Page 117 of Marry in Scandal

The Prewitts showed her out. Edward was sitting like a ghost in the gig. “You have a good man there, missus.”

“I know.”

Mrs. Prewitt pressed a wrapped bundle of Edward’s favorite biscuits into her hands. “Take good care of him.”

Lily gave her a misty smile. “I will.”

• • •

“Iles next, is it?” he said after a few moments. His voice was shaking.

Lily had a thousand questions, but she could see that her husband was in no state to answer them. He was hanging on by a thread.

Mr. Iles came hurrying out of his cottage before the gig had even stopped. His face worked wordlessly as he wrung Edward’s hand and drew him inside. His daughter had clearly been primed; the kettle was already singing on the hob and slices of fruitcake and some little tarts set out on the table.

“Never thought I’d see you again, my boy,” the old man said in a strangled voice. “Waited and waited for you to come home, I did... Your granfer too, I’ll be bound.” His eyes devoured Edward. “Silly to say you’ve growed—course you have—but it’s our Seth I’m thinkin’ of now. He’d be just under your height, I reckon, but a bit broader in the shoulders—well, we Ileses have always had strong backs. Woodchoppers, we are, Mrs. Galbraith,” he added to Lily. “Always have been, always will be.”

He gazed again at Edward, his eyes blurry with unshed tears. “He was a fine boy, wasn’t he, our Seth?”

“The finest,” Edward croaked. Tea arrived and he buried his nose in the cup.

Lily took charge of the conversation, encouraging Mr. Iles to talk about his son, all the mischief he and young Ned and the Prewitt lad and the rest had wrought on the people of the estate. “Proper young divils they were, and your lad the leader.” The old man chuckled.

Lily felt rather than saw Edward wince.

“Never minded nobody. Ah, but they were fine lads all the same. I miss him, you know, more than you’d think.”

Edward swallowed.

“That letter of yourn,” Mr. Iles continued. “Grand letter, it was. I get ’un to read it to me whenever I feel a bit low.” He jerked his head at his daughter, who sat at the edge ofthe room saying nothing. “Can’t read, me,” he explained to Lily. “Never went to school.”

She nodded.

“Read ’em a bit, Sukey,” Mr. Iles said, and his daughter went to the mantelpiece and took down a battered piece of paper.

Edward made a strangled sound in his throat. Lily slipped her hand into his. He clung to it tightly, but his face didn’t move.

Sukey read the letter. Mr. Iles moved his lips silently as she read; he knew Edward’s letter by heart. Lily held on to her husband’s hand, and tried not to cry as she heard how Seth had been killed, defending a widow and three little girls from a vicious pack of deserters. They’d buried him near their cottage. The little girls planted flowers on his grave.

When it was finished, Mr. Iles wiped his eyes. “Brings me a deal of comfort, that, knowing he died saving that woman and her girls. I wonder, sometimes, about the flowers those little girls planted over him. Do you remember what they—”

“Poppies,” Edward said. “Poppies. Red poppies.”

“Ah, that’s grand, then. Seth always did like a bit of color. Sukey, what say we plant a few poppies out the front there? For our Seth.”

“Whatever you say, Dad.”

Lily gave Mr. Iles the cheese and pickled onions, with the compliments of Shields, and they took their leave. They turned the gig around and were heading to the abbey—Lily was glad now she’d put a bottle of wine in the picnic basket—when Edward groaned.

A couple was standing at the divide in the road, obviously waiting. Edward pulled the horse to a halt and got down. “Mr. and Mrs. Bryant.” He shook hands with Mr. Bryant and suffered himself to be hugged by Mrs. Bryant. His face was ash pale, grim but resigned.

“Heard you were home but weren’t sure how long you were stayin’,” Mr. Bryant said. “The missus here said you’d be sure to call on the Prewitts and she were right, as usual.”He glanced fondly at his wife, who hadn’t spoken except to greet Edward.

She didn’t say much, but she couldn’t stop touching Edward, his arms, his shoulders, and once or twice his cheek, stroking him like a cat.

Like a long-lost son.

Lily waited in the gig, watching and listening. The conversation went much as the two previous, only this time it was about a boy called Peter. Another quick, honorable death, another tragic story, another memory to treasure.