“Have I eaten?” she asked, feeling foolish for repeating the question. The change of subject was so jarring that it took her a moment to realize that no, she hadn’t eaten anything. When she said as much, he shook his head.
“The services are not due to begin right away. Shall we go and find something in the pantry? We needn’t disturb Cook or her helpers, but I’ll wager we can find a plate of scones and some jam.”
He crooked his arm, and she placed her hand on it before realizing she had to replace her veil.
Douglas moved to help her, settling the veil atop her hair and smoothing it down in the back while Sarah fitted it over her shoulders.
“What perfume are you wearing?” he asked, so softly that the sound was barely a whisper.
“A scent made for me here at Chavensworth,” she said. “Mostly lavender with some roses.”
He was very close, so close, in fact, that if she stepped forward just an inch, she would collide with his chest. His arms were raised to reach the back of the veil, and it was almost an embrace. But they’d shared more than one embrace in the last week, hadn’t they?
She’d awakened from sleep to find her head on his shoulder, or her hand pressed flat against his chest. He’d wrapped his arms around her, and held her when she wept. He had always been there, a companion in the midst of misery.
“You held me,” she said. “While I slept, you held me.”
“You needed comfort.”
She nodded, grateful for the veil and its obscuring lace.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Of all things you should thank me for, Sarah, that is not one of them.”
She could feel her cheeks warm.
He crooked his arm again, and she placed her hand on it and allowed him to lead her from the chapel.
Chapter 15
The funeral was a restrained ceremony, befitting the Duchess of Herridge.
Her father didn’t attend. Nor had he sent any word of explanation for his absence unless it was by way of Simons, whom she’d noticed in the congregation. She nodded to him, and he nodded back, his face creased into wrinkles she interpreted as compassionate.
Following the funeral, Sarah was directed to the crypt, to oversee the Duchess of Herridge’s interment. Since her father had not deigned to attend his wife’s funeral, Sarah was the only representative of the family present. When the time came for the mason to seal up the heavy stone slab, however, Douglas stepped forward and gave the order.
After the minister said the blessing and left the crypt, Douglas gently escorted Sarah back up to the chapel, now empty since the guests had been escorted to the funeral supper. As they left the chapel, instead of turning toward the east wing, Douglas took her arm and headed in the opposite direction, toward the family quarters.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going to rest,” he said, his tone implacable.
“I’ve been resting, Douglas. I’ve had nearly a week of rest.”
“You don’t need to attend the supper. Everyone would excuse you.”
Slowly, she raised her veil, then pulled it free, uncaring if her hair was mussed. She had to convince him.
“It’s expected,” she said. “My mother would expect it,” she added softly.
“Your mother would want the best for you.”
“My mother would want me to represent the family, especially since my father is not here. Chavensworth has guests and needs a hostess.”
They reached the stairs. Only the family used this staircase, it not being as grand as the one leading from Chavensworth’s main entrance but larger than the servants’ stairs originating in the kitchen.
He stopped at the base of the steps, his gaze searching her face.
