She took her own seat, remembered she hadn’t untied the horse, and climbed down again. Several people were coming down the street now, hurrying past, heads bowed, their shoes splashing in the puddles. Three children, grubby-faced and thin, stopped to stare at her, knowing her for a stranger, before running on. A sudden gust of wind sent skirts whipping, and two houses away a man’s hat blew off, to roll down the street like a top. The rain began in earnest and she barked her shin climbing back to her seat. Close to tears herself, she lifted the reins and spoke to the horse. “Walk on.”

It was a very long drive back to where they’d come from. Long and cold and wet and dreary. She glanced at the other woman from time to time, saw that she was silently crying with her eyes closed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Her pale face reflected misery and exhaustion.

I don’t know how I’d feel, “Sarah” said to herself despairingly. In her shoes. Bleak of heart. Afraid. But I’ll think of something. God help me—I must think of something! We can’t come back here again. We haven’t the strength!

It was very late when they reached their destination. The town was dark and still, a dog howling somewhere, the wind whispering around the church tower and swooping among the gravestones of the churchyard—as if confiding the latest news, “Sarah” thought, turning the old horse toward his stable.

I’m so weary, I’m imagining things.

She glanced for the hundredth time at the woman beside her. Her eyes were still closed, but she wasn’t asleep.

“We’re home,” she told her friend gently, trying not to startle her. They were wet through, hungry because they’d been reluctant to stop along the way at the rough pubs or places where decent travelers stayed. They had been afraid of being seen, of being recognized. Of someone remembering that they’d been on the road from Glasgow, where they weren’t supposed to be.

“Yes.” She opened her eyes, saw the churchyard, and shuddered. The cold white stones seemed to be pointing fingers. “I wish I were dead too!”

Following a path through the stones with her eyes, the younger woman murmured with infinite sadness, “So do I.”

Chapter 2 - 1919 DUNCARRICK

2

1919 DUNCARRICK

THE LETTERS BEGAN TO ARRIVE IN THE MIDDLE OF June, hardly more than a few words scribbled in cheap ink on cheap paper.