Chapter 16 #2
I pressed a hand to his cheek as guilt bloomed in my chest. “I’m sorry. Something’s come up. But it will be over soon.”
He sighed a little and closed his eyes. “It’s Mr. Dorian again, isn’t it?”
I reared back in surprise. I had never said a word to Tommy about what had happened on Corfu, but perhaps it was woefully na?ve of me to think he hadn’t noticed anything all on his own. “It’s … it’s nothing you need to worry about,” I said weakly, knowing that would do little to quell his interest.
But Tommy didn’t reply. He was already fast asleep.
The morning of the funeral, I escorted Tommy to my brother’s home so he could visit with his Everly cousins.
Dolly met us in the entryway. “Go on upstairs, Tommy. The children are waiting for you in the nursery,” she said with a smile.
“Have a good time,” I called after his swiftly retreating form. “Thank you for doing this,” I said to Dolly once we were alone.
“He is welcome here anytime,” she replied. “How is Delia? Jack said she hasn’t been feeling well.”
I longed to confide in Dolly, but it wouldn’t be right to share Delia’s news without her consent. I decided to ask if we could share her condition with our sister-in-law, for soon enough the time would come when decisions would need to be made.
“No,” I said. “She’s taken everything very hard.”
Dolly frowned in sympathy. “The poor dear. But Jack did mention that the police no longer consider her the primary suspect. That’s a bit of good news.”
“It is,” I agreed. “But, frankly, I’ll feel better when they make an arrest.”
“Understandable.” Then she turned her sympathetic gaze on me. “And what about you? Are you sure you’re able to attend the funeral? It won’t bring back any bad memories?” she added hesitantly.
“Sadly, this is not the first funeral I have attended since Oliver’s. But thank you for your concern,” I said with a grateful smile.
“Of course. And please, don’t worry about Tommy. He is a dear boy, and we’re happy to have him here.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
I’m not sure what my brother did to convince Dolly to marry him, but he was a lucky, lucky man.
I left shortly afterward, as I still needed to dress for the funeral.
I hadn’t wanted Tommy to see me in my black dress, as that would only lead to questions I didn’t want to answer.
Back at my aunt’s flat, Mrs. Ford pressed my dress and then helped me fix my hair.
When she finished, she stepped back with an admiring look.
“That dress fits you very well, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs. Harper.”
As I looked at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, I was tempted to agree, though it wasn’t really appropriate for the occasion. “Thank you. If only I was going to a dinner party and not a funeral.”
But Mrs. Ford looked unconvinced. “I’ve known more than a few ladies who met their husbands at funerals. There’s something about realizing how fleeting life is that gets the blood running,” she said with a sage nod.
“Goodness,” I marveled. “I never considered that.” Then I turned back to my reflection. “I do wish I had brought one of my brooches from home. I hardly ever wear them as it is. They spend most of the time tucked away in a drawer.”
Mrs. Ford’s eyes suddenly lit. “I know just the thing.” She then moved to the dressing table and pulled open a drawer. “Your aunt took all her best jewelry with her, of course. But she has a few lovely pieces in here. And you’d never know they were paste.”
I had a vague memory of hearing about Aunt Agatha’s penchant for jewelry growing up, but could only recall her spectacular moonstone engagement ring from her visits to Corfu.
Mrs. Ford pulled out a red-leather jewelry case, set it on the dressing table, and opened it.
The baubles glittered in the morning sunlight, and as I leaned down for a closer inspection, I saw that she was quite right. They really did look genuine.
“The pearl and gold one would look best, I think,” she said, pointing to a brooch designed to mimic a flower. “Understated, but lovely.”
“I agree.” The rest of the pieces were quite ornate: a pair of ruby earrings, a large sapphire necklace, and a thick diamond bracelet. If these were my aunt’s paste jewelry, I could only imagine what she had taken with her. Mrs. Ford then pinned the brooch to my dress and stepped back.
“That looks marvelous.”
I touched it daintily. “I’ll be very careful,” I said solemnly.
