1. Chapter 1 #2
His sister pursed her lips, her eyes flaming with disapproval.
“Have you no respect for her rank or circumstances? You seem to forget our grandmother is Her Grace, the Duchess of Wessex, and that she has an elderly husband to care for, whose health is deteriorating. The Duke never really got over the shock of Denmead running away to fight against Bonaparte. It weighs heavily on her that if their son dies, there will be no more Dukes of Wessex after him and—”
She stopped mid-sentence as their younger sister appeared around the hedge and scurried toward them.
“You must come at once, Beau,” said an out-of-breath Hetta. “Your mother is asking for you. She’s in some distress. Lord Harting took a turn for the worse. In the night.” She paused for a moment. “He died.”
William’s paintbrush slipped from his fingers. His uncle was dead. That meant his father was now the Earl of Harting, and he was next in line. He would have new responsibilities. Expectations put on him. He had known that change would come one day—but so soon?
Eliza grasped her husband’s arm. “We must go.”
“Yes, of course,” said Beau, lifting Henry onto his shoulder and rising from the bench before helping his wife to her feet. “How strange to think my stepfather is gone.”
William stared after them as they disappeared through the gap in the hedge.
Raking a hand through his hair, he flopped onto the vacant seat.
How would his father’s elevation to the peerage affect him?
Though his uncle had been ill, William had assumed he would recover.
He had expected to have years of freedom before his father inherited. Years to paint.
He forced his stomach to relax. Why should this change anything?
After all, what was the point of being heir to an earldom if you couldn’t do what you wanted?
Maybe it would work out for his good after all.
Father never went to London and could have no need of his brother’s townhouse.
Perhaps he could be persuaded to let his only son use it as a studio.
“Our poor aunt,” said Hetta, breaking in on his thoughts.
William had forgotten he wasn’t alone. “I shouldn’t worry too much about her. I daresay she’ll marry again before the year is out.”
Charlotte and Hetta both stared at him.
His twin’s eyebrows almost met her hairline as if she could not believe what he’d just said. “William Francis Merry! If you don’t show some sympathy for our grieving relatives, I’ll disown you.”
“But it’s true. She’s bound to remarry, if only to prevent her from being called the Dowager Countess.”
“Can you not spare one ounce of pity for our aunt?” asked Hetta.
“Our poor cousins,” said Charlotte. “They will have to go into mourning. What unfortunate timing for Louisa. Perhaps her season will be put off. At the very least, she won’t be able to dance.”
William shuddered. It gave Louisa even more reason to pursue him.
“I’m sorry for them,” he said, staring at his easel so he didn’t have to meet the condemnation in his sisters’ eyes, “but can’t you see the possibilities this opens up for me?
All the best portrait artists have studios in London, and the house in St James’s Square would be an ideal location.
It will help me attract more influential clients whilst I study at the Royal Academy… ”
His voice trailed off as he realised he was alone. Charlotte and Hetta had gone, and he was talking to himself.
William packed up his paints, his mind unsettled by his sisters’ words.
Had he been callous? His conscience pricked his self-assurance.
He had got carried away with the possibilities for his future, and should have been more sympathetic, especially toward his cousins.
He didn’t want to contemplate how miserable he would feel if it had been his father who had died.
After depositing his easel and paints in his bedchamber, William made his way to the drawing room, determined to make amends and express his sympathy to the grieving family.
He stood in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The atmosphere was understandably subdued.
His aunt lay prostrate on the sofa, vinaigrette in hand, her daughters clustered around her, each with a handkerchief at the ready.
A touching picture, but he could not help feeling it was somewhat contrived.
His relations looked more like they were posing for a painting—A family in mourning—than a recently bereaved wife and children in distress.
William approached Lady Harting—no, the Dowager Lady Harting—to offer his condolences. How strange. The name by which he’d known her all his life now belonged to his mother.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Aunt.”
The dowager reached out and took his hands.
“I am so thankful you are here. Your presence will lighten the gloom in this room and bring a smile back to Louisa’s lips.
She has taken her father’s demise much too hard.
Do see what you can do to cheer her up, Droxford.
Grief should not be allowed to mar such a pretty face. ”