by Heather Boyd
Alone.
With no one ever to lecture her again.
Agatha put her hand to the bed post to steady herself, pain and loss finally forcing her body to react. She didn’t want this, but she had exactly what she thought she wanted all along. Freedom. Her view blurred as tears fell. Walls disappeared as strong hands pushed her down into a chair then pressed soft linen into her palm. A handkerchief. A man’s handkerchief.
That simple gesture broke her last ounce of self possession, and she gave in to her tears until she thought her heart might break.
Oh, God, it hurt so badly.
Agatha wrapped her arms about her chest in a vain attempt at control.
Another hand pulled at her. The warm, delicate scent of lavender offered comfort. Agatha buried her head in Estella’s shoulder and let her heartbreak flow. The viscountess held her, stoked her back, and rocked her gently while she cried.
Agatha ignored how odd it was to be comforted by the woman, and a tearful woman at that. She was Oscar’s mother, a necessarily distant figure. But how strange to be held by her grandfather’s lover.
Agatha pushed away and fumbled with the handkerchief in her hands. She had to regain some control; there were so many things to be done. She couldn’t sit about wailing when her grandfather was gone. She wiped her eyes and dragged in a deep breath, trying to steady herself to face the future.
When she raised her face, she was startled to see Lady Carrington kneeling at her feet. She rushed to help her stand.
“Please, Lady Carrington, you will wrinkle your gown.”
“Estella, please.” She returned a weak smile and sank into her chair. “The gown hardly matters at this hour, child. Do not concern yourself with me.”
George, standing patiently at the door, cleared his throat. “Forgive me for intruding, miss, but on behalf of all the staff we wanted to extend our condolences. He was a fine man, a fine employer, and shall be very much missed.”
George’s words made her eyes fill with more tears, but she couldn’t let them fall now. Later, when her duties were complete, she would grieve again. For now, she had to make her grandfather’s parting a tribute.
Agatha turned for the large bed and the empty shell of her grandfather. With George’s help, she straightened his limbs, neatened the bedding, and, with a final glance at his immobile face, she laid her hand across his eyes to close the lids. George was prepared with coins already and slipped them onto his eyes.
“Thank you, George.”
There was nothing else to do now but keep vigil. “Can you bring another chair please, and then you can retire for the night.”
“Of course,” George murmured, but he tended to the fire first, a task Agatha hadn’t thought of, positioned another chair beside Estella, then ushered the servants hovering outside away from the door and back to their beds.
Agatha settled into the chair and pressed her head to the back of it. Nothing to be done. Those words bounced around her head once more, taunting her with the uncertainty of the future. She had nothing. Soon no home. And no one to care when that happened. Would Oscar still want to marry her now she was in mourning? He’d never said what had been so important before.
Tears pricked her eyes again and she clutched the chair arm to keep the growing dread at bay. She had to be strong and prepare herself for this uncertain future. Tears had never helped her in the past. They would be next to useless in the future.
Estella’s warm fingers wrapped around her tense hand and squeezed. Not so alone tonight. For now, she had the consolation of Estella’s company as she kept vigil. Agatha wondered how long the older woman would remain.
She turned her head and found the other woman’s eyes filled with concern.
“I know this is an unfortunate time. You may think me heartless to bring up such a delicate subject, but you need not fear, not at a moment so close to his parting. Thomas has made arrangements for you. Let your mind be easy on that score,” Estella whispered.
Peace lasted only a moment though. “What arrangements?”
Had grandfather arranged for her to live with her cousin and his growing brood? She hoped not—she’d never be happy playing second fiddle to Arthur’s wife. She’d run her grandfather’s household as if it were her own. Following another’s orders would be unbearable.
“I do not know them all precisely, but Thomas spoke to your cousin recently and obtained his agreement that you shan’t be cast out from this house upon his death. I have the papers in my possession should it become necessary to remind your cousin of the agreement. It seems your grandfather had more than a slight inkling that his time was coming fast upon him.”
Agatha began to shake, distraught that she’s missed the signs that he was unwell. “Did you know he was ailing?”
Estella raised Agatha’s trembling hand and kissed the back of it. “No, child. He never spoke of his health. I thought him merely weary of his business dealings. They were a great burden upon him.”
At least she wasn’t the only one caught unawares. Lulled by the soft stroking of Estella’s fingertips across the back of her hand, Agatha relaxed. Neither of them was to blame, but both of them would miss him.
A loud pounding on the front door dragged Agatha from sleep. She rubbed her tired eyes and for a moment wondered what she was doing in her grandfather’s chamber. The dark room was silent but for her own breathing. Estella was gone.
Quiet conversation drifted up from the hall. A man’s deep voice rumbled through the house. Astonished that her cousin could already be here, she climbed to her feet. Although unsteady, she cast a glance at her grandfather’s still form then stepped out onto the landing. Below stairs, Estella was whispering to Mr. Manning, the Rector of St. George’s. The viscountess must have sent him word while Agatha had been asleep. She must remember to thank her for that later.
Slowly, Agatha descended the stairs.
