The convoy of black carriages drove slowly through London, with a long column of mourners following close behind. Black horses pulled each carriage, with black-draped men walking at the side and a varnished oak coffin in the hearse. It was a funeral that befitted one of London’s most prominent merchants, with all the great and good of the business community present and a few gentlemen with titles and lands.
Bess was standing alone, dressed in mourning black. She lifted her face as the hearse passed, with her veil obscuring her scarred cheek and the worry in her eyes.
“Bess!” Smith stepped beside her.
“John!” Bess started and stared at him with mixed relief at his safety, concern at his appearance and anger. “What happened to you? Where have you been?”
“Press ganged,” Smith said shortly
