Chapter 17
I will admit here, within these pages, that my attention was not terribly focused on the funeral service.
Instead, I used the time to look over the crowd and noticed a few familiar faces.
Mrs. Braithwaite was seated across the aisle beside a man I assumed was her husband.
I also saw Mr. Henshaw seated closer to the front.
When he glanced over and noticed me, he immediately turned back.
There were also a few people I recognized from the baron’s party, but did not know by name.
Mrs. Braithwaite displayed far more emotion than anyone else, which seemed odd.
This was the funeral of a young man who had been brutally murdered.
I had to wonder if most of the people here had simply attended out of curiosity rather than a genuine sense of loss.
When the bishop finished the final commendation and we rose, I turned back just in time to see the suspected Mrs. Pearson and her companion disappear through the archway into the vestibule.
I moved to follow them, but Mr. Dorian gripped my arm.
“What are you doing? We must speak to her,” I hissed.
“You’ll only draw attention to yourself if you follow her,” he said calmly, still holding my arm. “Besides, I know where she is staying.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Well, then. Where is it?”
The corner of his mouth lifted as he shot me a chiding look. “If I told you now, you’d only slip away and go there without me.”
I let out a huff, though he was entirely correct. There was nothing left to do but wait as the pews slowly emptied out. When it was finally our turn to exit, we shuffled down the aisle and out of the church.
“Are you going to the cemetery?” Mr. Dorian asked as we made our way down the steps.
Out front, a long line of carriages had begun to form the funeral procession.
Charles Pearson was to be interred in Brompton Cemetery, but I did not plan to attend.
I shook my head as I scanned the crowd that had gathered, but there was no sign of Mrs. Pearson.
She had disappeared. But someone else caught my eye instead.
“Oh no,” I murmured, as Delia stood across the street, watching as Charles Pearson’s coffin was loaded into the back of the hearse. Even from a distance, she looked horribly pale and fragile, as if a stiff breeze could knock her clean off her feet.
“What is it?” Mr. Dorian asked, but I was already trying to move through the crowd.
My progress was hampered by the number of bodies, but Mr. Dorian must have noticed Delia as well, for after a moment, he was by my side, effectively moving people out of my way.
I saw Mrs. Braithwaite, and she too had noticed Delia.
Our eyes met, and seeing her guilty expression, I knew she must have been the one who told her about the funeral.
“I didn’t think she would come,” she said weakly as I moved passed her, but I didn’t have time to chastise her.
I hurried across the street with Mr. Dorian close behind. Delia turned to me with a stricken expression. “Oh, Minnie,” she gasped as her eyes filled with tears. Then she began to fall into a swoon, but thankfully Mr. Dorian caught her.
“We have to get her out of here,” I said to him, though it was too late to avoid the notice of the crowd.
“My carriage is just around the corner,” he said, and together we got a barely conscious Delia into his coach.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said to her once we were inside.
She blinked at me, her gaze unfocused. “I wanted to say good-bye,” she murmured, and my heart clenched despite my worry.
“I know,” I said, as I pushed a loose strand of hair back from her face.
As the carriage pulled into traffic, I put my arm around Delia, and she relaxed against me.
I let out a sigh of relief and could feel Mr. Dorian’s gaze upon me.
He hadn’t said a word since telling the coachman to drive to Portman Square.
But I couldn’t look at him just now. I was certain he would see far too much.
Then, just when I thought Delia had fallen asleep, she suddenly straightened. “Something is wrong.”
“What?” I asked.
She looked at me as her eyes flashed with fear. “I think … I think I’m bleeding.”
I had expected Mr. Dorian to leave as soon as he deposited us at our parents’ house, but he didn’t.
Instead, he insisted on carrying Delia inside through the back entrance and, under the direction of the housekeeper, up the servants’ staircase and into her bedroom.
Mother was out, thank God, and Mrs. Reynolds quickly took charge and sent Mr. Dorian out of the room.
But Delia stubbornly refused to let me send for the doctor.
“There is nothing he can do anyway,” she said tearfully once she was tucked up in bed.
Her suspicions had been correct. Her courses had begun once again. “And he’ll only tell Mother.”
