Free Angels in the Gloom by Anne Perry Page B

pie from the larder without asking if Abby wanted any, and opened the damper for the heat to increase enough to crisp the pastry again. Then she filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil.
    “I heard about Plugger Arnold,” Abby said softly. “Gangrene. Is that true?”
    “Yes. That’s what they said.”
    “Paul never told me about that sort of thing.” Abby gave the ghost of a smile. “Have you noticed how the newspapers have changed lately? They don’t write about heroics so much. They don’t use the sort of language that comes out of King Arthur anymore. I like to read Richard Mason, even though it leaves me in tears sometimes. He makes people so real; they’re never just figures.”
    “I know what you mean,” Hannah agreed. “You feel as if even the dead are not left without dignity. He must be a very fine man.” She indicated the chairs and they both sat down.
    “Talking about fine men,” Abby went on. “Polly Andrews told me your brother Joseph was wounded. Is that true?”
    “Yes, but he’ll be all right. I haven’t seen Polly for ages. You mean Tiddly Wop Andrews’s sister? He’s in Joseph’s regiment.”
    Abby smiled. “I used to be crazy about him when I was fourteen.”
    “He was awfully good looking,” Hannah agreed.
    The kettle boiled and Hannah made the tea and served the warm, crisp apple pie. The custard was gone but she had a little cream. They ate in silence. Perhaps from pleasure, but more probably from good manners, Abby finished everything on her plate.
    “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “That’s the best I’ve had in a long time. Are they your own apples?”
    “Yes. This time of the year they’ve been stored all winter and they’re not much good for anything but cooking,” Hannah replied. She wanted to be more help than memories of the village and remarks about housekeeping, but she had no idea how to reach the pain that was so obvious in Abby’s face and the crumpled bowing of her thin shoulders. What did one say or do to touch the loss of her husband?
    Perhaps that was the ultimate loneliness; everyone was helpless in the reality of it and frightened because they knew it could happen to them, too, tomorrow or the day after.
    Alys would have known what to say that would offer some kind of healing, a moment’s respite from the drowning pain. How did people survive it? They went to sleep with it, and woke up with it. It walked beside them close as their skin for the rest of their lives. What could Hannah offer that was not facile or intrusive where it would be blundering in, making it all worse still? She remembered the name of Abby’s son. “How is Sandy?” she asked.
    Abby’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s well,” she answered. “He’s starting to enjoy reading and always has a book with him.”
    Hannah seized the subject, realizing that Sandy was about the same age as Luke. “Has he favorites? Tom used to love all sorts of imaginative fiction, but Luke’s a realist.”
    Abby hesitated, and then answered slowly at first, trying to think of titles. Then as they shared their observations about boys curled up in bed reading in the middle of the night, it became momentarily easy.
    But all the time Hannah had the increasing feeling that there was something Abby wanted to say, and yet dreaded it.
    Outside in the spring night, the wind rustled the leaves with a heaviness as if it might soon rain. Inside, the heat from the oven was close on the skin, making the room seem oddly airless.
    Finally the tension cracked within Hannah. She leaned forward across the table, reaching her hand toward Abby’s. “What is it?” she asked. “You can talk about Paul, if you want to. Or anything else. You can carry it alone if you want, but you don’t have to.”
    Abby’s eyes were swimming with tears. She wiped them fiercely, staring at Hannah through the blur, trying to make the decision.
    Hannah did not know whether to speak or not. She waited while the silence