Ebenezer had found his father dead, slumped over his study table, and on Matthew Slythe’s face was a snarl that had been there so often in life. His fist was clenched as if, at the last moment, he had tried to hold on to life and not go to the heaven he had looked 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-colored 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.