But the housekeeper just waved me off. “Do as you like. It’s all to be yours someday anyway.” I shot her a confused look, and she tilted her head. “Surely she told you.”
“That she’s giving me her jewelry?” I said on a laugh.
Mrs. Ford continued to stare in surprise. “She’s giving you everything. Said it before she left.”
“Oh.” I truly couldn’t form more of a response. Aunt Agatha had always been incredibly generous to me, and even more so since Oliver died, but had never said a word about an inheritance. “Why—why wouldn’t she tell me?”
Mrs. Ford shrugged off my distress. “Who else would she be putting in her will? She has no children. And you must know how fond she is of you and the children.”
“I do.” But now I worried we hadn’t done nearly enough to earn such a gift. My aunt was a wealthy woman, and while I sincerely hoped she would live for at least another decade, even a small sliver of her estate could be life-changing.
Mrs. Ford seemed to intuit my worry. “You can talk all about it with her when she comes back. But it’s nearly time for you to leave,” she said, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
I followed her gaze and let out a groan. “Heavens, yes.”
I retrieved my reticle with the funeral invitation already tucked inside while Mrs. Ford fetched my coat.
The service was being held nearby at St. Mark’s in Mayfair, and as it was a fairly nice morning, I decided to walk.
There was a line of carriages in front of the towering neoclassical building, and as I neared the entrance, I wondered if this church had been chosen to reflect the deceased’s interest in antiquity.
Vaguely, I noticed the figure of a well-dressed man just up ahead, pacing rather idly, as if he was waiting for someone.
As I grew closer, the man took notice of me and stopped. It was Mr. Dorian.
“Hello, Mrs. Harper,” he said as I approached. “You look nice. Is that a new hat?”
I lifted my chin, determined not to blush at his compliment. “Yes. What are you doing out here?”
“Waiting for you, of course.”
I glanced past him at the steady stream of people entering the church and frowned. More than a few had already shot curious looks in our direction. “We can’t be seen entering together.”
“Why not?”
I huffed at his innocent expression. Was the man being purposefully dense? “Because it might cause talk.”
I did not wish to be identified in the gossip columns as yet another one of his female companions.
But of course I couldn’t say that, for then he would know that I had been reading about him.
Luckily, Mr. Dorian seemed to accept this answer and extended his arm towards the church entrance.
“Then you go on ahead, and I will enter after a few moments. Unless we cannot even be in the same vicinity without creating a scandal?” he added wryly, arching a dark brow.
For a moment, I was tempted to agree to this ridiculous notion simply to see that smug look wiped from his face.
But the triumph would be fleeting indeed.
And, though I would never admit it, I was feeling rather apprehensive.
“I think it is perfectly acceptable for us to acknowledge one another once we are both inside,” I said in measured tones.
Mr. Dorian nodded, but the wry look remained as I walked past him and into the church.
The last time I had attended a funeral had been on Corfu, and in the company of the very same man.
However, that was where the similarities ended.
For that funeral had taken place in a humble Greek Orthodox chapel, while St. Mark’s was one of the finest churches in Mayfair, with its imposing columned entrance, towering Gothic ceiling, and trio of stained-glass windows.
A church organ bleated out the notes of “Nearer My God to Thee,” as some guests mulled around the vestibule waiting for the service to begin, while others had taken their seats.
The crowd was larger than I had expected, especially for a private funeral.
As I scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces, I noticed Lord Linden just up ahead, greeting people as they entered the nave.
He stood next to a woman in full mourning who I assumed was Charles Pearson’s sister.
Beside her stood a thin man with a large, drooping mustache who must have been her husband.
“Is it safe for us to acknowledge one another now?” whispered a familiar voice by my ear, completely interrupting my thoughts.
I shot a frown at Mr. Dorian. “Yes,” I hissed, then turned my attention back to the baron and company.
“Hmm,” Mr. Dorian said, following my gaze. “I didn’t realize Linden was so close with Pearson’s sister.”
I bristled at his skeptical tone. “She doesn’t live in London, so he has helped her arrange the funeral. I’m sure at his own expense,” I added in an offhand way.
“What makes you say that?”
