“Your uncle Thadeus has the constitution of an ox,” Stephenson agreed. “He may well outlive your grandfather’s years. But your father’s heart has given out, and his body must follow.” He studied the grieving man’s face, noting the deep lines of worry and sleeplessness. Hetty Baldwin, his housekeeper’s daughter, was getting a good man in Martin Baker, the doctor told himself. Much like Herbert in character—God-fearing, with strong ties to his family and a fierce sense of duty. It was a sound match. “Everything happens in God’s own time, you know. Even this. And it’s a kindness that he won’t linger.” He spoke the words as comfort, then nodded toward the bed. “See if you can persuade Elly to rest a little. She’s hardly stirred from his side since yesterday morning. We’ll call her if there’s any—urgency. She will only wear herself into collapse, driving herself like this.”

“I’ve tried, to no avail.” Martin turned toward the window, lifting the curtain and pulling aside the shade a little to look out. Rain ran down the glass in rivulets, pushed against the house by the wind. A filthy night, he thought. A fitting night for death to come. . . . He dropped the shade back in place and said to Dr. Stephenson, “There’s naught to be done to make it easier on her?”

“I’ll leave something. A sleeping draught. Give it to Elly in a glass of water, when your father is gone. And, Martin—see that Dick doesn’t insist on being one of the pallbearers. That shoulder of his is not fully healed, and the socket will never be as strong as it was. He’s not out of the woods yet. He could still lose the arm if he’s not careful. The army surgeons can’t work miracles without a little help!”

“I’ll remember.”

“Good man!” A clap on Martin’s shoulder for comfort, and then Stephenson walked back to the bed. He reached down and touched Elly’s hands, folded tightly in her lap. They were cold, shaking. “Your father is comfortable. He would want you to be the same. Let Martin fetch you a shawl, at least.”

She nodded, unable to reply. The gray head on the pillow moved, first to the right, then toward the left. Herbert Baker’s eyes opened, and focused on his daughter’s face. He said in a gravelly voice, “I want a priest.”

The doctor leaned down and replied reassuringly, “Yes, Dick has just gone to fetch Mr. Sims.”

“I want a priest!” the old man repeated querulously.

“He’s coming, Papa!” Elly said, fighting her tears. “Can you hear me? He’ll be here quite soon—”

“Priest,” her father demanded. “Not Vicar.”

“Herbert,” the doctor said soothingly, “let me lift you while Elly gives you a little water—”