Manning hurried to escort her down. “My child, how great this tragedy. Please accept my condolences. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Agatha managed a weak smile as he stared at her. His pale eyes were etched with genuine concern and she knew she could depend on him to see her grandfather buried with respect. She gestured toward her grandfather’s study. “Thank you for coming.”
When they were all settled before her grandfather’s desk, she fought to get her emotions under control. The scent of cigar was strong in the room and remembrances made her eyes sting with tears again. “I am uncertain how to proceed with the arrangements, sir. My grandfather never mentioned any concerns with his health or his wishes for burial.”
The vicar cleared his throat and gave her a brief description of her choices. His choice was for a tasteful burial without the pomp and ceremony Estella kept suggesting.
When the tension between them grew unbearable Agatha raised both hands to silence them. “Please. I do not wish to listen to arguments today.”
Manning had the grace to look chagrined. “Forgive us, Miss Birkenstock. We have an old dispute between us that, of course, should be dealt with another time.”
That was surprising. Agatha had thought Manning and Estella were on the best of terms. “It is of no matter, sir. I expect we are both raw from grieving someone we loved very much.”
Agatha caught Estella’s pained gaze. Estella’s grief was proof that her grandfather had been blessed by the love of two women—her grandmother and Estella.
Manning shifted in his chair as if uncomfortable. “He was a fine man, but we both loved Essy as much as she’d allow us. That kind of situation makes close friendship impossible between men. While I did not care for the nature of their relationship, I found nothing else in his character to dislike. Your happiness and welfare are my first concerns.”
Agatha pressed her cold hands flat upon the table. The bloodless appearance reminded her of her grandfather, and she quickly buried them in her lap. She took a deep breath. “I believe my grandfather would have preferred a simpler service, in k
eeping with our position in society. I do not wish to give any offence, Lady Carrington, but what you suggest, while offered with the greatest proof of your attachment to him, is an elegant affair best suited to those of your elevated rank. My grandfather was merely a gentleman in trade, and I know our place in the world.” She turned to the vicar. “It would please me if you could act on this matter on my behalf. I should like the simpler service you outlined, with the burial to be at the church burial ground.”
Agatha rubbed her temple. The strain of last night was catching up with her. She was so weary, so ready for this nightmare to be over. Yet she could not rest until all was set in motion. “However, I do recall one conversation with my grandfather some time ago, but it was such a distressing subject, I am loath to bring it up.”
The vicar moved to the edge of his seat. “Of course, but if the discussion would set your mind at rest, please, you must unburden yourself.”
Agatha swallowed. “My grandfather had a fear of grave robbers. I should not like anything to happen to his remains once he has been laid to rest.”
The vicar nodded, a grim frown twisting his expression. “The thievery practiced by Resurrectionist’s is always a concern among our parishioners, but there are ways to thwart such despicable acts. A mortsafe has proved to be most effective. It is a cage of iron placed over the coffin that thwarts any attempt to remove the body. But we can also employ servants to watch over your grandfather as well. I shall make those arrangements too.”
“Thank you for your assistance.”
The vicar climbed to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I shall be off to make the arrangements. Miss Birkenstock. Essy. I will return later this afternoon with news.”
The silence left behind in his wake was deafening. Estella held Agatha’s gaze without flinching, but her lips were pressed tightly together.
“What troubles you, my lady?”
“I’m so sorry.”
Agatha frowned. “For what?”
“For involving you in a discussion that was inappropriate for you to hear. I had thought we, your grandfather and I, had been discreet.”
Agatha dipped her head. “I’ve not heard a whisper about it, but then again, I do live—did live—in the same house as my grandfather. I have always been alert to his changing moods. He was happier after seeing you.”
Estella regarded her sadly. “He loved you so much. One of our last conversations was about your future. It vexed him to no end that you’d not married.”
Could she share the news that Oscar had proposed? Of course she couldn’t. She would have to wait to see if he still wanted her. “I’d rather not discuss marriage.”
Agatha stood and turned her back to the viscountess. She could not have this discussion with Oscar’s mother. She couldn’t confide her reasons for discouraging previous suitors either. To answer truthfully, as she’d prefer to do, would cause unnecessary tension between them.
Better to be silent and wait and see. After all, there was nothing to be done.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“I had a feeling he’d been somewhat of an ogre about a marriage. In my experience, most parents are. I have goaded my children to secure influential matches, but I sometimes wonder if their lives will be happier than mine.”
Estella’s words sent a chill through her. “You were unhappy in your marriage?” As soon as the words were out, she regretted the blunt question. She couldn’t expect a woman of Estella’s higher social standing to divulge such personal details.
“My husband was something of a bully. Luckily neither of my children take after him. Oh, I know that my daughter has a reputation for being a trifle shrill, but my son is calmer, possessed of a fine and open mind about matters of the heart.”
Oh, this conversation really had to end. “I’m sure he is.”
Luckily George chose the perfect moment to interrupt. “I’ve taken the liberty of laying on breakfast in the morning room for both you and Lady Carrington. Is that acceptable?”
What would she do without George? “Thank you.”
Estella drew her toward the hall, away from her morbid thoughts, and to a waiting breakfast. Although her stomach revolted at the idea of consuming food, it was best she eat something. She had to stay strong to survive the coming burial and keep her mind sharp as she made plans for her future. At least she still had the orphans to love.
