That Kind Of Man. Sharon Kendrick

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      He was probably relieved, thought Abigail, watching as the two men shook hands. He had been up to the house several times since Orlando’s death, saying that she really ought to have someone with her.

      She remembered him standing in his shabby cassock, looking around the sumptuous drawing-room with a curious and yet bewildered expression. As though confused by the fact that Abigail had all the material possessions anyone could ever possibly want, and yet she had no one to come and sit with her and hold her hand while she mourned her dead husband.

      ‘It’s time we were leaving,’ said Nick in a low voice. Only this time he did take Abigail’s elbow, holding onto it firmly, as if he was afraid that she might stumble and fall. And Abigail let him guide her, grateful for the support he offered.

      ‘Won’t you come back to the house for some lunch, Father?’ he was saying to the priest. ‘Some of the others have already set off, I see.’ His disapproving gaze took in Orlando’s friends, who were noisily wending their way towards the long line of black limousines as though it were a wedding and not a funeral.

      One of the women, a dark, elfin creature named Jemima, was tossing a black feather boa flamboyantly across one slim, couture-clad shoulder, her glossy black head flung back in a gesture of extravagant laughter.

      Abigail noticed the twist of scorn which had hardened Nick’s mouth into a forbidding line, and wondered what he and the priest must be thinking of this whole bizarre funeral.

      But the priest, at least, seemed oblivious to Nick’s disapproval, and nodded his bald head with enthusiasm. ‘Lunch would be very welcome,’ he said eagerly, ‘and I’d be delighted to join you. Friday happens to be my housekeeper’s day off and she usually leaves me a fish salad which, frankly, leaves rather a lot to be desired! I’ll walk up to the house—it isn’t very far.’

      ‘No, no. It’s much too far.’ Nick shook his dark head. ‘Please take my car,’ he said, and pointed to the longest of the low black vehicles which stood in line. ‘Really, I insist.’

      ‘But what about you?’ asked the priest.

      ‘I’ll go with Mrs Howard,’ answered Nick, and his eyes defied Abigail to argue with him.

      But she was past caring, or arguing. She was numb and cold and exhausted. She let Nick propel her towards one of the waiting cars as though she were a mannequin in a shop-window—her limbs light and useless as if they had been fashioned from plastic. The lethargy which had been plaguing her for days began insidiously to overwhelm her.

      She sank down on the squashy black leather seat and closed her eyes, expecting a barrage of questions, but when none came she opened them again and found him observing her, his face curiously expressionless. And that in itself was surprising. Normally there was at least dislike or disapproval on the face of Nick Harrington when he was in her company.

      Outside the car, the trees were like charcoal line-drawings etched in stark contrast against heavy grey snow-clouds, and oddly childlike. It was funny, she thought suddenly, but even in the early days of their relationship, when they had been relatively happy, she and Orlando had never discussed having children. Abigail shivered. Not funny at all, really.

      Nick saw the shiver and rapped on the glass immediately. ‘Could you increase the heating?’ he instructed the driver curtly. ‘It’s like Siberia in the back here.’

      A welcome, warm blast of air hit Abigail immediately and she expelled a breath of relief as some of the icy chill left her body.

      She seemed to have been cold for days now, a dull, bone-deep coldness she couldn’t shift, not since the night the policeman had knocked on the heavy oak door and had waited to give her the momentous news.

      She had known immediately that her husband was dead, from the grim look on the policeman’s face, but long, agonising seconds had passed before he had asked her that chillingly final question, ‘Are you the wife of a Mr Orlando Howard?’

      There had been shock at first, deep and profound shock, but hot on its heels had come relief. Blessed relief that Orlando could never taunt her again.

      And Abigail had had to live with the guilt of those feelings ever since ...

      ‘Are you okay?’ Nick’s deep voice seemed to come from out of nowhere, and Abigail forced herself back to the present with an effort.

      ‘I suppose so.’ She nodded her head stiffly. That dream-like feeling had washed over her again, and all her reflexes seemed to be on auto-pilot. It seemed easier to cope when she felt that way.

      ‘You’ll feel better now that the funeral is over.’ His eyes were fixed on her face, like a doctor waiting for a reaction from a patient.

      ‘Yes,’ she replied. But will I, she wondered? Would she ever feel better again?

      ‘You look tired, Abby,’ he observed neutrally. ‘Exhausted, in fact.’

      ‘I am.’

      ‘Then rest,’ he urged. ‘At least until we get back to the house.’

      Her normal response to him—if any of her responses to Nick could ever be described as normal—would have been to tell him to mind his own business. His high-handedness was something she usually resented. But he was right, she was too exhausted—even to resist him.

      Abigail tried to lean her head back, but the hat she wore prevented her from doing so. She lifted her hand and removed first the pin securing it and then the black, wide-brimmed, rather exotic creation from her head.

      She never wore hats as a rule, she found them too constricting. She had chosen this one today because Orlando had loved hats, the more outrageous the better. And she had failed him in so many ways as a wife. The least she could do was to don a fancy hat in his honour—to play the part he would have wanted her to play at his funeral.

      But it was such a relief to remove it. She tossed it on the seat beside her and shook her head vigorously, allowing the thick, straight honey-coloured hair to fall down unfettered around her shoulders.

      Nick was watching her, his eyes narrowed as the bright hair spilled down in contrast against the black suit, and it was several moments before he spoke. ‘You didn’t contact me directly when Orlando was killed.’

      It was as much a question as a statement, Abigail acknowledged. Almost an accusation, too. She absently pushed a lock of hair off her pale cheek. ‘I didn’t see the point. I knew that you’d read about it in the papers. We haven’t exactly been living in each other’s pockets since my marriage, have we? Or before it either, come to that. And you never bothered to hide your dislike of Orlando.’

      ‘The feeling was entirely mutual. Orlando made no secret of his aversion to me, you know.’

      Stung into defence, Abigail sat up in her seat. ‘He, at least, had a reason for disliking you!’

      ‘Oh?’ The green gaze was unperturbed. ‘And what was that? Envy of my material status? Because if there was ever a man who demonstrated avarice like it was going out of fashion, then it was Orlando.’

      ‘Why, you ... you ... unbearable brute!’ Abigail only got the words out with a monumental effort. ‘How can you speak so ill of the dead!’

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