Though she had a point, I was prepared to argue. But Mrs. Reynolds cut in: “My mother was a midwife when I was growing up in our little village. And I have nursed my share of young ladies through this in my time, Mrs. Harper. And given how early it is, I believe there is little risk of infection.”
I raised my eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
Delia looked away guiltily, but Mrs. Reynolds remained undaunted. “I know everything that goes on in this house. Including when a young lady has missed her courses.”
I stared at her in shock. “Does anyone else know?” If so, that could ruin everything.
But Mrs. Reynolds shook her head. “Absolutely not. Once I had my suspicions, I asked Miss Delia, and together we enacted a plan to put any speculation to rest.”
I furrowed my brow. “You mean … you faked them?”
“Just enough to fool the maids,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “It is done in houses like these when one cannot guarantee complete discretion from the staff. Do not be cross with her,” she continued. “It was entirely my idea.”
“I’m not angry,” I insisted. Then I turned to Delia. “I only wish you had told me.”
Delia bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”
I let out a sigh and sat down on the bed beside her. “I just want to make sure you’re well,” I relented. Then I looked back at Mrs. Reynolds. “You’re certain she doesn’t need a doctor?”
“I will keep a close eye on her,” she said with a firm nod. “You don’t need to worry.”
Mrs. Reynolds was terrifyingly competent. I could understand why Delia had confided in her. “Thank you,” I said.
“Now, you rest up. I’ll come back a bit later with something to eat,” Mrs. Reynolds said to Delia, then left the room.
Once we were alone, Delia began to trace her finger on the coverlet’s flowered pattern. “I know how difficult it all would have been,” she began softly. “But I still feel terribly sad.” Then she looked up at me with watery blue eyes. “Is that stupid?”
“Of course, it isn’t,” I said fiercely as I pulled her into my arms. “You have every right to be upset. Society’s arbitrary rules for what counts as acceptable behavior doesn’t change what you lost.”
I felt her huff a surprised laugh against my shoulder, and she pulled back. “Goodness, Minnie. I had no idea you were such a radical.”
I forced a smile. “I think it’s called just being a woman.”
As she watched me, her gaze filled with understanding. “You’ve experienced this too, haven’t you.”
I looked away and nodded, just once. “After Cleo. But I was a bit further along.”
After a moment, I felt her hand cover mine, and the warmth of her palm cut through the numbness. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”
“It was,” I murmured. In truth, I rarely allowed myself to think about that dark stretch of time anymore.
Oliver and I dealt with the loss in different ways: I allowed myself to be swallowed up by grief, while he did his best to outrun it at every turn.
He began to spend more and more time away on vague work assignments he didn’t like to talk about—though I barely noticed and cared even less.
Needless to say, this put a terrible strain on my marriage for the better part of a year until I could finally move beyond the fog of grief.
Slowly, we began to repair things between us, but they were never quite the same as they had been because I wasn’t the same. How could I have been?
And then, after Oliver’s death, it had been easier to forget the first great tragedy of my life. But the pain was still there, buried underneath all the rest. I turned to Delia. “Having Tommy helped,” I said simply.
“I’m glad,” she replied, her eyes full of sympathy.
But it felt wrong that she would be giving me comfort right now. I cleared my throat. “I’ll leave you to get some rest.”
As Delia held my gaze, I could tell she saw right through my little performance but did not call me on it. “All right.”
“I will come back tomorrow,” I said as I rose from the bed. “But you can send for me before that.”
Now it was her turn to pretend. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.”
I looked back at her and forced a smile. “I won’t.”
Hopefully, we could both be more truthful tomorrow.
My mind was so preoccupied, as I stepped into the hall, that it was several moments before I glanced over and noticed Mr. Dorian sitting in a chair opposite the bedroom.
I blinked in shock. “You’re still here.”
He immediately came to my feet. “Have you sent for the doctor yet?”
“Mrs. Reynolds says there is no need,” I explained. “And I trust her judgement.”
Mr. Dorian watched me with that inscrutable gaze I had never quite been able to decipher. “Your sister was with child then?”
I glanced away with a nod. “It was very early, but yes. Mrs. Reynolds says she can care for her.”
Mr. Dorian was silent for a long moment. “I am sorry. How is she?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“And you?”
