“Mr. Bentley.” Beatrice came and stood at Charles’ side, making her familiarity evident by her proximity and proprietary air. “How kind of you to come.”
He bowed stiffly. “Beatrice ... Miss Lamb. How pleasant to see you again.”
“And what are you two gentlemen discussing?”
“Your sister, actually,” his nephew said, clearly relishing her disapproval.
“Really.”
“Yes, I have just seen her, and I must confess, I have never seen her looking lovelier. A bit tired perhaps—black doesn’t really suit her. But still, as handsome as ever.”
“Yes, well,” Bea said briskly. “I must check on Edmund. Poor dear is exhausted with grief and attention.”
She dipped her chin. “Mr. Bentley. Charles.”
Both men bowed briefly as she walked away.
“My, my. That did not take long.”
“William, please. Bea is like family.”
“Or very much wished to be.”
“Do shut up, William.”
Grant us the pow’r of quick’ning grace,
To fit our souls to fly;
Then, when we drop this dying flesh,
We’ll rise above the sky.
—ISAACWATTS,A FUNERALTHOUGHT
CHAPTER35
Months passed as Charles and Edmund grieved. They spent the Christmas holidays at Fawnwell before returning to London to begin the depressing task of going through Katherine’s things and disposing of all but the most meaningful mementos. When they next visited Fawnwell in the spring, Charles brought several trunks of clothing to donate to Doddington Church for distribution to the poor. Leaving Edmund in the care of the boy’s grandmother, Charles and his man drove over to the churchyard in a horse-drawn wagon.
Beatrice met him in the south porch of the church and in her sober and industrious fashion, helped direct the unloading. “This is very kind of you, Charles. I shall see to it that every piece is put to good use.”
While his driver went back to the wagon for another load, Charles set a second trunk on top of the first. Bea opened the lid and pulled out several gowns—one with an expandable laced-vent bodice, and two others with billowing waistlines.
“These must be the gowns Katherine wore during her confinement.”
“Yes, well ... perhaps I will leave you to it.”
“Of course, Charles. This is hard on you. Come to the vicarage for tea. I can do this later. Father, I know, will want to see you.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
He paused to direct his man to finish the unloading, then followed her across the churchyard and into the vicarage. There was no sign of Gareth Lamb. “I do not know where he has gotten to. I shall have Tibbets ask him to join us when he arrives.”
They took chairs in the drawing room and Bea ordered tea.
While they waited, Bea mused, “A whole trunk of gowns suitable for confinement. Perhaps I shall donate them to one of the lying-in hospitals.” She added sardonically, “In honor of Charlotte.”
“Beatrice ...”
