And why now?
The idea that his sister’s prodding to get him back in the land of the living had validity rankled. He’d held on to his isolation with a death grip, a fitting punishment for failing Margery so completely. He wasn’t deserving of happiness or laughter among friends and family.
And yet . . .
A footman, arms laden with a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and glasses, gave a brief bow and skirted around him.
“Hold!” Colin called out, stopping the man.
“Yes, my lord?”
Colin gave the man credit when he turned and the lemonade barely swished in its container. Burwood, or perhaps his man-of-business, Simon Beckham, had done a marvelous job of hiring his staff.
“What is your destination?” Colin pointed to the tray.
“The terrace, my lord.”
Ah, so that’s where everyone had gone. Colin motioned for the man to continue and followed him out the terrace doors.
Quiet chatter greeted him. Guests filled chairs positioned in asemi-circle, and Honoria glanced up from her seat next to her husband. “Colin! Come join us.”
After a quick assessment of those gathered and noticing the temptress of torment was not among them, Colin took a seat next to Mrs. Alice Weatherby, who seemed like a reserved and sensible woman. She could teach her wild sister-in-law a lesson or two. On Colin’s right, Mr. Ford chatted amiably with Mrs. Merrick, Burwood’s mother, seated next to him.
“Odd, isn’t it,” Mr. Ford said, his expression wistful, “how when you experience a love so strong you believe you are incapable of loving again? You are one of the lucky ones, Mrs. Merrick.”
Colin tamped down the urge to squirm as he reconsidered his choice in seating arrangements. It would be rude to move. He pretended not to listen but found himself pulled into the private conversation.
“I admit my love for Francis was different. Quieter, less impetuous and all-consuming than my love for Henry. But it was steady and true.”
Mr. Ford nodded. “I only know through Gyles, you understand, but you meant the world to Henry, and your happiness was paramount. He would have wanted you to go on living. To provide a father for Drake in his stead. I didn’t know Mr. Merrick, but from all accounts, he was a fine man.”
Mrs. Merrick took Mr. Ford’s hand. “What about you? Have you met anyone?”
Mr. Ford gave a soft chuckle. “Ah. It’s not so easy for me, my dear, especially given I’m not a young man in my prime any longer.”
All this talk of finding love again gnawed at Colin’s gut like a bad piece of meat. He should have stayed inside. Casting a glance toward Honoria, he wondered if she had orchestrated the whole conversation, but she simply met his gaze and sent him an indulgent smile.
“Pardon me,” Mrs. Weatherby said, leaning forward and peering around Colin. “I couldn’t help but overhear yourconversation.”
Colin sighed. Not Mrs. Weatherby as well? Had she been married and widowed before marrying Mr. Weatherby, or had he? Regardless, Colin held his tongue and waited, curious to know what she would say.
“During my time in India, I learned of a practice called suttee. When a woman’s husband died, she would throw herself on his funeral pyre.”
Mr. Ford’s eyes widened. “That sounds barbaric!”
Colin couldn’t disagree.
“Of course we view it as such. And Lord Bentinck outlawed the practice a few years ago,” Mrs. Weatherby continued, unfazed, “but I wonder if it might be kinder in the long run.”
The comment pushed Colin over the edge. “How in the world can you say that?”
“What I mean is, although suicide as proof of devotion may seem barbaric to us, how many widowed people stop enjoying life but keep breathing? Going through the motions of life. It’s sort of committing emotional suttee, if you will, to prove their love. When I heard Mr. Ford’s comments about how Lord Henry wished for Mrs. Merrick to continue living, to me, that was how love should be. How sad to live a life where the heart has dried up and figuratively stopped beating. Much better to end it quickly.”
Colin blinked. Several times, in fact. His brain struggled to process Mrs. Weatherby’s words, leaving him feeling...condemned.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again only to close it with a snap. He wanted to argue, to defend himself.
But he couldn’t.
