by Lucinda Gray
“Don’t speak to me of vendettas now, when my brother is barely cold,” I say, angry. “If he could, he would remind you that the rules of decency extend to both rich and poor. I should know—I’m newly rich, and very recently was quite poor. But I’m the same person now that I was then.”
John reaches a hand toward mine and takes it, his fingertips gently insistent on my palm. “Are you, my lady?” His voice is husky, with a texture in it that I’ve never heard.
Though the room is frigid, my skin is suddenly alive with heat, running in currents from my palm all the way to my scalp.
“You’re shivering,” he says. “Are you cold?”
I nod but cannot speak, watching his chest rise and fall in the half-light. His skin is ruddy with beating blood, and I long to feel the life of him in my arms. Almost without my permission, my face is moving toward his.
Then another, steadier light joins that of John’s lamp, and I hear Jane’s voice, tentative, from the hall. “Katherine?” she says. John has already moved away from me, slipping like a phantom through a side door, deeper into the abandoned wing.
Jane enters the room, clutching a candle and a subdued Stella. “You weren’t in bed when I woke,” she says, her voice a colorless slip. “I was so worried, Kat.”
Her eyes fall on my brother’s sheeted form. “Oh. Of course. I’m so sorry. I should have known you would want to see him.”
She won’t look directly at me, and I wonder how much she saw of John and me before calling out my name. As she leads me back to my room, I cannot decide whether I’m grateful for the way she interrupted us, just before my mouth touched his.
CHAPTER 7
DESPITE EVERYTHING, THE procedures must be followed. I stand in front of the mirror once more, this time dressed in black. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I say, trying to avoid my reflection. “Face all those people.”
Jane smiles wanly. She, too, is dressed for the funeral, her clothes having been brought to the house in preparation. “Would you like me to tell them you are unwell?” she says.
It would hardly be a lie. My skin is so pale, my eye sockets shrunken and bruised through troubled sleep. I want to lie on my bed and close my eyes and simply forget—to drift on a sea of unconsciousness. Perhaps I will, by some miracle, open them again and find myself back in our old house, with Aunt Lila singing in the kitchen, and the thud of Connor and George chopping wood outside.
“No,” I say. “I owe it to him to go.”
Tears are brimming again, and Jane wraps her arms around me, letting me shudder silently. After the fit has passed, she offers me a cloth to dab my eyes. “It is not the same,” she says, “but I know something of grief. It’s three years since my mother passed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be,” Jane answers. “I have only happy memories of her. She was a kind woman, with a generous spirit. Just like your brother, from what I knew of him. I cannot offer you much consolation, but know this. Time will soften your grief.”
I touch her shoulder lightly. “Thank you.” Glancing at the clock, I see it is almost eleven. “We should go downstairs.”
She takes my arm, just as George did the night before he died. We descend the stairs to the front of the house, where Grace and Henry wait with the two mourning coaches. Mr. Dowling is there also, in his own transport. Henry’s face is drawn beneath his hat. There’s a patch of dried blood below his ear, where he’s cut himself shaving.
Only the sight of John, driving a second coach, shakes me from my dulled reverie. Though he can’t bring his eyes to mine, I know he sees me. I mean to catch him alone, to tell him that our near-kiss was a foolish thing, that it mustn’t be repeated.
“You look splendid,” said Grace, admiring the outfit she herself picked out for me.
Carrick stands aside and offers an arm to help me into the carriage, but I pause. “Perhaps Jane and I could travel alone, in the second?” I ask, nodding toward John’s carriage.
Grace bristles. “That wouldn’t be…”
“Of course, cousin,” says Henry quickly. “We will see you at the church,”
Jane goes to her father and he nods kindly at me. Taking his seat alongside his driver, he leaves the carriage for Jane and me. As the horses’ hooves click, I lean back and breathe a sigh. A few more moments alone will help me compose myself.
