Softly, Emma allowed herself to be taken on Marlow’s arm along the path towards where the long line of carriages waited. They made a splendid and sombre sight against a cloud-dappled sky, with their dark-curtained windows and magnificent black horses bedecked with grand funereal plumage, and seated atop, the serious-faced drivers in top hat and tails. Lost in her most inner thoughts, Emma could see nothing before her but a small boy’s face. She would always see it. Always cherish it. Like the one before. The one before.

‘Mr Tanner… Mrs Tanner.’ The soft, lilting voice caused Marlow to pause and turn around. Emma did not look up. Instead she kept her gaze to the ground. The voice was an intrusion.

Marlow reached out to take the priest’s proffered hand. ‘I must get my wife home,’ he said quietly, ‘she needs to rest.’

‘Of course, of course… I understand.’

Suddenly Emma raised her grey eyes to him, and he was astonished to see how they fastened on his face with naked accusation. He was visibly shaken when, in a stiff and remarkably calm voice, she told him, ‘No. You do not “understand”. How could you?’ Emma’s white, stricken face betrayed little of the heartbreak she was suffering. Nor did it reveal the extent to which her faith in God had been shattered. Her next words, however, were delivered with such contempt that even Marlow gasped. ‘Although I respect your intention, Father Mason, I’m afraid you bring me no comfort. Nothing you can do or say will change what has happened. In your prayers you may ask your God why he should rob a young innocent of his life. You may pray… just as I have done. And, just as I have done, you will be greeted with silence. Go back to your church, Father Mason, and seek your own comfort. There is none for me… no sanctuary in your master’s house. No place for me here.’ Her words rained down on him relentlessly. ‘You will never see me cross your threshold again in my lifetime!’

‘No, no… Mrs Tanner… Emma, please,’ he entreated, ‘think long and hard about what you are saying!’ The colour had drained from Father Mason’s face. As he stepped forward, Emma recoiled from him.

‘Good day,’ she uttered quietly, with no hint of regret in either her voice or her countenance as she moved away. Devastated by Emma’s cold outburst, an astonishing outburst in view of her extraordinary faith in the Almighty, Marlow gave his apologies to the priest and hurriedly took up his place beside his wife. Later, when she had recovered enough from her grief and was made to reflect on her bitter words, Emma would relent. He was certain of it.

Some short way behind, Nelly quietly followed her darling Emma. The anguish in Nelly’s heart was unbearable, and as the tears flowed down her face, she asked, Help her, Lord. She hasn’t stopped loving yer… she never could. But oh, yer bugger, Lord… yer have put Emma through the mill, ain’t yer, eh? So don’t cross her off yer books yet, will yer?… ’Cause she’ll be sorry for what she said to Father Mason, soon as ever she teks the time ter think on it.’ Her heartfelt prayer broke into a fit of sobbing and, for a moment, Nelly found shelter behind a broad oak tree. Here, she plucked up the corner of her cape and dried her eyes on it. Then, before emerging in a more composed manner, she asked one other thing of the Lord. ‘Should I tell Emma what happened all them years ago at the prison gates, when she gave birth to that bonny lass? If yer remember, Lord, there were an old tramp who collected the child from the gutter and made off with it… and I swear I heard the cry of a newborn. Oh, dear Lord, what shall I do, eh? Shall I tell her? Will yer help me ter decide fer the best? You think on it, Lord, and let me know.’