Elizabeth Rolls - His Lady Mistress

Despair flooded her as she braced herself to see the corpse slung carelessly into the mire. Shock lanced the pain as the bearer knelt in the mud and eased the body to its final resting place. A faint splash told her that the deed was done, and far more gently than she had expected. Shaken, she watched as the man straightened and threw something in after the body.

The murmur of his deep voice came to her. ‘We commit his body to the ground—’

‘Here, now!’ a scandalised voice interrupted. ‘Can’t have that! Rector said so. ’Tis in the prayer book! Them as lays violent hands on theirselves—’

‘To hell with what the Rector said!’

The men shrank back before the sudden fury and the stranger continued. ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’ The deep voice faded into silence and tears of gratitude mingled with the rain on Verity’s cheeks. Whoever he was, little though he knew it, he was her only friend in this nightmare darkness and she would pray for him all the days of her life.

The older of the two men spoke up hesitantly. ‘Ye’d best stand back, sir. Unless ye wants to handle this bit too.’

‘No, I thank you!’ The stranger jerked back, his voice rough. ‘Can’t you leave the poor devil be, now? Just tell the Rector you did it! This ghost won’t trouble you. Let him rest!’

‘Nay, sir,’ the man averred. ‘Rector says as how it’s got to be done. You go along now, sir. ’Tis a nasty, but it’s got to be.’

A savage oath greeted this and the stranger stepped away.

One of the others knelt over the grave and raised his arm. Numb with horror, Verity saw lamplight slide wetly on steel and heard the first brutal thud as the sledgehammer struck against wood. Again and again the fearful blows landed in a merciless rhythm, ghastly in its very steadiness. Retching, loathing her cowardice, Verity pressed her hands over her ears, but still the sounds penetrated, pounding in her blood as though her own heart was impaled.

Nearly senseless, she sank fully to the ground, uncaring of the bitter cold leaching into her. Even as she realised that they were filling in the grave, the hammering echoed in her soul in pitiless torment.

It remained only to wait until they left so she could make her farewell.

At last they were gone, and Verity, listening to the final, fading splash of hoofbeats, crept stiffly out of the hedge. Cold shuddered through her as she approached the grave. The weather had cleared slightly and moonlight gleamed through a gap in the clouds, lighting her way to the disturbed sods.

With a despairing whimper, she dropped to her knees in the mud, tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Papa, forgive me! I didn’t understand…Papa…I’m sorry…I never meant this…I love you…’

Still weeping, she reached into her satchel and brought out her offering. Small and pathetic though it was, she could do no more. If she put up a cross, no matter how humble, it would be torn down. Even a bunch of flowers would be removed if anyone saw it.

Furtively she scrabbled in the wet, cold earth, preparing it for her hidden garland. He would forgive her…he must. He had loved her once…

‘What the hell do you think you’ll find there? A few miserable trinkets, you cur? I heard you behind us, all the way. I went away to flush you out.’

The harsh voice speared her and she cried out in startled terror as a fierce grip took her shoulder and spun her around to fall helpless on the muddy grave.

Savagely the voice continued, ‘Didn’t they tell you? All a suicide’s possessions go to the Crown. You’ll find nothing here, boy. Now leave the poor bastard alone before I give you the thrashing you deserve!’

Dazed, Verity stared up at her captor, but the moon had fled and a tall, menacing shadow filled her vision. She tried to speak, but her throat, swollen with crying, seized, and all that came out was a choking sound.

‘Go on! Go and rob another grave!’

Her limbs would not move. Helpless, she watched as the shadow leaned down and jerked her to her feet. Both her wrists were imprisoned in a one-handed grip. Another hand flung back her hood just as the fickle moon slid out again. She stared up, but the moon was behind him and his face remained shadowed.

‘God in heaven!’ The grip on her wrists slackened at once and she staggered, only to find herself held in a far more alarming captivity with the stranger’s arm around her waist. ‘You’re a girl, a child! What the devil are you doing out here? Who are you?’

She forced her voice past the choking terror. ‘I…I’m Verity. Verity Scott. He…he…’ Sobs closed her throat again.

‘Verity? Then…you’re his daughter.’ The harshness vanished, replaced by horror and compassion. ‘What were you thinking of? You should never have come here! How old are you, for God’s sake?’ A shaking hand pushed wet, bedraggled strands of hair back from her face in clumsy tenderness.

‘F…fifteen.’

‘Fifteen?! Oh, hell!’

She had no will to struggle when he pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her. Despair and exhaustion sapped her strength and she leaned into him gratefully. He had laid her father to rest with all gentleness possible and given him part of the Christian burial. He had tried to stop the brutal laying of any possible ghost. And he had come back to defend the grave. Unlooked-for comfort seeped into her very bones.

Dimly his voice penetrated. The words didn’t matter. The voice was sorrow itself, breaking in its own despair. At last the words reached her. ‘I must get you back to the village, before you’re missed. Come. I’ll take you up on my horse.’

He lifted her effortlessly, shocking her out of her daze. Wildly she fought him and landed in an ignominious heap at his feet.

‘No! Not yet!’ She struggled to her feet and nearly fell again as she slipped in the mire. He caught her and steadied her.

‘Miss Scott, Verity—you can do nothing here. Come away. Don’t torture yourself. God won’t abandon him…’ His voice shook and she felt his hands tremble as they grasped her shoulders.

‘I…I brought bluebell bulbs,’ she whispered, gazing blindly up into the shadowed face. ‘They’ll remove a cross or…or anything else. The bulbs won’t flower till spring. Maybe they won’t realise. Then if…if I can come back one day, I’ll be able to find him…’ Tears choked her and she turned away, searching for the fallen bag of bulbs.

The moon sailed out and she saw the bag by her satchel at the edge of the grave. Shivering, she knelt again and realised that her companion had knelt too.

He held out his hands. ‘I’ll help you.’

Fresh tears slid down her cheeks as she tipped bulbs into his cupped palms and tried to thank him. No words came and in silence they planted them.

At last they were done and Verity’s companion lifted her tenderly to her feet. ‘Come now. With those to deck his grave he will be at peace.’

Her hand clung to his. ‘Wait,’ she begged.

Dragging in a deep breath, she began in a childish treble, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills: from whence cometh my help…’ Her voice cracking and breaking, she stumbled through the psalm she had memorised until she came to the final verses and the strangling lump in her heart silenced her. Shuddering, she dragged in a useless breath, and another, only to feel a powerful arm go around her shoulders.

The deep voice continued for her in steadfast accents, ‘The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: yea, it is even he that shall keep thy soul.’

Drawing upon his strength, Verity found her voice again and they finished together, ‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in: from this time forward for evermore.’