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She was greeted coolly by Ingram’s sons and his only other relative present, a brother-in-law, a widower himself. They said only what good manners required.
Of course, most of Ingram’s colleagues, from his many years in the law, either came in person or sent handsome wreaths. Welcoming people, exchanging grave and courteous words of appreciation, Beata felt as if the long months since his collapse had disappeared. His complete loss of control had been very private. Most of the people who came appeared to have no idea that his breakdown had been anything other than physical. They remembered him from his days presiding over the court. It could have been yesterday.
She offered her black-gloved hand to one dignified couple after another, lords justices from the High Court, from Chancery, from all the legal establishments to which Ingram had belonged. She had met them at formal dinners, exchanged polite conversation, mostly listened.
“An excellent man. Such a loss to the justice system,” Sir James Farquhar said quietly.
“Thank you,” Beata acknowledged.
“My deepest condolences on your loss. A fine man. An ornament to the bench.” Another senior judge gripped her hand for a moment before letting go.
“Thank you,” she repeated. “You are very kind.”
She noticed that the lord chancellor was not present, nor were one or two others she had liked.
She nodded each time as if she agreed, smiled gravely as though her grief held her from doing more than acknowledging their tributes. Her mind was racing, however, afraid to search their faces for honesty. They were saying all the right things, polite things, as they were expected to do, before they walked silently off to find their peers. How many of them believed any of it?
Did they believe what they wanted to? It was a lot easier than looking for the truth. They accepted that Ingram York was exactly what he appeared to be: a clever, articulate, occasionally irascible judge whose private life was unquestioned. Of course it was. His wife was above reproach. What on earth would make anyone wonder if there were more?
“Thank you,” Beata continued to murmur politely. No one attempted conversation. She was supposed to be shocked, grieved. Surely everyone saw what they expected?
They gave generous tributes when they spoke of him from the pulpit. He was a good man, a pillar of society, a scholar, a gentleman, a fighter for justice for all.
Beata looked up from the congregation and listened to their solemn words, and wondered what they would have said if they were free to. Did any of them know him better?
After the service, the exquisite, soaring music, the words of comfort long familiar to everyone, even those who attended church only to be seen, Beata stood in the elaborate carved stone-arched doorway and accepted more tributes and condolences. Some of them were from men who were older than Ingram had been, struggling to stand upright. She was touched that they had made the effort to come. She wondered if their grief was for the fact of death itself, and perhaps for the family or friends they had lost. Their kindness was the one thing that made the tears prick her eyes.
It was then that she noticed for the first time a man and woman together, obviously husband and wife, who were startlingly familiar. She was amazed that she could possibly have overlooked them before. He was well above average height and one of the handsomest men she knew. He had always been so, even twenty years ago when they had first met thousands of miles away in San Francisco, in the early days of the gold rush. It had been another world: raw, violent, exciting, and set on the most beautiful of coastlines.
Aaron Clive, with his fine aquiline features and dark eyes, had drawn every woman’s glance then, and he looked to have changed little. There was perhaps a hint of gray at his temples, and the softness of youth had been replaced with a greater strength. He had owned some of the richest of the goldfields on the entire coast, virtually a small empire.
And Miriam was beside him, as always. She was still beautiful in a way few women would ever be. The high cheekbones were the same, the rich mouth, the passion and the turbulence that arrested the eye. Her hair beneath her hat was the same shadowed chestnut with the gleaming lights in it as it had been then.
As far as Beata knew, they had not known Ingram, and yet they came forward now to offer comfort in her supposed grief, as if the years between had telescoped into as many weeks.
“Beata,” Miriam said warmly. “I’m so sorry. You must miss him dreadfully.” She met Beata’s eyes more directly than anyone else had done, but that had always been her way. Her eyes were dark gray, so dark some people mistook them for brown.
“How kind of you to come,” Beata replied with an answering smile. “It’s wonderful to see you. It really is such a pleasure. I knew you were in London and had hoped to see you at some happier time.”
That was true, not merely a politeness. When the three of them had first known one another, in what now seemed like another life, Miriam had been married to Piers Astley, her first husband. He had died tragically in the far reaches of one of Aaron Clive’s goldfields. He had managed much of the vast empire for Aaron. They were wild days. Gold fever gripped a raw, adventurous town. Good men and bad came from every corner of the earth, drawn by the magic of instant, dreamlike wealth.
Beata had not known Piers Astley except to speak to on a few occasions, and regrettably death was far too common at sea, or up on the hills where life was hard and fortunes made and lost in days. But Miriam knew what it was to lose a husband, and her memories could only be painful.
The moment passed and Beata turned to Aaron. Here he was one of many, not unique in his looks and stature as he had been in San Francisco, but she was still startled by the magnetism he seemed to exercise. She was aware of others looking at him also, some perhaps trying to place him, to estimate what his power or position might be. They would try in vain.
Of course the women who were looking at him did so for different reasons: ones that had never needed explaining, and were as old as mankind.
Beata smiled at Aaron, remembering to keep her expression suitable for a woman receiving condolences at her husband’s funeral. She must not forget that there would always be someone watching her.
“It is nice to see you again after so many years, even on such an occasion,” she said graciously. “I very much appreciate your coming. I think Ingram would have been surprised at how many colleagues have come to speak well of him.” That was also a total fiction. He would have expected everyone. Not Aaron Clive, of course, because he did not know him. Ingram had never been to San Francisco, or any other part of America. In fact, as far as she knew he had not traveled beyond the coast of Britain. He liked to be where he was known, and had earned his place, his respect, and where those in power recognized him. And, of course, where those without power were suitably afraid of him.
“I hope he would have been pleased,” Aaron said in reply to her. He did not bother to gaze around. Did he already know most of these people? Probably not. He was simply too sophisticated to display his interest, or perhaps even to entertain it in the first place.
“And I’m sure quite touched,” Beata replied with what she knew was the right sentiment. Perhaps Ingram would have been. She realized with sadness that she had very little idea of what he believed, or felt, behind the barrier of anger and self-defense. It had become habit, and over the las
t few years she had gradually ceased to care. It was a matter of keeping the bitterness to a minimum: overcivilized conversations with barbarity just below the surface.
Aaron was smiling at her. He had one hand very gently on Miriam’s arm. It was a gesture of warmth, almost of protection. For a brief instant Beata envied Miriam. How could Miriam Clive, of all people, have the faintest idea what it was like to be married to a man you were frightened of, and yet whom you both pitied and were revolted by? She would be imagining Beata deep in grief, as she would have been for Aaron, almost stunned by loss. Whereas Beata was suddenly free, even if freedom was also daunting. No, challenging was the word.
