But then Stephen turned to face him, and he lowered it again. Because there were standing tears, and real shame in the Englishman’s eyes.
“It’s not what you think,” he said weakly, head down. “What we did, was bad enough. But she was dead when we arrived.” He put one sleeve to his eyes. “She left a note, which I gave to Mary, asking her to forgive..... My father. . .burned her body as a warning, and to frighten his own men into action. I hate what we’ve become. I hate it.”
... “I believe you,” said Michael slowly. “And I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t say any more.”
The Highlander started to walk away. “No, wait,” said Stephen. “I want you..... I want someone to hear this.”
“I’m listening.”
Purceville shifted uncomfortably, resisting to the end. Then spoke what he truly felt: the only eulogy the woman would ever have.
“She was my governess, and treated me kindly. But I never told her. . .that I loved her, too.” He started to lower his head in despair, then raised it again in sudden resolution. “We’ve got to get Mary out, and away from all of this. She deserves so much more, than this.”
“We will, Stephen. Tonight.” A pause. “Would you like me to help you?”
“No. It is my responsibility. Mine.....” The realization stunned him. He fought back a sob. “Dear God, I am weary of graves.”