Free The Book of Hours by Davis Bunn Page A

remorseful beat.
    As though in response to her own silence, the sun rose and slipped into the gray glove of day. Instantly the wonder was gone, the colors muted, the day chilled. The river turned to sullen slate. She forced herself to focus on the pages she held, only to exclaim, “How on earth did this get in here?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOh, it’s the latest village battleground.” She rattled the pages in the distance between them, glad for something safe to talk about. “The vicar is trying to raise funds to repair the church bells. Last month he took them down from all seven village churches at once to save money. The bells are hundreds of years old, and they’re in pretty sad shape.”
    Cecilia looked up from the pamphlet and noticed for the first time just how handsome Brian Blackstone was. He was lean to the point of emaciation, but in the veiled daylight his skin looked as fresh and clear as his eyes, and the angles of his face looked as strong as an Indian’s. “A group of locals want to keep the bells from ever going back in. They call it noise pollution.”
    She realized just how lame the whole thing must sound and hurriedly pressed on, “You’d have to live here to understand how hot people get over the silliest things. I try not to have anything to do with either side. But Trevor Parkes, the local vicar, has become a dear friend. These bells mean a lot to him, and he’s become so worried over this battle . . .”
    She halted because Brian had frozen in his bent-over position. “What’s the matter?”
    â€œIt’s another letter.” Slowly he leaned back, drawing into view a folded envelope, brittle with age. “From Heather.”
    â€œHeather was writing you?” Curiosity got the better of her, and she rose up in her seat to see what he had been working on. She gaped at the sight of a dollhouse, one so beautifully designed she could identify it as a copy of the manor even with its roof propped against the vine-covered table leg. As soon as the object came into view, she could not help but cry, “I want it!”

Seven
    B RIAN SAT IN A HIGH-BACKED HORSEHAIR CHAIR, ONE THAT gave off a vague musty odor every time he shifted his weight. Beyond his parlor window, an ancient river craft chugged along the Thames. The Victorian slipper launch was all inlaid wood and brass fittings, with a softly puffing steam engine set amidships. The passengers had dressed for the occasion, the men wearing high-collared suits and flat straw hats called boaters. The women were in crinoline and carried parasols. A silver tureen full of freshly cut roses rested upon a table beside a wicker picnic basket. The women’s laughter tinkled as fresh as birdsong upon the still air. Brian sipped the remnants of his tea and discovered that the sound called to him. This surprised him. For two years he had done his best to avoid places filled with lighthearted people. Such contacts exposed his own wounds, as though he had been banned from a realm where laughter was welcome and cares could be set aside for an afternoon of sunlight and smooth-running water. But this day was different, and in a subtle way that suggested that he was healing. Not just in mind, but in heart as well.
    He glanced down to his pallet and the letter lying alongside. He had been rereading the second message when he had fallen asleep. It had been such a deep rest that there had been no dreams, only fragments of whispers as though the short sentences had followed him into slumber. His mind echoed with them still.
    â€œDear Brian,” Heather wrote. “Today’s weather has turned cold and damp, which means my joints are even more of a bother than usual. My hands are battling me, turning this letter into a struggle with pen and paper both. Age is such a dilemma; it traps the memory of youth within the dread reality of departure. I had hoped your darling Sarah would be writing these