It’s like staring down the barrel of my own bleak future, laid bare before me in some twisted Dickensian morality tale.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, except instead of pointing solemnly at a gravestone, he’s gesturing meaningfully at a shipment of lubricant and Daisy Wilson’s shopping channel, where sad, lonely men go to die while watching enthusiastic demonstrations at three in the morning.
I used to pity Bernard. Poor old sod never recovered from losing his wife. But now I’m wondering if it wasn’t just grief—if he didn’tsurrenderto the loneliness. If he let himself sink into that pit because climbing out was too bloody hard.
And that terrifies me more than I care to admit.
CHAPTER 20
Edward
I head back tothe church to settle accounts with the vicar. Rather steep fee for a few hours’ work, though I suppose crafting a sermon from Bernard’s ratheringloriousdeparture warrants hazard pay.
I pause mid-stride, caught by a figure tucked into the side pews, haloed in the amber glow of the stained glass. For a fleeting moment, she looks almost angelic—until I clock the generous pour of wine in her glass.
Daisy.
I’d assumed she’d returned to London. Evidently not.
Irritatingly, I find myself relieved.
More irritatingly, I catch myself staring again. I don’t want to be the sort of man who watches women like Daisy from a distance, through a screen—some pathetic, removed fascination.Just like Bernard.
She’s still, shoulders slumped in what looks suspiciously like defeat. It’s . . . unsettling.
She’s always been a master at hiding her cracks, but alone, unwatched, they start to show.
Earlier, I’d watched as Sophia dragged her—practicallyhauledher—over to Charlie’s group in what was, frankly, a thoughtless bit of social engineering.
These events always sort themselves into the same tired divisions: family and friends on one side, household staff on the other. Daisy had positioned herself with the latter. Next to her mother. Standing with the staff.
Until Sophia—blissfully blind as ever—grabbed her hand and hauled her across that unspoken divide, straight into the clutch of women in pearls and heels, Charlie’s fiancée included.
The way Daisy’s spine stiffened, that brief, unreadable flicker across her face—it stuck with me. She’d played the part, of course. Smiled through it, soldiered on.
It’s remarkable how blind my sister remains to these dynamics.
Perhaps we all are. Perhaps we’ve all taken Daisy’s resilience for granted.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence, feeling vaguely guilty for having watched her.
She startles, her eyes snapping to mine.
“Hi,” she says, the syllable wavering somewhere between greeting and challenge.
“Hello again.” My gaze flicks to her glass, one brow lifting slightly. “What are you doing here?”
“Praying. Isn’t that the done thing in church? I’m just . . . reflecting. It’s quiet here. Peaceful.” She nudges the bottle toward me. “Want to join? Or are you here to turf me out?”
I hesitate. Ishouldchoose the latter.
“Just for a moment,” I say finally. “I need to settle up with the vicar, but a breather sounds nice. He’s not here anyway.”
I slide into the pew beside her. She shifts slightly, giving me just enough space to make it clear she hadn’t expected me to actually sit down.
“Let me guess,” she says, “the ladies outside are all plotting to marry you off to their daughters?”
I sigh. “They’re just offering condolences.”
