107 
Heartache at Heathersleigh
The day at Heathersleigh Hall had been dreary and sad beyond comprehension.
Spring had begun to restore greenery and color to the landscape. A few species of trees were in tender leaf. Buds swelled everywhere with new life. The spring varietals in the heather garden—though not numerous—were bursting out in magnificent color.
But there was no springtime within the heart of any man or woman for miles.
A bleak pallor of grey dominated the internal landscape. The coldest winter of human desolation had descended upon the region.
Their beloved Sir Charles was gone, and George with him.
Charles Rutherford had brought such vibrancy to so many. Now life itself seemed to have departed. Sadness reigned over central Devon. Every eye at the service in Milverscombe was red on the Sunday following Saturday’s tragic news. Some of the most stoic of the men wept the most freely. Never had there been a man, they said, like Sir Charles. Nor would there ever be again.
Jocelyn scarcely left her room in two days. She did not go out to attend the service. Catharine brought meals up, though they remained largely untouched. A few sympathizers from the village came and went. Most let their beloved Lady Jocelyn grieve in solitude.
A more pervasive quiet there had never been at Heathersleigh. The Hall became as a great stone tomb.
Silent . . . cold . . . empty.
Sarah ministered as she was able in spite of her own plentiful tears. She tiptoed about, trying to keep tea warm and food available should it be wanted, as if the very sounds of her steps echoing from floor to walls was an intrusion against the silence of mourning.
The sun rose, but it brought no cheer.
When Margaret McFee awoke on the second day following news of Master Charles’ and Master George’s awful deaths, she detected strange stirrings in her heart.
If she hadn’t felt so full of energy, she might have thought this was the day the Lord was preparing to take her home as well. But she doubted that was it. She knew dear Lady Jocelyn needed the companionship of her closest friends at this terrible time. As much as she longed to see her precious Bobby again, she was certain the Lord would not remove her from the earth just yet.
Then what were these peculiar flutterings within her? Something in the spirit realm was alive. She almost sensed the rustling of angels’ wings.
“What is it, Lord?” she began to ask from the moment wakefulness overtook her.
Jocelyn ate some toast in bed and half a cup of tea, dozed fitfully, awoke and cried some more, then tried to sleep again. But it was no use. The raveled sleeve of her care was not so easily knit.
Sometime around noon, she decided to get up. Catharine helped her dress, for her mother was lightheaded from lack of activity and nourishment.
Together they went downstairs to the kitchen.
“Mother, you need to eat something,” said Catharine. “I’ll make some tea and we’ll have a light lunch together.”
Jocelyn nodded.
She wasn’t hungry, but at least she felt she could eat. And probably should.