thirteen
In the morning, she woke up to find her father dead in his bed. He had died peacefully, in his sleep.
By some miracle, she managed to get word to her brother before it spread across the country. He was not all the way to town yet; he had been staying with friends nearby. He came galloping down the lane, his cravat askew, his hair disheveled.
He looked pale as a corpse, and he stank of port.
Jo sighed. She would have to make the funeral arrangements herself—as well as every minor and major decision. Her brother was in no position to take care of anything, much less himself. And he was the viscount now.
God help us all.
There was no point in waiting for her sisters to travel back home from Europe in order to bury their father: As women, none of them would be allowed to attend.
Of course, Jo went anyway.
…
The funeral was a sad affair. A grand one, but sad nonetheless. The viscount was beloved by all of his peers, and all his friends had come to say goodbye to a great man.
Her brother barely seemed to notice her there, and if her father’s friends and relatives did, they did not glance in her direction once.
No one else looked at her either.
It was as if being a woman in a space reserved only for men suddenly rendered her invisible. As if she were not a daughter, a grieving human being. As if she were not even there. Or perhaps they thought that if they pretended she was not there, if they did not look at her, it would shield them from the impropriety of her actions. Ostrich-brained fools, the lot of them.
I have to go back to the house after this, she thought frantically. That enormous, empty house. By myself. No sisters or Teddy. Father will be gone too, gone as he never was before.
Suddenly the mere absence of his bodily presence felt as if it were the absence of the earth beneath her feet. Her father had not been any substantial presence in her life since Beth died, but all of a sudden, his empty chair seemed too heavy a burden to bear, even though she would have the exact number of conversations with it now he was dead as she had while he’d still been alive: None.
I have to prepare the house for Justin, she thought. It belongs to him now. And his future bride, in theory. He will never marry, I’m certain of it, not after all he’s been through in this house. Although he does not care about the house or the title either. Look at him, he is so drunk even now, barely able to keep his eyes open.
He would be off to London first thing, she was sure.
And she would be left behind, to keep house for him. A spinster sister, a spinster aunt. That was her future. She idly wondered how many times she would almost pick up her quill to write to Laurie out of pure desperation.
Suddenly, she realized that he was there.
He had come late, heaven knew from where, and had appeared silently as out of nowhere, but it was definitely him. He was standing opposite her, on the other side of her father’s coffin, impossibly tall and sophisticated.
Barely recognizable.
Those cheekbones. The taste of his lips. His hands closing around her waist. Those arms. The feel of his wet shirt as he pressed her body against his. Those eyes. The sound of his moans—
She shook herself.
He’d better leave too, directly after the funeral.
Good Lord, is that why women are forbidden from attending these things? Because grief drives them to such madness they begin to desire their best friends?
‘I am not your brother.’
Laurie’s angry words flew into her mind, and she flinched visibly. His head shot up and his eyes searched for her in the crowd frantically. When they found her, he immediately looked away, his neck turning pink. So he did still care in spite of all his silence. That boy and his peripheral vision. Always keeping an eye out for her.
But not anymore. He’d left her, and he’d leave her again.
…
They were standing in front of an open grave before she knew it, and Jo found herself standing next to her brother’s swaying form while the vicar droned on about eternal life.
Justin leaned over, keeling a bit, and hissed in her ear: “You shouldn’t be here.”
She had thought he had not even noticed her presence. Then again, she was the only person wearing a dress—she had debated wearing men’s breeches, but had decided against it. Papa wouldn’t have liked it.
“Neither should you,”
she retorted.
“You’re intoxicated.”
Justin smiled out of the corner of his mouth. It made him look ugly, and, as men went, he was the most beautiful specimen in London. Everyone agreed.
“I am the new viscount,”
he said.
“I can show up to a funeral drunk and no one will even dare to comment on it.”
“What is wrong with you?”
Her brother lifted an eyebrow.
“More so than usual?”
“You mean apart from being a wastrel and a good-for-nothing son?”
Justin hissed. The vicar was mumbling on about dust and ashes.
“What?”
Jo asked. Had the boy lost his ever-loving mind?
“I overheard Father speaking to you last night,”
he whispered—a tad too loudly for propriety, but Jo was too busy drowning in guilt and panic to care. He had heard? Oh no.
“I was in the house, you know. I was actually coming back, hell-bent on speak with him, as he had looked particularly frail, and I did not want to leave for town without—”
Jo remembered the rustling of the curtain. It had not been the wind—it had been her brother. Her heart sank as she remembered some of the things her father had said about him.
