“The place is a ruin,” he said, “though the fields have been kept in fairly good condition. But the war—” He gestured at the nearest house, pocked by cannonballs and its bright-blue paint scorched and fire-blackened on one side. “I think it might not just flow round me like a rock in the water, you know.”
Something odd moved over her face, and he looked at her in considerable surprise.
“You’ve thought of something?” he asked.
“Yes, but it’s not—I mean—it’s not relevant right this minute.” She waved away whatever the thought had been. “I know Lord John and your uncle—the duke still thinks of himself as your uncle, I know—”
“So do I,” William said, wryly, but with a small sense of relief at the thought. Uncle Hal truly was a rock, over whom floods and torrents had often passed, leaving him unmoved.
“They want you to go back to England,” Brianna said. “I was wondering, myself—you’re an earl; doesn’t that mean you have … people? Land? Things that need taking care of?”
“There is an estate, yes,” he said tersely. “I—what the devil?” His horse had stopped dead, and Brianna’s mount was trying to turn around in the alley, whuffling at some disturbing scent.
Then his feebler olfactory sense perceived it, too—a stink of death. A wagon stood at the end of the alley, its sides draped with black cloth, this threadbare and bleached by age into rusty folds. The wagon was unhitched, and there were neither horses nor mules in evidence, but a small group of roughly clad men, both black and white, stood in a patch of sun just beyond the alley’s mouth, in attitudes of watchful expectation.
There was a sound of voices in the distance, subdued, but several of them, a murmuring that was punctuated abruptly by a piercing wail that made the waiting men flinch and look away, shoulders hunched.
Brianna turned in her saddle, looking over her shoulder and gathering up her reins, evidently wanting to go back—but there were people coming into the alley behind them, mourners in dark veils and armbands. Bree glanced at William, and he shook his head and nudged his own horse toward hers, jockeying toward the side of the alley in order to give the newcomers space to pass. This they did, a few sparing a glance at the riders—one or two with eyes widened at sight of Brianna astride with her skirts hiked up and an indecent expanse of calf showing—but most so focused on present grief as to be indifferent to spectacle.
Movement near the wagon drew William’s attention back; they were bringing out the body—bodies.
He whipped off his hat, pressed it to his heart, and bowed his head. To his astonishment, Brianna did the same.
There were no coffins; this was a funeral of the poor. Two small bodies wrapped in rough shrouds were borne out on planks and gently lifted into the wagon.
“No! No!” A woman, who must be the children’s mother, broke from the arms of her supporters and ran to the wagon, trying to climb in, screaming, “Noooo!” at the top of her voice. “No, no! Let me go with them, don’t take ’em away from me, no!”
A wave of horrified, stricken friends closed round the woman, pulling her back, trying by sheer force of compassion to quiet her.
“Oh, dear God,” Brianna said in a choked voice. William glanced at her and saw that tears were running down her face, her eyes fixed on the pitiful scene, and he recalled with a shock the children he had heard playing outside the Brumby house—hers.
He reached out a hand and grasped her arm—she let go of the reins with that hand and seized his as though she were drowning, clinging for dear life, remarkable strength for a woman. Several men had come to take up the shafts, and the wagon’s wheels creaked into motion, the small procession beginning its mournful journey. The mother had ceased wailing now; she moved as though sleepwalking after the wagon, stumbling as her knees gave way every few steps in spite of the support of two women who held her up.
“Where is her husband?” Brianna whispered, more to herself than to William, but he answered.
“He’ll likely be with the army.” Much more likely, he was dead as well, but his sister probably knew that as well as he did.
Her own husband … God knew where he was. She’d avoided answering him when he’d asked, but it was apparent that MacKenzie was a rebel. If he’d been in the recent battle—but no, he’d survived that, at least, William reminded himself. She didn’t ask about him, while we were in camp … why the devil not? Still, he could feel a small constant tremor running through his sister’s hand, and he squeezed back, trying to give her reassurance.