Free The Gilded Cage by Lucinda Gray Page A

priest’s words, consigning my brother to the Lord, are nearly lost to the wind whistling around the headstones. The service is nothing but impersonal verses, suitable for the passing of any stranger, and I feel a cool numbness as it nears its end.
    Then a low ripple of unease runs through the gathered mourners, and Jane’s hand tightens on my arm. I follow her gaze across the grounds. The sunlight on snow is blinding, but I can still see the strange man approaching, picking his way toward us from the other side of the churchyard.
    He’s tall and whippet-thin, wearing a patched black jacket and a cap pulled tight over his ears. When he gets closer I judge that he’s sixty at least, his face brown and sun-weathered. His eyes under sharp brows are too bright. Though he pulls off his cap with a clumsy hand as he draws near, squeezing it into a ball, the brightness of his darting eyes makes him look disrespectful all the same.
    The other guests have noticed him, and some are rudely whispering to their companions. Even Henry is standing up straight, his mouth tight.
    I look at Jane, whose face shows recognition and alarm.
    Then the men begin to lower George into the earth, and the stranger is briefly forgotten. The pallbearers grunt softly as they ease him down, and I feel a wave of pain so disorienting that Jane must help me stand. And then it’s over; he’s disappeared below the lip of the frozen ground, and I’m the only Randolph left.
    When I look up, my eyes streaming hot tears, the old man is looking straight at me. I meet his glare until Henry passes between us, leaving Grace’s side to stride over to the stranger.
    â€œHow dare you show your face here?” Henry’s voice carries on the frozen air, sharp and shocking. “This is a family affair, and I won’t have you disrespecting that.”
    The man’s piercing eyes have gone cold, with a hatred I can discern even from where I stand. For a moment I wonder whether he’ll strike Henry, but finally he raises his chin and speaks. “A family affair, you say?” Pointedly he sweeps his gaze over the multitude of indifferent aristocrats stamping their chilly feet around my brother’s grave. “I served Walthingham Hall near as many years as you’ve been alive, boy. I mean to pay my respects, the same as anyone else.”
    â€œYour respects are neither asked for nor accepted. You’re not welcome here, or anywhere on my grounds.”
    The man looks at Henry for a moment, and then gives a short, sharp laugh that shrivels my breath. He leans into my cousin’s ear and begins to speak, too quietly for me to hear. Henry’s face is turned from mine, but I see his body go utterly still as he listens. His fists start to tighten.…
    Then John charges across the snow, putting his body between them. “Leave it, McAllister,” he says, throwing a restraining arm across the old man’s chest. “This is not the day to speak of old grievances.” Keeping a grip on his arm, John walks him away from the service, and from my angry cousin.
    Henry still stands rigid on the snow when Mr. Dowling approaches me, gently taking my arm. “I regret this interruption to your brother’s service, my lady. You should not have to deal with these things while you’re grieving.”
    â€œWho is that man?”
    â€œHe was once your grandfather’s gamekeeper, until he was discovered selling Walthingham’s stock for his own gain.” There’s something like pity in his voice as he continues. “A man like that could only end up a poacher, of course, especially with no good reference.”
    â€œHe’s a poacher?” I say, closing my eyes briefly and remembering the dark shape at the edge of the trees. What if, on George’s last morning, he had come across this angry man in Walthingham’s woods?
    Mr. Dowling coughs lightly. “One of many. A place like