“He did not mean what he said,”
she tried to say.
“Oh, he did, my dear. I am a wastrel and a waste, and entirely unsuited for the title, which he was loath to see me inherit anyway—”
“Justin, stop talking this instant.”
Right there, not caring who could see, she gripped her brother by his shoulders—when had they grown so wide and sinuous?—and looked straight into his bloodshot eyes. She had not noticed how absolutely tormented they looked before.
“Listen to me. Father loved you, and you are more than worthy of being a viscount. A prince, if you so choose. Those words you heard… Forget them, I beg you. They mean nothing. They should never have been uttered—they are not the truth.”
Justin dropped his gaze. Laughed that new, ugly laugh of his.
Jo’s heart broke. She gently grasped his sleeve, but he shook her hand away.
“That is absolute balderdash, and you know it,”
he said.
“It was the absolute truth, and the man meant every single word.”
“Justin, no, you—”
“You do not talk back to me,”
he said to her harshly, stumbling a bit.
“Not in public, at least. In private, you can still beat me in a fight, I’ll give you that. But in public, I am now Viscount Vidal, and have to comport myself accordingly.”
“Right,”
a voice said from behind them.
“Time to disgrace the family name, eh, Vidal?”
Jo barely had time to realize her brother’s intention, much less stop him, before he turned around and planted a facer on the gentleman who had spoken the words.
Two grown men had to pull the new viscount off, and the other gentleman had a broken nose before the end of the funeral. Jo barely had time to think of saying goodbye to her father as they lowered him to the earth.
All she could think of was that she now knew the reason why women were not allowed at funerals: men tended to behave entirely inappropriately at them.
That, and how pale and drawn Laurie looked.
He was standing in the front row, somberly witnessing her father’s coffin being prayed over. He had not looked her way once since he first arrived.
It had been months since she had last seen him—they had never been apart for this long. She barely recognized him. His black hair had grown long, and he wore a diamond earring in the way very wealthy young gentlemen did in Vienna, to show off their youth and wealth. He looked thinner and paler, and even more devastatingly handsome. But this wasn’t her Teddy.
She remembered how he had been surrounded by women every single time she had seen him in London, and realized that he had not been ‘her Teddy’ for years before now. No, it was not Teddy. It wasn’t even Laurie. It was Lord Lowry, and then some.
To think I have kissed those lips. To think that these hands have been on my—No! That train of thought needs to stop this instant.
He had lost some weight, but he was taller than a few months ago, if possible. His face was carved in granite, and completely white.
Thank goodness I am not in love with him. Imagine what a disaster that would be.
Still, it would have been nice if he had at least glanced at her. He did not, even when the ceremony was over. He somehow managed to offer his condolences without even turning his head in her general direction.
His body was coiled and rigid.
“Are you leaving again soon?”
Jo asked him, even though he had already turned his back to her and appeared to have the intention of leaving as fast as his legs could carry him.
“I sail in an hour,”
he replied, looking out into the distance.
He could not make it any more obvious that it was intolerable for him to be in her presence—or in her part of the country, for that matter.
“Do not leave, I…”
A sob worked its way to Jo’s throat, and she tried to swallow it. Stop being pathetic, she admonished herself, disgusted.
Laurie stepped away, his mouth twisted. She was beginning to believe it in earnest, that merely being in her vicinity was distasteful to him.
He kissed me with those lips, she thought again. He made me swoon with them. And now he curls them in disgust at my proximity.
She went cold all over.
“Please.”
The word came out of her lips without her consent—it was out of pure desperation.
“I cannot be trusted to be alone with you and behave like a gentleman,”
Laurie quipped in a harsh, deep voice.
“This is unbearable.”
He turned on his heel and practically ran away from her.
Dear Beth,
‘Poor thing, she was born with a weak heart.’
That’s what everyone said about you when you died, did you know that? You probably did. But it was a lie. You had the strongest heart of anyone I have ever known. You bore it all with such strength and kindness; you did not let the pain make you bitter or sorrowful. You gave us all such joy, Beth. Such joy.
You are here still, in our hearts.
The angel of the house.
Watch over our sisters as they drift away from the house and into the world, will you? Watch over Justin. He is going to ruin himself one of these days, I just know it. And I am powerless to help him.
I am floundering in my own despair of staying behind—I won’t be any use to anyone like this. You would not feel this way. You would not grow sad or despondent, I know it. You would be strong, as I never can be.
Watch over me now, dear Beth. I need it now, more than ever.
Eternally,
Your sister