Читать книгу A Perilous Attraction - Patricia Rowell Frances - Страница 8

Prologue

Yorkshire, England, November 1783

The boy stood unmoving, one hand clutching his father’s, the other held rigidly in a fist at his side. The rain beat down on the umbrella his father held above them, while the sound of sodden clods of dirt striking the casket mingled with the vicar’s words.

“But thanks be to God who giveth us the victory….” The boy gritted his teeth, willing his lip not to tremble. He would not cry. He felt proud to be allowed to stand with the men of the funeral party. If they considered him old enough, he certainly did not want to disgrace himself with tears. Yet a very small, childish part of him wanted to turn and flee—back to the house. Back to hide his face in the skirts of the women waiting there, and to sob the pain away.

“In the midst of life we are in death. Of whom may we seek succor…?”

The child dared a glance up into his father’s face. It might as well have been carved in stone. He saw no tears. No sign betrayed the man’s thoughts or feelings, but his hand tightened encouragingly around his young son’s.

“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, immovable….”

The boy took a long breath and drew himself up in emulation, schooling his own face to stern control. His father was strong. He would be strong. Men didn’t cry.

The vicar finished the reading and stepped forward to murmur a few private words. Then the boy’s father turned and led him away from the grave of the woman who had been the anchor of both their lives.