The bells of St. Aldwyn's rang long before Phillip reached the church.
They were not the usual Sunday chimes. These rang slowly, each toll drawn out like a breath held too long before release. The road leading to the small stone chapel was crowded with villagers, railway workers, laborers from Shropshire Foundry, widows in black shawls, and children who clung to their mothers without fully understanding why everyone was so quiet.
Phillip dismounted a few paces from the churchyard. Henry climbed down from the carriage beside him, clutching his notebook out of habit but not opening it. No one was taking notes today.
The Duke of Wellington waited near the gate. His posture was straight, but his face showed the weight of sleepless nights. When Phillip approached, the Duke offered only a small, grave nod.
"They have gathered most of the families," the Duke murmured. "Some from villages farther north arrived at dawn."