Walthingham has a chapel of its own, and I would have preferred to say farewell within that private space, but Henry has said it would be inappropriate with so many others wishing to pay their condolences to my dead brother. Why, I do not know. No one here truly knew him.
The church is a narrow gray building with a single spire. We disembark at the gate and join the small gathering of gentry wending their way toward my family’s tomb.
I keep my face impassive and my neck held straight beneath the heavy black bonnet, and turn my mourning ring inward until its beveled enamel bites into my palm. The flash of pain keeps me from drooping into despair before this sea of curious eyes.
More people even than attended our ball have turned out to observe the sudden passing of George Randolph, the new heir of Walthingham. Here and there I see a face I recognize from that glittering night. Lady Flint, looking sallower than ever in starched black. The first man that I danced with, sitting ill at ease with his fellow soldiers. And the woman who wore green satin and made me believe that something vicious stalked the grounds at Walthingham. Her son is beside her, but he won’t meet my eyes.
Though they’re here as mourners, these people seem more interested in gawking at my clothing than in paying tribute to George. And Grace has made certain that I’m worth staring at. My hastily bought mourning clothes include a Russian wrapping-cloak, worn open over a crepe-trimmed black column. The toes of black leather boots peep out below, and I clutch a reticule frothy with lace.
I hate my finery, and even more, I hate Grace’s insistence that I perform this show of grieving for the sake of people I hardly know, who hardly knew George. She insists that I honor my dead in the proper way, but proper to me is how we observed my parents’ passing: two pine boxes, prayers as they were lowered into the earth. We wore dark colors but could not take more than half a day away from the farm. Hard work distracted and healed us, slowly. Here there is nothing to carry my mind from my loss. Just dressing and undressing, broken sleep and grief-shadowed waking hours.
I bring my hand in its dull black glove to the silver filigree brooch at my neck, wound round with a lock of my brother’s hair. Grace keeps her head bowed and her arm through her brother’s. Though they’re not visibly close, not like George and I were, I still feel the beginnings of pity as I contemplate what will happen to her once Henry marries Jane. Women are useless enough among the rich, and unmarried women even more so.
Jane begins to move away, but I cling to her. “Please, stay with me,” I say. Grace again looks a little confused, but I avoid her gaze.
The wind blows bitterly as we cross the frozen ground, and the air tastes burnt and thin. George will be buried here, beside our grandfather, instead of with our parents in the rich soil of home. His body will never be joined by that of a wife, or a child. Perhaps my own will join his, one day, should I die unmarried. Jane and I stand at the graveside together, our two bonnets bowed side by side.
The priest’s words, consigning my brother to the Lord, are nearly lost to the wind whistling around the headstones. The service is nothing but impersonal verses, suitable for the passing of any stranger, and I feel a cool numbness as it nears its end.
Then a low ripple of unease runs through the gathered mourners, and Jane’s hand tightens on my arm. I follow her gaze across the grounds. The sunlight on snow is blinding, but I can still see the strange man approaching, picking his way toward us from the other side of the churchyard.
He’s tall and whippet-thin, wearing a patched black jacket and a cap pulled tight over his ears. When he gets closer I judge that he’s sixty at least, his face brown and
sun-weathered. His eyes under sharp brows are too bright. Though he pulls off his cap with a clumsy hand as he draws near, squeezing it into a ball, the brightness of his darting eyes makes him look disrespectful all the same.
The other guests have noticed him, and some are rudely whispering to their companions. Even Henry is standing up straight, his mouth tight.
I look at Jane, whose face shows recognition and alarm.
Then the men begin to lower George into the earth, and the stranger is briefly forgotten. The pallbearers grunt softly as they ease him down, and I feel a wave of pain so disorienting that Jane must help me stand. And then it’s over; he’s disappeared below the lip of the frozen ground, and I’m the only Randolph left.
When I look up, my eyes streaming hot tears, the old man is looking straight at me. I meet his glare until Henry passes between us, leaving Grace’s side to stride over to the stranger.
