“I do not wish to attend the funeral,” Hester gritted. “I wish to see the procession.”
“We cannot.” Alicia’s tone sent a clear, full stop. “Do not be fooled. These throngs of people see your nephew’s death as little more than an exciting distraction.” Even she knew she lied.
Hester began to pace. “We are to be draped in black, then.” She sniffed. “Condemned to mourn in silence while the whole worldwails.”
Not, unfortunately, an exaggeration. For the past few days, collective sobbing had become accompaniment to London’s already cacophonous song. While they had lost a neglectful nephew and adulterous husband, the rest of the world had lost the vanquisher of Napoleon’s ships, savior of the nation, and one half of a legendary love affair.
“We must remain here because ofher,” Hester said with acid. “Herand her bastard child.”
In her mind’s eye, Alicia saw a weeping woman and child huddled together in a bed, wrapped in a bloodied coat. Like a reprimand from beyond, a cold sensation lifted the hair on her neck. She set aside her book.
“The countess grieves as we grieve.”
Hester’s eyes narrowed. “Are you grieving, Alicia?Are you?”
The accusing question hit Alicia like a physical blow.
“Very well, we will go. But you must promise me you will remain silent. If we are seen, you know what kind of sensation that would cause.”
Before she thought through a plan, she was guiding a heavily veiled Hester down the front stairs and along the city streets. A task her own heavy veil made difficult.
By the time the two reached the route, the crowd had grown several layers thick. To Alicia’s amazement, an accommodating group of Gentlemen parted one by one, helping Alicia and Hester to the front.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, all in a state of strange, anticipatory anguish, added flourish to the already unreadable script in her heart. Then, a murmur swelled in the crowds.
The chief mourners passed—members of the Admiralty, she suspected. If she’d been Octavius’s wife in truth, she would have known them by name.
She did not. And her shame was complete. Patriotism, however, formed an efficient cloak. As a British subject, she could stand in gratitude for Octavius’s service and mourn his sacrifice.
A stubborn clog of God-knew-what caught in her throat as the velvet canopy came into view. The canopy covered the admiral’s mahogany casket, adorned with scenes of his heroism.
How was it possible Octavius lay within? How was any of this possible? By all rights she should be back on her island. She did not belong here.
She did not belong anywhere.
Aunt Hester’s hand squeezed hers. The neglectful nephew was still a nephew. The absent husband was still the man Alicia had sworn to love.
“Let’s go,” Aunt Hester choked as she spoke.
Like a beast waking from slumber, the crowd began to move. Alicia wrapped one arm firmly through her Aunt’s, but her veil muffled every “Pardon” and “Please make way.”
“Please—please get us out.” Aunt Hester’s quivering voice sounded close to Alicia’s ear.
She could not see, confound her foolish decision to come out into this mess. With a sweep of her hand, she lifted her veil. Using her firmest voice, she demanded a path. Slowly they made their way through the mass of humanity surging toward St. Paul’s. She maneuvered them to the shelter of a vendor’s cart and stood at Aunt Hester’s side, rubbing her back as she silently wept.
“Aw.”
Alicia glanced around, catching the eye of an elderly female vendor.
“Broken up over the loss of the handsome gent, is she?” the vendor asked.
The vendor must have mistaken Aunt Hester’s petite form for that of a child. Alicia dared not contradict. She nodded.
“Weallare.” A young woman looked up from browsing funeral mementos, clearly affronted anyone could have a grief equal to her own. “Imagine what hisfamilyfeels.” She selected a print from the vendor and sighed. “So, so sad.”
Alicia had seen the likeness of Octavius often enough to blunt its effect. However, in this version, the weeping angel on his left looked a great deal like the countess. And the kneeling child on his right, Octavia.
The vendor dabbed her eyes—eyes undoubtedly fixed on a sale. “Touches the heart, it does.” She pointed to the child in prayer. “His daughter,” she whispered. “Very accomplished, they say.”
