The day of Arthur Angel’s funeral dawned the hottest in living memory. By nine in the morning, the whole of Bridgwater was withering. Dogs lay sulking in the shade of doorways, the pavements hummed with heat and handkerchiefs were damp with the sweat of brows. The two mutes who had been standing outside the front door of Lions House since daybreak were melting in their heavy black cloaks. They consoled themselves by thinking of the jugs of ale that would soon be theirs after they had pocketed a few shillings for their morning’s work.
An enormous hearse, topped with plumes of ostrich feathers, waited on the pavement below. The six horses, with their black flanks shining like glass, stood with their heads bowed. Other carriages, at least ten of them, stretched out in a long line behind. Suddenly, the front door opened and the two mutes moved aside as the ornate oak coffin containing Arthur was carried down the steps and loaded into the hearse. The mutes followed behind and joined the dozen other hired mourners, pallbearers and pages that stood waiting either side of the hearse. Then there was silence, save for the steady whisper of horse breath and the odd scrape of hoof on stone.
Temperance Angel emerged from Lions House into the glare of the day and, like an actress taking to the stage, she surveyed the waiting world with a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration. She was gratified to see such a turnout. She spotted Lady Egerton’s carriage at once, and although she knew it was empty – Lady Egerton still being too unwell to attend – it swelled Temperance’s heart with vanity to see that her Ladyship had at least sent her carriage as a mark of respect.
The funeral entourage stood still, waiting for Temperance’s cue. Not a feather fluttered in the dead air. Then Eli and Alice stepped out of the house, and Eli offered his mother his arm. Temperance slipped her black-gloved hand through the crook of his elbow and with her other hand, she flicked open a large, black, ruffled fan. They both walked slowly down the steps, leaving Alice to descend on her own, trying hard not to tread on the hem of her mother’s voluminous skirts.
The hired mourners stood to attention and waited until the family were seated in their carriage behind the hearse. Then the hearse driver flicked his whip and with a great creak and groan the funeral procession began its solemn journey. Temperance fanned herself feverishly. It was stifling inside the carriage and she wanted to keep her composure. It would not do, if she emerged from the carriage at St Mary’s with a face as red as a farmer’s wife. She glanced to Eli sitting opposite and her insides softened for a moment. He was so handsome and determined. He would not fail her, she was certain. Then she looked to Alice, and the familiar weight of disappointment and bitterness settled in her stomach like a bout of indigestion. Black did not suit the girl at all. She was beyond pale; sickly almost. Her gown looked dreadful. It was too wide on the shoulders and too loose about the waist. Not that Alice cared an inch for her appearance, that much was obvious. Temperance turned away. She would not let Alice ruin the day. Instead, she looked out of the window and consoled herself with the view. She saw shopkeepers pause in their work to watch the procession. Some leaned on brooms and others put their baskets on the ground and touched their caps. The carriage moved slowly along the streets, and everywhere the pavements were lined with onlookers. Temperance had instructed the funeral director to lead the procession the long route to St Mary’s. That way, not a single person in Bridgwater would be left unaware of the passing of Arthur Angel and the magnitude of grief felt by his beautiful widow.
Temperance was in her element. She gazed out of the carriage window and soaked up the attention. If it had not been so unbearably hot inside the carriage, she would have been happy to stay there forever. Parading up and down the streets, knowing with every second that passed, she was foremost in the thoughts of every bystander.
Eli shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt suffocated. His collar was tight on the damp skin of his neck, and he longed to tear it off. The scent of his mother’s perfume was overbearing and the sight of Alice slumped in the corner of the carriage, looking for all the world like a lost waif, heated his blood and made him want to take her by the shoulders and shake her. It was time he stopped thinking of her as poor little Alice. It was time he stopped feeling sorry for her. Papa had spoiled her and had ignored Mama’s efforts to correct things. If Alice couldn’t behave as she should, then it was her own fault. It was time she grew up.
The carriage crawled towards St Mary’s. And with every yard onward, Eli’s anger grew. He was angry with his father for dying; angry that he had inherited the mill, when he might have wanted to do something different with his life; angry with having to become a man so soon and angry with having to sit in the airless carriage for such an interminable amount of time. Both Eli and Temperance were so absorbed in their own separate musings that neither of them noticed the barefoot man standing on the edge of the town square. Neither of them noticed the piercing blue of his eyes or the soft ringlets of hair that hung down his back. And neither of them noticed how Alice turned her head or the rapt expression on her face.