I turned to him then, surprised. “I’m relieved she is well.” He continued to watch me expectantly, but there was nothing more to say. I raised an eyebrow.
“I just thought … you seemed …”
“What?” I said sharply. This dithering wasn’t like him.
He pursed his lips and gave me a pained look. “You seemed greatly disturbed.”
I could only stare back at him. “Well, of course. She is my sister.”
He took a step closer to me. “I know,” he said gently, lowering his voice. “But it was more than that. The look in your eyes, Minnie.” I sucked in a breath as he said my name again. “It was like you were haunted.”
I turned away again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s fine,” he said quickly, and an absurd feeling of disappointment fluttered my chest. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Yes,” I said with a firm nod. “I am. It happened a long time ago,” I added before I could think better of it. “And it isn’t exactly an uncommon experience.”
“That doesn’t make it easier to deal with,” he said after a moment. There was a note of sorrow in his voice I hadn’t noticed before, and I faced him as understanding dawned.
“You’ve dealt with this before, haven’t you?” He gave a stiff nod. “Your wife?”
Mr. Dorian’s eyes widened in surprise. “God, no.” Then he immediately sobered. “My mother. She began bleeding one afternoon. It couldn’t be stopped. Death took them both.”
My heart broke for him in that moment. “I’m very sorry. How terrible that must have been for you. And your family.”
He gave a halfhearted nod. “My father never recovered.”
And you?
But I didn’t have the chance to ask the question as we were both distracted by the sound of someone shuffling down the hall towards us.
I looked past Mr. Dorian to see my father in his dressing gown, white hair askew. I had never seen him in such a state.
“Father?” I quickly stepped around Mr. Dorian and approached him.
My father’s listless gaze fell on me, and he immediately frowned. “Minnie? What are you doing here?” he asked sharply. “Why aren’t you in Corfu?”
Since it was nearly the same thing he had said to me during my first visit, I surmised he was having one of his bouts of confusion. “I came to see Delia,” I said gently as I took his arm. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
But my father shook off my hand. “I told Harper to keep you away,” he barked. “It isn’t safe for you here.”
I frowned in concern, due to both his agitated state and his words. “What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering my question, my father took notice of Mr. Dorian then and barreled towards him. “Who the devil are you? Do you work for Mitchem too?”
“Father,” I pleaded as I took his arm again, “this is Mr. Dorian. He is a friend.”
“Tell that imbecile to get my daughter out of here,” my father continued. He was more worked up than I could ever remember. “That was our agreement.”
Mr. Dorian, for his part, only nodded. “Understood.”
I shot him an irritated look, though perhaps it was better if he played along, as this seemed to calm my father a little.
“Good. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Who is Mitchem?” I asked.
My father began to respond, but was distracted by the sound of hurrying footsteps.
“Good heavens. There you are!” cried a plump, middle-aged woman in a white nurse’s cap and apron. “I’m so sorry. Mr. Everly usually naps at this time, and I must have dozed off as well,” she admitted as she rushed over to us.
I arched a brow at her admission. “Just be glad my mother is out.”
“It won’t happen again,” the nurse said with a sheepish nod and took my father. “Come with me, Mr. Everly, and I’ll have them send up some pudding.”
My father’s eyes lit up at this and went with her dutifully, without complaint. He didn’t even look back at me. It was as if I had already been forgotten.
I shook my head, bewildered by the entire scene. “What on earth could he have been talking about?” I murmured, mostly to myself.
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Dorian replied, his gaze fixed on my father’s retreating figure. Then he turned to me. “But George Mitchem was once the head of the Foreign Office.”
“My father must have met nearly every man in government at some point,” I said with exasperation. “And obviously he is now a very confused old man.”
But Mr. Dorian responded with an uncertain hum. “He seemed lucid enough in that moment.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
He turned to me, his gaze serious and unyielding. “Nothing. Yet.”
I pushed away the uneasy feeling rising in my chest and cleared my throat. “Then may we please remain focused on the current task at hand?” He arched a brow in question, and I rolled my eyes. “Mrs. Pearson. You said you knew where she was staying.”
“Ah. Right,” he said before his gaze flickered with concern. “Are you sure you want to do that now?”
“Of course,” I replied, already moving towards the staircase as, at that very moment, I was quite determined to get out of this house.