Read Online The Guardian of Secrets: And Her Deathly Pact by Jana Petken - Free Book Online
Authors: Jana Petken
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crowded with mourners from all over the county. Celia sat in the front pew, flanked by her aunt Marie and Joseph. Joseph held her hand, but she suspected that this was neither a gesture of sympathy nor support but another warning: a silent but deadly threat.
After the service, she walked slowly beside Joseph at the head of the long procession winding its way through Goudhurst towards the wrought iron gates of the walled cemetery. Those who hadn’t been able to fit into the church lined the pavements with caps in hands and heads bowed. Shops were closed, and most of the houses had drawn their curtains.
The rain was now falling in horizontal sheets across the narrow road and was accompanied by streaks of lightning. Celia looked up at the sky and was blinded by the force of the wind. Bitterness and anger surfaced, making her unconsciously lengthen her stride. Nature was showering its grief, she thought. It was pouring down on the land for a man who’d spent his life lovingly tending it, a man taken away before the autumn of his life. She took the last few steps to the place of no return; this is where she would say goodbye to him, where she had said goodbye to her mother a few years earlier. This is where she would come for solace in the months and maybe years to come, where she would continue to grieve for the life she’d lost and the life she still had to live.
Her mother’s headstone had been removed temporarily to allow her father’s name to join hers, and as Celia stared at the hole in the ground, she felt a cold shiver run up and down her spine. She inexplicably sensed that months and years would never come… and that she would be joining them both soon enough.
The house was filled with mourners. Joseph sat apart from the crowd on the hard-backed chair in the corner of the parlour. He wore a serious and mournful expression, drank a small sherry, and ate one of Mrs Baxter’s apple tarts.
Celia watched Joseph out the corner of her eye and knew exactly what he was thinking. If only she had the courage at that very moment to voice her suspicions, tell everyone about what he’d done to her, demand that he be thrown out, that would be the end of the nightmare. She sighed. She didn’t have the courage. She was a coward and a liar.
Celia scanned the room. Tom Butcher and John Malone stood in the far corner, glasses of sherry looking peculiarly tiny in their big country hands. They were her father’s closest friends, each knowing him since childhood. They were whispering to each other, deep in conversation. Their wives, along with Mary Shields, sat in a perfectly straight line on the couch, neither speaking nor drinking. Celia couldn’t help but notice that Mary Shields was particularly upset. She was staring unseeingly, her eyes so swollen that she could hardly keep them open. Her father’s lover, Celia voiced to herself, was suffering just as much as she was. The police had questioned Mary several times that week after she’d informed them that Peter had spent his last evening with her. She later told them, and afterwards Celia, that she had planned to marry Peter, and that he was going to inform her and Joseph of this the night he died.
Celia saw Simon Ayres, the family lawyer, standing at the window and staring out at the rain. She felt sorry for him most of all, for he had the unenviable task of reading the will after the mourners left. Simon Ayres was a man dedicated to his work, someone who had been in her life forever, and he was a most loyal friend to her father. She had not had a lengthy conversation with him since his arrival earlier that morning, and she would not have one now. He was like family to her, and his task would be a difficult one, for it would be conducted in a most businesslike manner. She had no clue about what he might say or what effect the outcome of the will would have on her life, but as she continued to study his pensive demeanour, she had a sudden but clear premonition that
After the service, she walked slowly beside Joseph at the head of the long procession winding its way through Goudhurst towards the wrought iron gates of the walled cemetery. Those who hadn’t been able to fit into the church lined the pavements with caps in hands and heads bowed. Shops were closed, and most of the houses had drawn their curtains.
The rain was now falling in horizontal sheets across the narrow road and was accompanied by streaks of lightning. Celia looked up at the sky and was blinded by the force of the wind. Bitterness and anger surfaced, making her unconsciously lengthen her stride. Nature was showering its grief, she thought. It was pouring down on the land for a man who’d spent his life lovingly tending it, a man taken away before the autumn of his life. She took the last few steps to the place of no return; this is where she would say goodbye to him, where she had said goodbye to her mother a few years earlier. This is where she would come for solace in the months and maybe years to come, where she would continue to grieve for the life she’d lost and the life she still had to live.
Her mother’s headstone had been removed temporarily to allow her father’s name to join hers, and as Celia stared at the hole in the ground, she felt a cold shiver run up and down her spine. She inexplicably sensed that months and years would never come… and that she would be joining them both soon enough.
The house was filled with mourners. Joseph sat apart from the crowd on the hard-backed chair in the corner of the parlour. He wore a serious and mournful expression, drank a small sherry, and ate one of Mrs Baxter’s apple tarts.
Celia watched Joseph out the corner of her eye and knew exactly what he was thinking. If only she had the courage at that very moment to voice her suspicions, tell everyone about what he’d done to her, demand that he be thrown out, that would be the end of the nightmare. She sighed. She didn’t have the courage. She was a coward and a liar.
Celia scanned the room. Tom Butcher and John Malone stood in the far corner, glasses of sherry looking peculiarly tiny in their big country hands. They were her father’s closest friends, each knowing him since childhood. They were whispering to each other, deep in conversation. Their wives, along with Mary Shields, sat in a perfectly straight line on the couch, neither speaking nor drinking. Celia couldn’t help but notice that Mary Shields was particularly upset. She was staring unseeingly, her eyes so swollen that she could hardly keep them open. Her father’s lover, Celia voiced to herself, was suffering just as much as she was. The police had questioned Mary several times that week after she’d informed them that Peter had spent his last evening with her. She later told them, and afterwards Celia, that she had planned to marry Peter, and that he was going to inform her and Joseph of this the night he died.
Celia saw Simon Ayres, the family lawyer, standing at the window and staring out at the rain. She felt sorry for him most of all, for he had the unenviable task of reading the will after the mourners left. Simon Ayres was a man dedicated to his work, someone who had been in her life forever, and he was a most loyal friend to her father. She had not had a lengthy conversation with him since his arrival earlier that morning, and she would not have one now. He was like family to her, and his task would be a difficult one, for it would be conducted in a most businesslike manner. She had no clue about what he might say or what effect the outcome of the will would have on her life, but as she continued to study his pensive demeanour, she had a sudden but clear premonition that
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