“How dare you show your face here?” Henry’s voice carries on the frozen air, sharp and shocking. “This is a family affair, and I won’t have you disrespecting that.”
The man’s piercing eyes have gone cold, with a hatred I can discern even from where I stand. For a moment I wonder whether he’ll strike Henry, but finally he raises his chin and speaks. “A family affair, you say?” Pointedly he sweeps his gaze over the multitude of indifferent aristocrats stamping their chilly feet around my brother’s grave. “I served Walthingham Hall near as many years as you’ve been alive, boy. I mean to pay my respects, the same as anyone else.”
“Your respects are neither asked for nor accepted. You’re not welcome here, or anywhere on my grounds.”
The man looks at Henry for a moment, and then gives a short, sharp laugh that shrivels my breath. He leans into my cousin’s ear and begins to speak, too quietly for me to hear. Henry’s face is turned from mine, but I see his body go utterly still as he listens. His fists start to tighten.…
Then John charges across the snow, putting his body between them. “Leave it, McAllister,” he says, throwing a restraining arm across the old man’s chest. “This is not the day to speak of old grievances.” Keeping a grip on his arm, John walks him away from the service, and from my angry cousin.
Henry still stands rigid on the snow when Mr. Dowling approaches me, gently taking my arm. “I regret this interruption to your brother’s service, my lady. You should not have to deal with these things while you’re grieving.”
“Who is that man?”
“He was once your grandfather’s gamekeeper, until he was discovered selling Walthingham’s stock for his own gain.” There’s something like pity in his voice as he continues. “A man like that could only end up a poacher, of course, especially with no good reference.”
“He’s a poacher?” I say, closing my eyes briefly and remembering the dark shape at the edge of the trees. What if, on George’s last morning, he had come across this angry man in Walthingham’s woods?
Mr. Dowling coughs lightly. “One of many. A place like Walthingham will always attract his sort.”
By now McAllister has wrenched himself from John’s grip and is disappearing down the road from the church. In his anger he bumps into someone coming from the opposite direction; it’s a moment before I recognize the man as William Simpson. He and McAllister lock eyes for a long moment, though neither speaks. Then, with a sharp bob of his head, the poacher continues on his way.
Mr. Dowling politely removes himself and Jane goes with him as Mr. Simpson walks toward me, pulling off his hat. As he squints down at me, our cold exchange in Bath seems to belong to another lifetime. I realize I’m happy to see him.
“May I speak to you a moment, Lady Randolph?” he says softly, looking into my face.
Grace is hovering behind me; I give her a small nod and step toward him. “Yes, of course. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wish that it were under any other circumstance,” he says. “I deeply regret this loss. I spoke glibly of his disappearance when I last saw you, and I must beg you to forgive me.”
“We were both speaking under a misapprehension that day.”
He nods soberly. “May we speak in private?”
Grace is now occupied with another mourner, and I take the opportunity to tuck my arm in his. “Of course.”
He stiffens a moment under my touch, then relaxes. We walk in silence over the swell of the path. I run my eyes across gravestone etchings clotted with snow, looking away quickly when I see the headstones of children. DEAREST BELOVED, reads one, in blocky script. Even before my parents’ deaths I was frightened of cemeteries.
When my cousins and their companions are faraway shapes, Mr. Simpson stops, gently disengaging his arm from mine. He waits a discreet moment, then speaks. “My lady, it is important that we discuss a great many things. You must understand the full extent of your inheritance, now that you are the sole heir of Walthingham.”
The words hit me like a cold gust. “I … had not thought of it that way,” I stammer. The heir of Walthingham?
“It’s a privilege, and a grave responsibility,” he persists. “Though my timing may seem importunate, we must speak of certain matters…”
Irritation flares up in me, making my stomach sour. “Yes, your timing does seem importunate, Mr. Simpson. You truly wish me to discuss business and legal details with you now? On this very day?”
“I have the greatest sympathy for your situation, but this is something that cannot wait for long. As your brother’s untimely passing has made clear, it’s important that your affairs are always in order. You will one day be mistress of one of the finest houses in England.”
