THE Dark Light

England 1800. It was a terrible day for a burial, they said, as a biting wind swept down from the Pennines right into the village and the little churchyard just outside. It swirled around the gravestones, swung around skirts and bonnets, caps and breeches. There would be snow. But that was nothing when there was poor Flora Marchant burying her mother only four years after losing her father. There were whispers and kindly gossip. ‘The father was an explorer,’ one person told the minister. ‘Died in a shipwreck, of all things. Almost home, he was. A tragedy. Poor child.’

Flora was saying a final farewell at her mother’s grave, standing with Barney Beddows, a close friend of her parents. She pretended not to hear the women speaking, but they were wrong in some things. No matter how sad these last few days and weeks had been, she wasn’t a child, at 17, nor was she alone. Barney had supported her throughout and would continue to do so. She thanked God for it. But she was worried; not about her future, but that Barney had paid for everything so that her mother would have a decent burial. It weighed heavily on her mind. As they walked away from the churchyard, she wondered how to repay him.

‘There’s no need to concern yourself, Flora.’ Barney pressed her hand. ‘Your mother was a dear friend. And your father.’ He sighed.