forward to for so long. He had lived fifty-four years, a good length for most men, and death had come very suddenly.
Campion knew she should not feel released, yet she did, and it was an effort to stand beside the grave, looking down at the decaying wood of her mother’s coffin, without showing the pleasure of the moment. She joined in the 23rd psalm, then listened as Faithful Unto Death Hervey rejoiced that Brother Matthew Slythe had been called home, had been translated into glory, had crossed the river Jordan to join the company of Saints and even now was part of the eternal choir that hymned God’s majesty in the celestial skies. Campion tried to imagine her father’s dark-browed, ponderous scowl in the ranks of the angels.
After the service, as earth was shovelled on to her father’s coffin, Faithful Unto Death Hervey took her to one side. His fingers gripped her arm tightly. ‘A sad day, Miss Slythe.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you will meet in heaven.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hervey glanced back at the mourners, out of earshot. His straw-coloured hair fell lank on his thin, pointed face. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. ‘And what, pray, will you do now?’
‘Now?’ She tried to pull her arm away, but Faithful Unto Death kept firm hold of it. His eyes, pale as his hair, flicked left and right.
‘Grief is a hard burden, Miss Slythe.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And not one that should be borne alone.’ His fingers tightened on her upper arm, hurting her. He smiled. ‘I am the shepherd of this flock, Miss Slythe, and I stand ready to help you in any way I can. You do understand that?’
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘My dear Miss Slythe!’ His hand leaped from her arm then hovered close to her shoulder. ‘Perhaps together we can pray for the balm of Gilead?’
‘I know you will pray for us, Mr Hervey.’
It was not the answer Faithful Unto Death wanted. He was imagining emotional scenes in the Hall, Campion perhaps prostrate on her bed with grief while he administered comfort, and he began to blink rapidly as his imagination stirred thick with the image.
Samuel Scammell walked over to them, breaking Hervey’s thoughts, and thanked the minister for the service. ‘You’ll come to the Hall tomorrow, brother? Mr Blood has the will, indeed yes.’ He licked his lips and smiled at Hervey. ‘I think our dear departed brother may have remembered your good works.’
‘Yes. Yes.’
The household waited for Scammell and Campion beside the farm cart that had brought Slythe’s body to the churchyard. Ebenezer was already mounted beside the cart, drooping in the saddle, his twisted left leg supported by a specially large stirrup. He held Scammell’s horse. ‘Brother Scammell?’ He held the reins out, then looked at his sister. ‘You’ll go in the cart with the servants.’ His voice was harsh.
‘I shall walk, Ebenezer.’
‘It is not seemly.’
‘I shall walk, Ebenezer! I want to be alone!’
‘Leave her, leave her!’ Scammell soothed Ebenezer, nodded to Tobias Horsnell, who had the reins of the carthorse and Campion watched them go.
It took all of her control not to run across the ridge down the hayfields to the stream, and there to strip naked and swim in the pool for the sheer, clean joy of it. She dawdled instead, relishing the freedom of being alone, and she climbed part way up through the beeches and felt the wings of her soul stretching free at last. She hugged one of the trees as though it was animate, clinging to it in joy, feeling the seething happiness because a great weight was gone from her. She put her cheek against the bark. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
That night she slept alone, ordering Charity from her room, insisting on it. She locked the door and almost danced for the joy of it. She was alone! She undressed with the curtains and windows open and saw the touch of the moon on the ripening wheat. She leaned on the sill, stared into the night, and thought her joy would flood the land. She was not married! Kneeling beside the high bed, hands clasped, she thanked God for her reprieve. She vowed to Him that she would be good, but that she would be free.
Then Isaac Blood came from Dorchester.
He had a white face, lined with age, and grey hair that hung to his collar. He was Matthew Slythe’s lawyer and, because he had known Slythe well and knew what to expect at Werlatton Hall, he had brought his own bottle of malmsey wine which he eked into a small glass and sipped often. The servants faced him, sitting on the benches where they gathered for prayers, while Samuel Scammell and Faithful Unto Death flanked Campion and Ebenezer on the family bench. Isaac Blood fussed at the lectern, arranging the will over the family Bible, then fetched a small table on which his wine could stand.
Goodwife Baggerlie, in memory of her good, loyal and God-fearing service, was to receive a hundred pounds. She dabbed her red-rimmed eyes with her apron. ‘God bless him! God bless him!’
Faithful Unto Death had been surprised at the legacy. It was an enormous amount. His eyes watched Goodwife and he assumed that Slythe would be more generous with a man of God than with a house-servant. He smiled to himself, and waited as Isaac Blood sipped malmsey and wiped his lips.
‘To our Brother Faithful Unto Death Hervey,’ Isaac Blood began reading again, and Scammell leaned forward on the bench and smiled at the vicar. Hervey kept his eyes on the lawyer. ‘I know,’ went on Blood, ‘that he will not wish distraction from his humble toiling in God’s vineyard, so we will not burden him beyond his desires.’
Hervey frowned. Blood sipped his wine. ‘Five pounds.’
Five pounds! Five! Hervey stiffened on the bench, aware that all the servants were watching him, and he felt the agony of insignificance, of virtue unrewarded, of hatred for Matthew Slythe. Five pounds! It turned out to be the same sum that went to Tobias Horsnell and some of the other servants. Five pounds!
Blood was unaware of the seething indignation to his left. ‘To my beloved children, Samuel and Dorcas Scammell, go those properties described in the marriage settlement.’
Scammell grunted in satisfaction and nudged Campion beside him on the bench. The truth was slow to dawn on her. The marriage settlement? It was part of her father’s will, so that his death had solved nothing. She began to feel the despair of the last few weeks return. Even from the grave Matthew Slythe would control her.
Werlatton Hall, its farms, fields, and all the tenancies attached, went, as expected, to Ebenezer. Her brother did not move as he listened to the wealth shower on him, except to smile at Scammell when the will dictated that Brother Samuel Scammell would administer the wide estate until Ebenezer was of age. If Ebenezer should die without issue, then the Werlatton properties passed intact to Samuel Scammell.
There was little more to the will, except a homily on righteousness that Isaac Blood read tonelessly. It was Matthew Slythe’s last sermon in this hall. Campion did not listen. One thing only was clear to her; that she was a chattel, disposed of in her father’s will, bequeathed to Samuel Scammell.
The sermon over, Isaac Blood folded the stiff papers and looked at the servants. ‘It was Matthew Slythe’s wish that you all continue in service here. I