His chiding tone falls heavy on my ears, making me shrink back inside of myself. “I’m certain you are an excellent lawyer, one whose affairs are never out of line. But your talk of responsibility brings me no comfort today. I’ll thank you to leave my affairs well alone.”
“But your grandfather’s legacy…”
“I am my grandfather’s legacy, sir. The legacy of a man who drove away his only son: a stranger to my grandfather, a stranger to England. You ask me to be grateful for my inheritance, but to me it is only a burden, a gift from a dying man who saw his folly too late.” My breath is coming fast and sharp, with a rising tide of anger I barely knew I harbored. “My brother’s death was no accident, I’m sure of it, and it never would have happened if we hadn’t come here. He should be safely in Virginia even now. As should I.”
Mr. Simpson is looking down at his hands; in regret or disappointment, I cannot tell. “You mustn’t speak that way of Lord Walthingham. He could not have known; he could not have foreseen…”
“I will not speak of this today. I will not speak to you today. Please don’t approach me about the estate again, until my period of mourning has ended.”
I turn from him before he can see the tears springing to my eyes, letting the wind dry them as I speed back toward my brother’s resting place. I look back once, but Mr. Simpson does not see me. He’s standing where I left him, straight-backed and still in the snowy churchyard.
CHAPTER 8
THE MOURNERS GATHERED around Henry and Grace mutter insincere condolences with artfully pitying eyes, their avid faces barely concealed by the black brims of their hats. I accept the limp-fingered comfort of several ladies in fashionable black, dabbing their eyes with ornamental handkerchiefs.
John is standing by the imposing stone crypt that houses my grandfather’s coffin and those of other, long-gone Randolphs. When I see him, the shame of what nearly happened last night makes my stomach twist. I’m suddenly anxious to put an end to it, to whatever he might think there is between us. I can put that to rights today, at least.
His face as I approach is sad and weary, fixed intently on the crypt. I’m surprised to see it, and wonder whether he was fond of my grandfather—John did, after all, grow up on the estate. My anger at the former Lord Walthingham seems foolish now. He and his sins are dead and buried, and my brother keeps him company in the earth.
Even when I’ve reached John’s side, he does not look up at me. I follow his gaze to the stone and read the inscription there. He watches over us all. In memoriam. “It’s a little somber, don’t you think?” I say.
John shrugs. “I don’t know the last word,” he says. “My letters aren’t good.”
“It’s ‘memoriam,’” I say casually, so as not to make him feel foolish. “It just means ‘memory.’”
John nods. “It was your grandfather who taught me my first letters,” he says. “Gave me one of the books from his library—one that Mr. Campion himself studied as a boy.”
“And now?” I ask. “Do you still read?”
A blush rises to John’s cheeks. “No, my lady. Not anymore.”
His tone is underlined with finality. I can’t imagine Grace or Henry offering John access to the library, but I make a mental note to speak to them about it.
“Do you believe that, my lady?” John asks, turning his eyes on mine with unexpected urgency. “Do you believe that the dead watch us still, and … and can see all that we do?”
“I don’t think of it like that, exactly. I don’t really think that George can see me. Or my parents, either.” I duck my head and will back the tears waiting just behind my eyes. Then I feel John’s hand reach for mine and clasp it, under my cloak. I’m so shocked by the gesture that it takes a moment for me to notice the way the steady warmth of his touch takes the raw edges off the cold. Every moment, I think that I should pull away, but I don’t.
“My lady,” he says, his voice low. “I am so very sorry for your loss.” He squeezes my hand gently, then releases it and walks away. But I detect a disturbance in his step, the same confused tremor that runs through me now, carrying some current of lightness into my heart.
I call out his name without thinking, and when he turns I can’t imagine what I meant to tell him. “John,” I say. “John. Let me teach you how to read better. I fear you’re missing out.” It’s all I can think to offer.