TWENTY-SEVEN
Geoff showed no signs of sickening through all of Christmas day. He was well enough that we were able to take him down to the village in the afternoon, where Uncle Joe said Mass at St Bartholomew’s before he left for London. I should have been able to allow myself to hope. It was Christmas, after all. Couldn’t I look for a minor miracle? But worrying had always been what I did, and so I worried. I watched him from the corner of my eye, and I kept my fist tight around my rosary, though I didn’t know whether the gesture was a prayer or a preparation.
After Mass, I sat through a tense supper with the rest of the party, and when that was done, I volunteered to take a tray up for Geordie. Chessie stiffened; Mrs Harker looked at me narrowly, as though trying to find some evidence
