Read Online Some Old Lover's Ghost by Judith Lennox - Free Book Online Page A

straight, oblivious of the curious gaze of the villagers. When the vicar came in, everyone rose. As they placed the coffin in front of the altar, Sarah began to laugh. Tilda tugged at her sleeve; Sarah struggled to change the laugh to a cough.
    Glancing across to the adjacent pew, Sarah thought scornfully what a pallid, feeble lot the de Paveleys were. Christopher de Paveley was tall and gaunt, stoop-shouldered at fifty or so, his face cadaverous, his hair thinning. His son was a fairer, shorter version of his father. Wrapped in an ugly black coat, veiled and hatted, most of Joscelin de Paveley was hidden from the congregation.
    Later, in the churchyard, Miss de Paveley’s veil blew back in the breeze, revealing her features. Round face, brown eyes, crinkly brown hair falling over a black velvet collar. She couldn’t hold a candle to Edward de Paveley’s other daughter, who stood beside Sarah, wearing a faded cotton dress that had already seen three summers and a cardigan that Sarah herself had knitted. Sarah reminded herself that now that Edward de Paveley was dead, Deborah could at last rest in peace. Which left only the child to be avenged. Sarah imagined the privileged life that Joscelin de Paveley led. Never having to worry where her next meal was coming from, maidservants at her beck and call. As the coffin was lowered into the grave, Sarah felt an anger so intense that it dizzied her.
    Then it was over, and the mourners ambled out of the churchyard into the street. Sarah was a few paces behind Joscelin de Paveley when the girl suddenly stopped walking and stood, frozen.
    At first, Sarah couldn’t work out what Miss de Paveley was looking at. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes were wide and burning. Then Sarah saw the Irishman. The good-for-nothing was lounging against the gate of Long Cottage. It was his day to cut the wood.
    Joscelin de Paveley was staring at Daragh Canavan. Sarah had never seen such naked desire in a woman’s eyes. For a fraction of a second Sarah almost pitied her. Then she seized Tilda’s arm, and marched her up the street.
    Tilda was late home from Ely. Sarah watched for her at the window, twitching the curtain. The whirr of a bicycle released her from anxiety, and she returned to the bread dough, stretching and rolling it, knocking out the air with her strong, square hands. Tilda dumped her shopping basket on the table. Sarah glanced through its contents and said, ‘Where is the ink?’
    ‘Ink?’
    ‘I particularly asked you to buy ink, Tilda. I have letters to write.’
    ‘I forgot. Sorry, Aunt Sarah.’
    When she looked up, she was shaken by Tilda’s expression of dazed happiness. As Tilda crossed the kitchen to take a cup of water from the jug, Sarah watched her. She knew her well; she had brought her up from a baby. Tilda’s face, which Sarah knew to be beautiful, was blurred, altered, transformed.
    Transformed by love, Sarah guessed with a sudden leap of intuition. Tilda was in love.
    Sarah had to lean against the table, the floury palms of her hands taking her weight. It wasn’t hard for Sarah to guess the object of Tilda’s love. Though she had always regarded men as at best a nuisance, at worst a curse, Sarah saw how a man like Daragh Canavan, with his seductive looks and honeyed tongue, might charm a girl. Daragh was fit and young, and his hungry green eyes followed Tilda with an expression which reminded Sarah of a mongrel dog she had once rescued from a mantrap. She had been unable to do anything for the dog, its wounds had been too deep, and she had gently helped it from this world. She would have liked to do as much for Daragh Canavan, though less gently. She knew that, unchecked, he would break Tilda’s heart.
    The thought that Tilda’s life might be ruined in the same way as Deborah’s had been terrified Sarah. Part of her had always feared for this child, her dead sister’s child. All she had done to protect Tilda, all the plans she had made for her niece, could be