He’d wondered at her composure this last week, her ability to remain calm despite their trials on the road and the obvious weight of her sadness. She’d been so good at keeping it at bay he’d nearly forgotten about it at times.
But here, cradling a rock, her shoulders quaking, rain plastering her hair onto her neck—here was the truth of what she’d carried, silently and strong.
“Alice,” he repeated, aching for her.
She must be aware of him, yet she was fixed in her posture of bereavement, lost to her grief. Harsh, guttural sobs heaved out of her, like they were being pulled from her against her will.
Feeling helpless, he knelt beside her. “Alice, love, come here,” he breathed.
He put his hands on either of her shoulders and she froze under his touch. Slowly, she turned around to look at him. And then she flung herself at him and resumed her sobbing, this time burying her head on his shoulder.
He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept.
He’d always disliked his stature. He’d always felt too big. But in this moment, he was grateful for his size. He was big enough to hold her grief.
Over Alice’s trembling shoulders, he read the words etched onto the headstone.
* * *
Joseph Louis Hull
Beloved father and husband. Maker of music.
* * *
“Oh, Alice,” he murmured, stroking the back of her hair, the way his mother used to do for him when he had nightmares. He no longer cared if she knew his faults and his embarrassments, or that she’d been untruthful. He only wanted to ease her pain.
“Henry, I was going to come here and give up everything. I’ve been mourning for myself, and for them, and for her, all bloody week. And then, oh God, I thought she was dead.”
He wrapped his arms around her tighter. “You’re a good girl, Alice. So good.”
She laughed through her tears. “You don’t think that of me, Henry. I know you don’t. You think I’m wicked.”
No. He didn’t.
He had seen enough of her character to know that whatever flaws she might possess, they existed with a fundamental decency and bravery that was unmistakable.
“That’s not true. I’ve been with you for almost a week, day and night, and have seen very little except you trying to do the right thing. Advocating for reform. Defending me from my own family. Fretting over horses. Over mice.” He held her tighter, running his thumbs down her back to massage some warmth into her.
“You’re just being nice because I’m crying,” she warbled.
“Oh, Alice, love,” he murmured. “No, I’m not. I just wonder. For all you look after others, who’s looking after you?”
She sobbed harder, clutching at his coat. He rubbed circles on her back and said a silent prayer to God.
Show me how to give her solace. Help me ease her anguish.
A bolt of lightning cracked once more, and the church lit up, its spires glittering in the light.
Yes. Of course.
He tilted up Alice’s chin and gently rubbed the tears from her face with his thumbs, which were larger than her nose.
“Come inside the church with me, out of this rain.”
Shakily, she nodded. He wrapped an arm around her and dashed with her through the freezing rain to the deserted church. It was empty. Their footsteps echoed to the buttresses a hundred feet above their heads.
The vast, cold expanse of the empty stone room was awesome, but not comforting. He guided Alice beyond the nave to the apse, where, as he’d suspected, there were candles to light for the ailing.
“Alice, will you help me light a candle? For a blessing?”
She didn’t speak, just twisted her fingers together until her wrists wrenched.
He took two candles anyway and lit them off one that was already burning, then set them in brass sticks.
He took her hands in his and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord,” he said. “Please bless this dear, good woman who works so hard to see to the happiness and wellbeing of others. And who needs a bit of care herself.”
He paused, and looked up, because if Alice did not wish for him to continue praying he would stop. But she was quiet, and her eyes were closed, and her hands had ceased their wringing, so he went on.
“And Lord, bless her family. May they see the good in her. May they love her the way you do, without condition.”
Alice began to cry again, but she continued to hold the posture of prayer, listening. “Lord, thank you for putting me in her path, for I am better for knowing her.”
She held herself still, and he squeezed her hands as tight as he could without hurting her. “Lord, please let Alice know that she is safe in your everlasting grace and love, and can be comforted and redeemed in it. Let her know that your light shines on her as it does all your children, and that if she wishes for it she need only—”
He could not continue, because Alice suddenly yanked her hand away and placed her fingers over his mouth.
“Stop, Henry,” she said in a ravaged voice. “Don’t say it. Don’t say it.”
He gripped her hand and kissed it. “But it’s true. There is nothing more steadfast than God’s love for you.”
“God’s love is not what I need,” she said in desperate voice.
“What do you need?” He asked her. “Anything.”
And then he knew.
Music.
Music was her comfort. Music was her prayer.
He took her hand. “Where’s the organ? Will you play me something?”
She looked at him, fear on her face. “But, I’m not allowed. The vicar forbade it.”
He shrugged. “No one’s here but us. And God. And I cannot fathom the Lord would not welcome it.”
She gripped his hand and walked with him back through the church to a staircase. He followed her up and past a landing to a balcony, where the mighty pipes of a handsome instrument ran up the back walls of the church.
“My father played it,” she whispered. “I never have.”
Tentatively, she sat down on the bench and put her hands on the keys. She played a single note, as if waiting to see if she would be struck down by God. It vibrated in the empty cathedral, long and plangent.
“Play,” he whispered.
She adjusted a knob, then returned her hands to the manual and spread her fingers. And then the church began to moan. To cry. To vent pure sadness from its metal lungs.
The notes she played were not a hymn, nor any song that he could recognize. The melody was mournful, haunting—and then, delicate. It sounded like grief rising towards hope. It sounded like prayer.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
Her hands stopped. Neither of them breathed. She looked up at him, her dove’s eyes shining.
A tear fell to his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers.
She was still. Absolutely still.
And then her lips moved beneath his, so light and fluttery it made his stomach drop.
“Alice,” he said raggedly, melting onto the bench beside her, pulling her toward him. He pressed his forehead to hers, desperately unsure of what to do. He was all tension, every ligament in his body alive and pulled in two directions—to move away, to hold her closer. To run, to stay.