Open Writing

The valley widened as it reached the village that sat either side of the river
below the reservoir. At one end of a stone bridge was a toll bar. A row of
poor cottages clung to the toll house, as if for respectability. Carriages and
a wagonette were on the open ground in front of the church and
graveyard.

Robert rode down the track from Musgrave Hall. He came too
quickly and the horse whinnied its objection, its hooves kicking stones as
it skidded upon reaching the levels of the valley.

His ride from the hall had started in anger and despair. He had
travelled 6,000 miles only to arrive hours too late. He leapt from the
saddle outside the church with vague intentions of disrupting the service,
when an elderly man stepped from the shadow's of the lych-gate and said,
"Master Robert."

Robert stopped. The man was a ghost from the past, his long
face composed of angles.

"Ezekiel?"

He glanced past him, looking for his brother, Ezra.

"Ezra's inside," said Ezekiel.

Robert stared at the church door and felt his resolve weaken. He
looked into Ezekiel's face.

"She is really marrying him?" he said.

"Aye, lad. She is."

He looked again at the church door and imagined the wedding
ceremony taking place. The anger seeped away. His expectations had been
too great. It seemed appropriate that he was outside in the graveyard. He
had always been on the outside.

"Are you all right, Master Robert?" Ezekiel's voice was coaxing.

"Yes. I'm all right." He slapped the crop against his thigh. "As
my presence might be unwelcome amongst the living, I shall pay my
respects to the dead."

"I'll take your horse, lad."

The man took the reins from his hand and Robert went through
the lych-gate. The Colonel's grave was covered in a marble slab and had at
its head a granite cross that was taller than a man. It was in a prominent
position not far from the path. Robert removed his hat and stood for a
moment, remembering his benefactor.

The inscription was a mockery: "Beloved father of Henry
Frederick."

No acknowledgment of his other son.

Next to it was a smaller tomb with a stone ledger and the simple
inscription: Hic jacet George Weatherall, beloved brother of Jane. Born
September 30, 1831, Died February 5, 1851. A gentle scholar and an
innocent soul.

Poor George. Robert wondered if he was still curious in heaven.
It would be a disappointment to George if omniscience was a fact of the
after-life, for he had loved to make his own discoveries.

He walked around the back of the church, pausing to look at
markers and tablets, until he found his mother's stone. It was modest and
gave simple details of birth and death and the defiant message, Mother of
Robert, although there was no mention of the man with whom she had
lived for 17 years. Mary Dyce had been 39 when she died.

Robert sat on the grass and communed with his past. His mother
was dead and Jane was marrying someone else and that familiar feeling of
being alone overwhelmed him.

He couldn’t blame Jane. She’d been isolated in these hills and
had had few choices. Young women of society were raised to obedience
and duty. Marriages were arranged and negotiated; they were seldom love
matches. Jane had probably accepted Harry's offer because it was superior
to any other she might expect. Perhaps she’d thought Robert would never
return. He saw his ambition as childish and suddenly felt tired. He lay on
the grass and rested his head on the slope of his mother's grave and
listened to the wedding hymns.

When the church doors opened and the congregation began to
emerge, he roused himself. He sat in the grass and listened to a small
cheer, a ripple of polite applause and subdued chat. The joy was less than
unconfined.

He got to his feet and brushed his britches clean of grass,
undecided, even now, as to whether to swagger through the crowd and
confront the newly married couple. But what would that accomplish apart
from embarrassment for Jane and the smirk of victory from Harry?

He carried his hat in one hand, his crop in the other and walked
back through the gravestones. People were already moving towards the
carriages and he heard a peel of laughter. He waited until the vicar had
climbed into a coach and four before he moved to stand by the tall
gravestone of his father.

Now he could see the newly married couple in the open carriage
as Ezekiel turned the horses. Harry, dark haired, dark skinned, slim and
with eyes forever hooded as if storing secrets, in a suit of grey with silk
facings.

For a moment, Jane was hidden from his view and then he saw
her clearly. The blonde curls, the blue eyes, the fair complexion were the
same and yet different, as if a shade of life had been taken from her. She
smiled but seemed unsure of her happiness.

Perhaps it was the strength of Robert's gaze that caused her to
look round. When she saw him, she gasped. Harry, noting her reaction,
turned in the carriage and also saw him and was, for a second, visibly
shocked, as if the vision by his father's grave was his father's ghost. The
humour went from his face and his look was black as night.

The wedding carriage led the way up the track to Musgrave Hall
and the phaetons and gigs followed. The wagonette, pulled by great farm
horses, brought up the rear and the workers seated in it muttered and
whispered at his presence. As the wagon began the climb, they laughed
again. His late and unexpected arrival at the church would add spice and
speculation to the feast.

He walked to his horse, ignoring the beauty of the day and the
valley and how the sun was teasing multi-coloured shades of green from
the hillsides. He mounted and took the turnpike that ran through Helston
to Bradfield, where he had lodgings at the Pack Horse Commercial Hotel.

"Never bleat about the hand you've been dealt," the Colonel had
said, and he would not bleat. "Just get on with playing it."

Play it he would. But first, there was a wedding to celebrate and
he would do so in Bradfield. Wilfully and drunkenly.

**

This hugely entertaining novel can be purchased from Amazon Kindle for
less than £1. http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B005966G30