“Mrs. James has been complaining about the, um, odor,” Polly murmured. “The dowager countess, for her part, appears to have an issue with the lateness of the hour.”
“Everyone knows night funerals are all the rage.” Rosie’s hopes sank even further. In order to haveanyhope of salvaging her reputation, she would need the support of her husband’s formidable aunts. “And given that Daltry had to be brought back from Gretna, it was inevitable that he’d be a bit overripe. It’s not my fault; I couldn’t have done any better for him!”
“You’ve done your best,” Aunt Helena said firmly. “Given the circumstances, the last thing you need is to fret over impressing his relations.”
Rosie bit her lip. “But I need them, Aunt Helena. You know I do.”
Her aunt sighed but didn’t disagree. “Your mama would know what to do. You should really talk to her, Rosie. This rift between you two—it hurts Marianne dreadfully, you know.”
Rosie did know, and her misery grew. Yet every time she thought of the past Mama had kept from her—of what Coyner had intended for her, even if he hadn’t carried it out—her insides crawled. Walls sprang up in her mind; she just couldn’t cope with it. Not yet. Not with everything else on her plate.
Thus, she had been avoiding her mother and had gone to stay with Polly. Today, during the funeral, she and Mama had exchanged a few awkward words, their interactions stiff. Her parent had eventually left to tend to Sophie.
“I’m not ready to talk to her,” Rosie said, staring at her black slippers.
“Everything Marianne did, she did out of love.” With a finger, Aunt Helena tipped up Rosie’s chin. “You do know that, don’t you?”
“I love her, too. I just can’t…” To her horror, Rosie felt her voice crack.
“All right, my dear. One thing at a time.” Her aunt took her hand and squeezed it. “For now, what do you say we face the dragons together?”
Rosie nodded. Accompanied by her aunt and Polly, she returned to the drawing room.
The coffin was gone, and servants had tidied up. Mrs. Antonia James, Daltry’s dark-haired aunt, paced by the shrouded window, her tall, thin frame bristling with suppressed energy. In her forties, she was a striking woman with slashing cheekbones and feline features. In contrast, Lady Charlotte Daltry, whose husband had been the earl before Rosie’s, was a plump, hen-like woman with feathery silver curls and shrewd eyes.
Flanking Lady Charlotte were her protégées, Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey. The dowager had no children of her own, and she’d taken her husband’s orphaned nieces under her wing. The sisters were both unmarried. The younger sister, Miss Eloisa, was in her twenties and a beauty with chestnut hair, alabaster skin, and sapphire eyes. Miss Sybil, the older sister, was a spinster and muted version of her sibling. Her hair was a dirty blonde shade, and her skin had a sallow undertone. Her light blue gaze peered out timidly from beneath straight brows.
All eyes turned to Rosie: some wary, others hostile.
Daltry was right about his family, Rosie thought with an inward sigh. And if they hadn’t respectedhimbecause of his connections in trade, what hope did she have that they would welcome his bastard bride of less than a day into their fold?
Yet she needed their support. If her late husband’s relatives did not take her side, then her position would be more precarious now than before her elopement. They held the key to her social survival.
She summoned a smile. “Pardon my absence. I was making final arrangements for the procession. Shall I ring for refreshments?”
“I’ve already done so.” Mrs. James’ eyes glittered like jet beads. “Since I and my stepson Alastair—he was a great favorite of your late husband’s—have been so much in this house, the servants naturally looked to me to play hostess. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” Rosie said politely. “I wish only for your comfort.”
In the stilted silence that followed, Aunt Helena came forward.
“Lady Daltry,” she said pleasantly to the dowager, “it has been quite some time since we have met. I regret the circumstances, but may I say how well you are looking?”
“Thank you, Lady Harteford.” The dowager inclined her head graciously. “I trust your husband and sons are well?”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Aunt Helena took a seat, and others followed suit.
The ticking of the ormolu clock soon became deafening.
“I wanted to express my gratitude,” Rosie said. “For your support today—”
“You misunderstand,” Mrs. James said coldly. “We are not here to support you.”
“Now Antonia—” the dowager began.
“You may choose to pretend that this is some cozy family affair, Charlotte, but I’ll not.” Mrs. James crossed her arms over her scant bosom, directing a livid glare at Rosie. “Not after thischithas brought scandal down on our heads. Why, she’s made poor George a laughingstock—the punch line of a vulgar joke.”
