real concern about the books, and so when he went to post his book to his daughter in Boston, he also mailed the one to Matthew McKittrick. He felt tremendously relieved once they were out of his possession, for he didn’t trust Philip or Robert at all. It was not going to be a pleasant evening once they had heard the terms of the will. He knew they would be furious when they found out that they’d been disinherited, and he was not looking forward to the repercussions.
Threatening clouds hung low and dark over the city and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance as the minister spoke at the graveside. Philip stood with his brother next to the casket, taking care to look suitably sorrowful and wishing fervently that the man of the cloth would hurry and finish his damned prayers. He wanted to get this over with before it rained. It was bad enough that they were going to have to receive visitors at the house for the rest of the day and listen to declarations of respect and love for their dead father. He’d despised his father and his parsimonious ways, and as soon as he got his hands on his share of his inheritance, he was going to show London how to live!
“Amen.”
The minister’s last word broke through Philip’s annoyed musings and brought him back to the present. Irritating as it was, he had to follow custom or possibly arouse suspicions about his motives, and that wouldn’t do. He’d already surprised a lot of people by rushing the burial and reading of the will, but that didn’t matter. He and Robert had been telling everyone that they were so grief-stricken that they wanted to be done with it as quickly as they could. Most believed them. Some did not.
Meanwhile as the coffin of his dear friend was being lowered into the grave, the solemn muted prayers of the priest filled the bedroom where Edward lay near death. Edward’s mind wandered, his breathing became more and more labored, and rampant fever burned away the last of his vitality.
“Winston . . .”
“Yes, sir.” Winn had been up all night, keeping his vigil, praying for a miracle, and the sound of his uncle’s voice jarred him from his exhaustion. He reached out to touch his arm, to let him know he was there, and he could feel the heat of his illness even through his bedclothes.
“You’ve been like a son to me, Winn.” Edward gazed at him for the last time. “Don’t waste your life on useless pursuits. Use your strength and knowledge to do what’s right.”
“How will I know?” he asked, confused.
“God will show you, if you ask him.”
Winn was tempted to argue, for he’d been pleading for God to heal his uncle for days now, and God hadn’t listened. His torment must have shown on his face, for Edward spoke again, but more weakly this time.
“Winn, I’m not afraid to die.”
His words, so bluntly spoken, jarred him. Somehow, it seemed wrong to speak of dying.
“If I truly believe all that I’ve preached through the years, and I do, then this day will be a celebration for me. Love is my legacy to you, Winston. Remember. . .” The old man’s eyes drifted shut.
“I love you, Uncle Edward . . .”
Winn was never certain his uncle heard him for in that moment the old man’s agony was taken from him and he found final peace with God.
Father Michaels understood, and he concluded his prayers and blessings. That done, he quietly made his way from the room, leaving Winn alone with his uncle.
It was a long time later when Winn finally emerged from the bedroom, his face haggard, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. The vigil had ended, and death had won. Weariness weighed upon his soul. He looked up at the servants who’d heard of Father Edward’s passing from Father Michaels and had gathered in the hall to comfort Lord Bradford.
“It’s over . . .” His voice was tight and hoarse with grief and pain.
“We’re sorry, sir.” Arthur took it upon himself to speak for the entire staff. Father Edward had been a
Threatening clouds hung low and dark over the city and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance as the minister spoke at the graveside. Philip stood with his brother next to the casket, taking care to look suitably sorrowful and wishing fervently that the man of the cloth would hurry and finish his damned prayers. He wanted to get this over with before it rained. It was bad enough that they were going to have to receive visitors at the house for the rest of the day and listen to declarations of respect and love for their dead father. He’d despised his father and his parsimonious ways, and as soon as he got his hands on his share of his inheritance, he was going to show London how to live!
“Amen.”
The minister’s last word broke through Philip’s annoyed musings and brought him back to the present. Irritating as it was, he had to follow custom or possibly arouse suspicions about his motives, and that wouldn’t do. He’d already surprised a lot of people by rushing the burial and reading of the will, but that didn’t matter. He and Robert had been telling everyone that they were so grief-stricken that they wanted to be done with it as quickly as they could. Most believed them. Some did not.
Meanwhile as the coffin of his dear friend was being lowered into the grave, the solemn muted prayers of the priest filled the bedroom where Edward lay near death. Edward’s mind wandered, his breathing became more and more labored, and rampant fever burned away the last of his vitality.
“Winston . . .”
“Yes, sir.” Winn had been up all night, keeping his vigil, praying for a miracle, and the sound of his uncle’s voice jarred him from his exhaustion. He reached out to touch his arm, to let him know he was there, and he could feel the heat of his illness even through his bedclothes.
“You’ve been like a son to me, Winn.” Edward gazed at him for the last time. “Don’t waste your life on useless pursuits. Use your strength and knowledge to do what’s right.”
“How will I know?” he asked, confused.
“God will show you, if you ask him.”
Winn was tempted to argue, for he’d been pleading for God to heal his uncle for days now, and God hadn’t listened. His torment must have shown on his face, for Edward spoke again, but more weakly this time.
“Winn, I’m not afraid to die.”
His words, so bluntly spoken, jarred him. Somehow, it seemed wrong to speak of dying.
“If I truly believe all that I’ve preached through the years, and I do, then this day will be a celebration for me. Love is my legacy to you, Winston. Remember. . .” The old man’s eyes drifted shut.
“I love you, Uncle Edward . . .”
Winn was never certain his uncle heard him for in that moment the old man’s agony was taken from him and he found final peace with God.
Father Michaels understood, and he concluded his prayers and blessings. That done, he quietly made his way from the room, leaving Winn alone with his uncle.
It was a long time later when Winn finally emerged from the bedroom, his face haggard, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. The vigil had ended, and death had won. Weariness weighed upon his soul. He looked up at the servants who’d heard of Father Edward’s passing from Father Michaels and had gathered in the hall to comfort Lord Bradford.
“It’s over . . .” His voice was tight and hoarse with grief and pain.
“We’re sorry, sir.” Arthur took it upon himself to speak for the entire staff. Father Edward had been a
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