I cast a look around, but there was no one behind us at the moment. “I have come to suspect that Charles Pearson was rather short of funds,” I murmured. “And I’m sure a funeral like this does not come cheaply.”
“Well, you are right on that point, at least,” Mr. Dorian replied dismissively as he gazed up at our surroundings. “Time will tell about your other assumptions.”
I frowned at his profile, but before I could respond, it was our turn to greet the family.
Lord Linden gave me a warm smile. “Mrs. Harper. How good of you to come. And Mr. Dorian.” His gaze turned curious, and I could tell he was trying to determine our relationship.
“This is Mrs. Pembrooke, the sister of our dear departed friend,” he explained. “And her husband.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said to Mrs. Pembrooke. Up close, I could see she was significantly older than Charles. And I wondered how much she knew about his life in London.
“Thank you,” she sniffled, while her husband gave a stiff nod.
“He was a fine man,” Mr. Dorian added.
“Allow me to escort you to your seat, Mrs. Harper,” the baron said, then looked to Mr. Dorian. “Unless I am intruding …”
But Mr. Dorian quickly waved a hand, as if the very idea was absurd. “Not at all. Lead the way.”
“I will be right back, Jenny,” he said to Mrs. Pembrooke. She nodded while still managing to look absolutely petrified. Then I took the baron’s proffered arm, and he led me into the nave, with Mr. Dorian trailing behind.
“This has been a difficult time for her,” the baron explained once we were out of earshot.
“I can imagine,” I replied as I looked around the church pews. Only the last few rows in the back were open.
“She feels responsible,” he continued. “Though I can’t understand why.”
“He was her younger brother,” I said. “It can be hard to let go of a relationship established in childhood.”
The baron cast me a surprised look. “How insightful.”
I blushed at his praise. “I try.”
He stopped at an empty pew only a few rows away from the back. I wondered why he had taken it upon himself to escort me here. We certainly could have found our seats without him. “I suppose it is terribly inappropriate to say given the occasion, but you look very nice,” he said. “I like your hat.”
I touched the brim. “Thank you. It’s new,” I added, then felt like an idiot for even mentioning it. But the baron only smiled.
A throat cleared behind us, and I glanced over at Mr. Dorian. “I think we can manage it from here, Linden,” he said blandly.
“Quite right. The service will be starting shortly. Mrs. Harper,” he said with a little bow and left.
“That was odd,” Mr. Dorian said as we slid into the pew. “I’m afraid you may end up in the gossip pages after all.”
“What are you talking about?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt the baron has bothered to usher any other guests to their seats.”
“I’m sure he only needed a break from greeting everyone.”
“How convenient it happened just when you arrived,” Mr. Dorian drawled.
I leaned towards him and lowered my voice, as a few other people had joined our pew. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”
Mr. Dorian looked unamused and I leaned back, satisfied that I had shut him up, at least for the moment.
But I couldn’t enjoy the feeling for very long as the sound of raised voices drew my attention back towards the vestibule.
Mrs. Pembrooke appeared to be arguing with a woman dressed in an extravagant mourning veil.
I could only make out a few words: “… you have no right,” before Mr. Pembrooke loudly hushed her.
“Is that her, do you think?” I whispered as I gripped Mr. Dorian’s arm. “Mrs. Pearson?”
He glanced down at my hand, and I pulled it away.
Then he turned around just as the woman entered the nave.
Her entrance appeared to have garnered the attention of the people around us as well, and curious murmurs rippled through the crowd.
We must not have been the only ones who heard the rumors about Charles Pearson’s mysterious wife.
She held her head up high, but did not move to the front of the church, where the family would sit, and instead slid into the pew behind us.
She was then joined by a strikingly handsome man with dark hair and olive skin.
She glanced towards me, and even through her veil, I could tell she noticed my staring. I immediately turned around.
“Excellent work,” Mr. Dorian murmured by my ear. “Very subtle.”
I resisted the urge to glare at him and instead kept my gaze forward. Just then the organist switched to another hymn, and the bishop moved to the front. It was time for the service to begin.