“I didn’t know that.” She rose, dusting her hands and the front of her skirt. “But why Somerset—and Essex? Did the Valley have ties with such places?”

“Lord, no, not to my knowledge. Although, as I said, whoever gave us the church may have done.”

He paused, as if not wanting to change the subject until she was ready. “About Friday—”

“The funeral.” Francesca sighed. “I understand Mr. Branscombe has made all the arrangements.”

“But you may change whatever you like,” Stevens assured her. “I don’t expect—given the war—that we shall see a great throng here for the service. What’s important is that it should please you.”

“That’s kind.” Her eyes filled unexpectedly with tears. “I should like to be sure the music includes his favorite hymns—”

“I’d thought of that, and believe I’ve managed to do rather well.” Stevens’s scarred face smiled, giving the sinister set of its lines in repose a warmer appearance.

“Thank you.” Looking around her, Francesca said, “We have no memorials to my cousins, do we? I’d thought my grandfather would have seen to that.”

“Your grandfather had a difficult time coming to terms with their loss. Especially young Harry. I don’t think he needed reminders in brass or stone. Would you care to see to it?”

“Yes. By all means. Would black marble be out of place here, do you think? Black for mourning . . .”

“The church is gloomy, too dark perhaps for black. White is also the color of mourning. And of youth dying before its time.”

“Yes,” she said again, thinking about it. “I like that choice. I’ll see to it—afterward.” Looking into the troubled brown eyes, she added impulsively, “You were in the war. Was it very terrible? I’ve seen the wounded in London, and that’s grim enough. I can’t imagine being on a battlefield, and knowing that death was coming— watching the men beside me drop and not move again—” She faltered, and then confessed, “I wonder about my cousins, you see. No one told us how they died—the letters only said that they’d been brave and didn’t suffer. Which is a lie if I ever heard one!”

“Some of the men suffered terribly.” Stevens answered her with bitter honesty. “Screaming in pain, or lying there in silence, which is somehow worse, trying to be—brave about it. But sometimes it’s quick enough. With no time for thought or grief or pain. They may be the lucky ones.”

Francesca nodded. “I pray my cousins were among them.”

About the Author

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Charles Todd is the author of The Murder Stone, A Fearsome Doubt, Watchers of Time, Legacy of the Dead, A Test of Wills, Wings of Fire, and Search the Dark. He lives on the East Coast, where he is at work on the next book in the Ian Rutledge series, A Cold Treachery.

Also by Charles Todd