With that thought in mind, she filled a plate and sipped a cup of hot chocolate, all the while watching the viscountess pick at her food.
Chapter Twenty-Three
TWIN POINTS OF pain lanced through Oscar’s skull when a shaft of morning sunlight hit his face as he crossed the bustling street. Whatever had possessed him to drink so much that he’d been grateful when Daventry offered a guestroom?
Desperation, most likely. He’d just begun to imagine climbing in through Agatha’s bedroom window again when Daventry suggested it. But he’d never manage the climb without detection. Not while Birkenstock was in residence. So he’d spent the night away from home, endured Lilly’s amused giggles at his condition this morning, avoided eating any breakfast whatsoever because his stomach was in revolt, and headed out into the London morning in his hastily pressed suit of clothes from last night.
He needed a bath, a shave, and several more hours of sleep in order to feel like a gentleman again and be fit for company. He needed to face Birkenstock this morning and get his agreement for them to marry. He couldn’t do that until he could walk in a straight line without effort.
Oscar grunted as he collided with a dark figure. The man grasped his arm to steady him, and Oscar was incredibly grateful. “Watch yourself there, my lord.”
Kindly pale eyes pierced through Oscar’s thoughts. Mr. Manning. His papa. What rotten timing. He’d be sure to smell the sour whiskey on his breath and notice his rumpled state. Would he be subjected to fatherly scolding now?
“Good morning to you, sir.”
Manning’s serious expression cut into his misery. “No, it is not that. Not a good morning at all. Most distressing start to the day. But everyone’s time comes when it will. We are but servants to God’s purpose.”
Oscar frowned. He didn’t understand Manning’s pious ramble, but it sounded damn depressing. Oscar had no time for anyone else’s troubles this morning. He had much to do. “Of course. If you will excuse me?”
The vicar stepped closer and placed a restraining hand on his arm. “You should be prepared for a distressing scene. She was greatly attached to him. She will need you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Why must people speak in riddles at this hour of the day? Oscar thought it far from kind, given his current state, that his papa didn’t just come out and say what he meant.
“Birkenstock. Surely you’ve heard by now?” The vicar looked about him then glanced at Oscar’s clothes. “Were you out all night?”
Oscar felt like a scolded schoolboy again. It wasn’t that unusual to be coming home at this hour and in this state. Hell, he was practically a novice when it came to debauchery. “What of it?” Oscar asked, belligerence making his voice louder than he intended. Fierce pain resumed its assault on his head, reminding him of his somewhat delicate state. “What do you mean, Birkenstock? Heard of what?”
“He died,” Manning said simply, hands spread before him.
“Dear God, Agatha. Excuse me.”
Oscar pushed past his father and rushed for home, despite the fact his head threatened to split in two. How could he have chosen last night to overindulge? Poor Aggie!
Oscar bounded up the stairs, slapped his palm against the wood, and fumbled for his door key. When the door opened before he could insert it in the lock, he gave thanks for his efficient servant. It was only when a hand curled around his arm and held him back that he realized he wasn’t in his own home, or about to gain entry to Agatha’s house via the window. He was already in her house. Her front entrance hall to be precise. And her butler appeared incensed by his presence.
“Your mother, my lord?”
“No, not my mother. Agatha. Where is she?”
The butler’s eyes flickered upward involuntarily, and then he scowled, tugging at Oscar’s arm in a fair attempt to eject him from the house. “I must ask you to leave this instant. The mistress is not receiving callers today.”
“She’ll see me.” Oscar evaded his grip and raced for the steps, ignoring the warning voice behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, but at the top, he hesitated. He’d never explored Agatha’s home, but it appeared of similar construction to his. Would she be in her bedchamber or keeping vigil?
Oscar chose the latter and quietly made his way toward what he assumed would be her grandfather’s room. His precious girl stood at the foot of the bed, her back toward him, her pale hair slicked into a severe knot, dark mourning weeds already donned to mark the passing. But her gaze remained fixed on the still form lying prone on the bed.
The penny covered eyes unnerved him, reminding him of his nightmares so much he began to quake. At least there was no gaping hole in Birkenstock’s head. But the waxy-smooth, white skin did set his pulse to racing. He forced the fear down, forced himself to see the remains for what they were. No threat to him. No example of his actions. Thomas Birkenstock had been an old man. He’d lived a full life and appeared peaceful in death. He could do this.
Besides, Agatha needed him.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, he crossed the room until he stood behind her and slowly wrapped his arms about Agatha’s slim form. She didn’t resist or react immediately, but when her hands rose to clasp his arms, Oscar pressed his lips to her temple in a gentle kiss. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Agatha’s shoulders gave a shake, and she sniffed. “It was his time, but I already miss his gruff ways.”
He hugged her tighter. “I know. You loved him. And he loved you.”
Facing death again wasn’t nearly as unsettling as Oscar feared it would be. He could look upon the lifeless face and when he briefly closed his eyes he saw peace, not twisted, painful visions. The nightmare had left him, at least for now, but he hoped it was gone for good.