Be Careful What You Wish For

25

THE BISHOP of Bristol looked down from the pulpit at the packed congregation of St Mary Redcliffe, and was reminded of the impact Jessica Clifton had made on so many different people in her short life. After all, a drawing of him as the Dean of Truro hung proudly in the corridor of the Bishop’s Palace. He glanced at his notes.

‘When a loved one dies in their seventies or eighties,’ he began, ‘we gather to mourn them. We recall their long lives with affection, respect and gratitude, exchanging anecdotes and happy memories. We shed a tear, of course we do, but at the same time we accept that it’s the natural order of things. When a beautiful young woman, who has displayed such a rare talent that her elders accept without question that they are not her betters, dies, we are bound to shed many more tears because we can only wonder what might have been.’

Emma had shed so many tears since she’d heard the news that she was mentally and physically exhausted. She could only wonder if there was anything she could have done to prevent her beloved daughter suffering such a cruel and unnecessary death. Of course there was. She should have told her the truth. Emma felt she was just as much to blame as anyone.

Harry, who sat beside her in the front pew, had aged a decade in a week, and wasn’t in any doubt who was to blame. Jessica’s death would continually remind him that he should have told her years ago why they had adopted her. If he had, surely she would be alive today.

Giles sat between his sisters, holding their hands for the first time in years. Or were they holding his? Grace, who disapproved of any public show of emotion, wept throughout the entire service.

Sebastian, who sat on the other side of his father, was not listening to the bishop’s oration. He no longer believed in an all-caring, all-understanding compassionate deity, who could give with one hand, then took away with the other. He’d lost his best friend, whom he’d adored, and no one could ever take her place.

Harold Guinzburg sat quietly at the back of the church. When he’d called Harry he was unaware that his life had been shattered in a single moment. He’d just wanted to share with him the triumphant news that his latest novel had gone to number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

Harold must have been surprised by his author’s lack of response, but then, how could he have known that Harry no longer cared for such baubles, and would have been content not to have sold a single copy if in exchange Jessica could be there standing by his side, and not being laid to rest in an untimely grave.

After the burial ceremony was over and everyone else had departed to continue their lives, Harry fell on his knees and remained by the graveside. His sin would not be expiated quite that easily. He had already accepted that not a day, possibly not an hour, would go by when Jessica wouldn’t barge into his thoughts, laughing, chattering, teasing. Like the bishop, he too could only wonder what might have been. Would she have married Clive? What would his grandchildren have been like? Would he have lived long enough to see her become a Royal Academician? How he wished that it was her kneeling by his grave, mourning him.

‘Forgive me,’ he said aloud.

What made it worse, he knew she would have.