Mother and sister, went rapidly to his brother’s side. Tom smiled in greeting, but put a finger to his lips and listened attentively, or appeared to, his head bowed in silent prayer as the voice of the clergyman droned on.
The old man’s hands which had occasionally plucked the coverlet of his bed were now still, his face waxen, his cheeks sunk. His pulse had stopped, nothing stirred. Long before the exhortation was finished Sir Francis Delamain had joined that company to which he had been called. He was dead.
When the voice ceased no one spoke, cried or uttered a word. If anyone grieved for the old man they did not show it; not even George showed it. He stood staring at the dead countenance and then as the minister removed his stole and closed his book, George, Sir George, turned to him and bowed. Only Tom remained, with lowered head, his lips still moving. Tom in his own way, in the Latin of the old faith, was bidding the soul of Sir Francis Delamain prepare itself for its meeting with its maker.
George opened the door and announced to the servants assembled outside that his grandfather was dead. They bowed or curtseyed, acknowledging his succession, and then they entered one by one and stood or knelt by the master few had loved but whom they had served for so many years. One or two of the women, overcome by the solemnity of the occasion, even wept.
Tom raised his head, inclined it again in the direction of his grandfather and then went up to his Mother and kissed her. She embraced him, leaning her head for a moment on his shoulder and then she groped for his hand and allowed him to lead her from the chamber. Brent and Emma followed while George remained until the last of the servants had paid their respects.
When the last one left George closed the door and went up to his grandfather’s bed. He gazed for a long time at the immobile body, his face showing, by the spasms that passed over it, more expression than for many hours.
In so far as he was capable of the finer emotions that uplift the human spirit George had loved the old man. They had been two of a kind – unimaginative, unemotional, thrifty, hardworking, respectful towards lawful authority. Both cherished a long-held goal; the aggrandizement of the Delamain estates, the glory and enhancement of the name Delamain.
The old man had spent too much time in Cumberland, not enough circulating in the court and business circles in London. George Delamain intended to make good this omission – he would work doubly hard, at home and at court. He was determined that before many years were out the King would ennoble his family with a barony and to this end he would spend any amount of money, devote any amount of time. George meant to establish a great baronial family, a power not only in the county but in the land.
‘You have served the family well, old man,’ he said in a whisper.‘Be sure I will extend the fruits of your stewardship until the name Delamain rings through the length and breadth of the land.’
George took the still, dead hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he placed it on the old man’s breast and raised his own hand in a gesture of farewell before snuffing the candle and striding purposefully from the room to claim his inheritance.
In the privacy of her own chamber alone with her children, Susan Delamain broke down at last, having maintained so impassive, so serene a face during the long agonizing hours of the old man’s death. This was all changed by the arrival of Tom, whom she hadn’t seen since she made her furtive journey to France for his solemn profession as a monk of St Benedict seven years before, in 1737. She had pretended to be visiting her home, her brother John and his children at Furness Grange in Cumberland, but a desperate voyage from Whitehaven to France had followed and two treasured days with her son until the
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