“Nancy would have been so pleased to see so many of you here,” Robert said, and Eleanor couldn’t believe they’d got to that part already. She must have sung the carefully chosen hymns, yet she couldn’t remember doing so. “She always loved a party, and she must be very annoyed to be missing this one.”
Contained laughter rang out, and Mary squeezed Eleanor’s hand.
“I met Nancy at a party actually. I’d spotted her months before and thought she was simply the most gorgeous girl I’d ever seen. I pursued her pathetically until I finally plucked up the courage to speak to her. But very quickly I realized there was so much more to Nancy than her startling physical presence.”
He looked down and swallowed, which made Eleanor want to go to him and wrap her arms around him. “She was wise and funny and quick, and so much fun to be around.” His eyes flickered toward his daughter, and his mouth tried to smile. “She was also a brilliant mother to Zara, something I will always be immensely grateful for.”
Eleanor could see Zara’s bony shoulders shaking through Nancy’s black velvet coat.
“When Zara followed in Nancy’s footsteps and went to St. Hilda’s,” Robert continued, “I remember Nancy saying how proud she was.” He stopped and put his hand against his forehead.
Eleanor had heard him pacing his room on the previous nights, his voice low and insistent through the wall, and she realized he must have been practicing this. Except now he looked lost, almost as if he’d forgotten not just his words but where he was; who he was, even. He scanned the room, and she caught his eye and smiled gently at him, although he could have been looking straight through her.
“Time is so strange, isn’t it,” he said, his hands dropping to his side. “It seems only a minute ago and yet now … now it’s over.” His voice caught and his expression turned. “We’ll all miss her terribly,” he said, stumbling back to his seat.
* * *
She couldn’t watch the coffin descending, so she stood back slightly, behind a tall man who obscured her view. Nancy had been long gone even on that first day in the mortuary, but still it seemed impossible that her body was simply going to rot in the ground they stood on. Pearl was standing at the head of the grave, her arm interlinked with Zara’s, and that sight was perhaps worse. Everything about Nancy was like a stone thrown into a pond, Eleanor thought, reverberating away from her in concentric circles.
They walked like a gaggle of black geese up the path from the church to the house, the wind buffeting them and mud splashing the backs of trousers and tights, so they looked like the members of a secret society. Anyone passing by would have stared, wondering at this strange procession; then they would have turned away, not wanting the grief to contaminate them.
The house was unbearably busy and hot despite the freezing cold outside. Robert and Zara stood by the front door, accepting condolences and hugs, invitations and stories. They had both clearly had a drink, as there was color in their cheeks for the first time since it happened. A few people were moist-eyed, but the general feeling was one of release, and the murmur of conversation was beginning to sound like a cocktail party.
Mary found Eleanor in the crush, but hadn’t even taken off her coat. “I’m not going to stay. I just wanted to speak to Robert and Zara.”
“I wish I could go,” Eleanor answered, “but I don’t think I can leave them.”
“How long are you going to stay?”
Eleanor had been wondering the same thing. “I don’t know.”
Mary put her hand on her arm. “I’ve got to run. Howard’s in the car and he’s not in a good way. But let’s talk tomorrow.” She leaned over and brushed her lips against Eleanor’s cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
It was Nancy who had started that tradition, Eleanor thought as she watched Mary squeeze her way between the groups of people. Neither of them would have been brave enough to say they loved each other and yet for Nancy it came naturally. God, I sometimes think I love you two more than Robert, Nancy had said as they sat in the garden Eleanor could now see through the window, their feet slipped out of their sandals in the warm grass, the smell of lamb cooking in the oven.
* * *
How much longer to stay was a question that circled Eleanor in the days that followed. She did go back to work, but her days were short and her staff had to pick up most of the slack. They assured her they didn’t mind, but she thought they probably did. They all had lives, and you can take on someone else’s grief for only so long before it becomes irritating. She even spent the odd night at home and once went for dinner with a friend, although she felt guilty doing so. She met Mary for a walk one Sunday, but all Mary wanted to talk about was how Howard was getting worse, even though the hospital tests hadn’t shown up anything bad yet, at least nothing that was going to kill him. Still, though, more often than not, Eleanor found herself drawn back to Nancy’s house, as she still thought of it, and the misery it contained, as if she owed them something, as if her silence about Nancy’s affair had condemned her to be forever in their servitude. Not that they made her feel that way. They made her feel like one of the family, like she was the one person they could let their guard down with, like she mattered to them. And that feeling was intoxicating, dangerous even.
Nine nights after the funeral, she let herself in and the atmosphere was different. Zara came out of the drawing room and took her hand, pulling her forward before she had a chance to take off her coat. Robert was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded across his chest as he stared at the television. It took Eleanor a moment to focus on what they were watching, which was blurry pictures of a man being put into a police car as what seemed like a thousand bulbs flashed in his face. Then the shot switched to a young, stern-faced reporter, his hair plastered to his head by the driving rain.
“Fifty-five-year-old French author Davide Boyette was arrested at four o’clock this afternoon as part of the ongoing investigation into the murder of Nancy Hennessy last month. Mrs. Hennessy was found on a path next to the Thames in London, beaten to death in an attack the police describe as sustained and violent. Nancy Hennessy had been having an affair for the past year, which she was in the process of trying to end. Mrs. Hennessy worked as a translator, translating French books into English. It is believed that she had translated some of Mr. Boyette’s novels. She was the daughter of the late Sir Hank Rivers, composer of the Queen’s anthem, and is survived by her husband, Robert Hennessy, the human rights lawyer, and their eighteen-year-old daughter, Zara. Davide Boyette is married to a British woman, Wendy Harper, and they live in Harrogate with their two daughters. The police have refused to comment.”
“What?” Eleanor felt her legs suddenly giving way, so she had to sit on the sofa.
“They’ve found the man Mum was having an affair with,” Zara said, her eyes wide and feverish.
“But … I mean, who?” She looked over at Robert, but he was still standing in the same position, his eyes now on the floor.
“You know,” Zara said. “You must have heard of him. He writes under D. H. Boyette. That crime stuff.”