Her fingers traced the small vellum package in her pocket. “Perhaps I shall,” she said. She didn’t like confessing her own weakness, but perhaps it wasn’t a failing to love someone, and to feel only a horrible sense of loss when they were gone.
“You needn’t escort me,” she said. “One of us must make an appearance for our guests.”
He looked hesitant for a moment.
“Please, Douglas.”
He finally nodded. They parted in the corridor, and he startled her by leaning down and placing a kiss on her cheek, near her temple.
“Promise me you’ll rest,” he said, almost as if he were a solicitous husband and truly cared for her.
Sarah closed her eyes, and in that next second, she pretended. “I will,” she said. She felt the brush of his cheek against hers. He turned and was gone, striding down the corridor.
She walked slowly to her own chamber, entered, and closed the door behind her. Withdrawing the packet of flowers from her pocket, she placed it in her secretary.
Only then did she ring for a maid, and when one of the upstairs maids responded, Sarah said, “Don’t bother Florie, you can do the job just as well. I need to be unlaced, please. And my hoops removed.”
The girl was not as practiced as Florie, but Sarah didn’t want to take her maid and her husband away from the funeral supper. The occasion might have been a somber one, and at the beginning there would be prayers and a great deal of conversation about Morna Herridge, as people remembered her. But as the hours wore on, less thought would be given to death and more to life, and the supper might well become an enjoyable social gathering.
Let people laugh. Let them enjoy the company of others. Let something come out of this, even if it was an evening filled with conviviality. She was tired of darkness, of despair, and this sickening feeling of emptiness.
Once the maid was gone and her clothing put away, Sarah lay on her bed in her chemise. She would rest for an hour, no more, then she would decide what to do. Right now she was incapable of any other decision.
Her hour must have stretched far longer, because it was dark when she awoke. There was no light coming in from the windows at all, only from the small lamp Douglas had lit. She would probably not have wakened at all if he hadn’t bodily picked her up and was carrying her to the Duke’s Suite.
“I am too sleepy to argue with you,” she said.
“Good.”
“But you must set aside some time for me tomorrow.”
“I can spare an hour in the morning. Is that enough time to fuss at me?”
She thought about nodding but decided that the gesture was too strenuous. “Yes,” she said, and wished her voice sounded more commanding. But it was difficult when he was holding her so close, and he was so warm and smelled of such luscious things like wine and tobacco, fresh air, and the bay rum he used. She turned her face so that it rubbed against his jacket and sniffed appreciatively.
All in all, it was rather comforting sleeping with another person. She knew that at any time she could reach out her hand to touch him, just to feel his warmth or his presence. She needn’t fear for anything because he was a very tall, very strong, very able man. Yet for all that, he hadn’t bothered her. Not once has he insisted upon his marital rights. Granted, it had been a time of sadness for her, but she doubted all men were as driven by honor or compassion.
Who was Douglas Eston? An explorer, she knew that from his comments. A scientist, a fact she discovered after he told her about his discovery. It would take a man well versed in science to create diamonds, wouldn’t it? A man who obviously still missed his family.
More than that, she didn’t know, but she wanted to discover more.
When he laid her beneath the counterpane, she curled toward him, tucked her hands beneath her pillow, and fell asleep again.
She awoke in the morning to find that her husband had gone once again. Did he wake at dawn? Was he at the observatory? She would much rather concentrate on what Douglas was doing rather than think about the dreaded chore in front of her. Today, she must send replies to calling cards and notes from those who’d not been able to attend her mother’s funeral. Good manners dictated that she respond as quickly as possible.
Once seated at the desk in the library, resigned to her duty, she bent and opened the lower drawer. After retrieving her personal stationery, she took out her crystal pen and pulled the inkwell closer.
She sighed as she stared at the stack of correspondence and black-bordered calling cards. Each and every one of them would be a sincere expression of emotion, and each and every one of them would be difficult to read. Someone—Douglas?—had tied the stack tightly with string. She’d have to find a knife or a pair of scissors. Her hand rested on the stack, but she didn’t move from her chair to locate either tool. She didn’t want to read them. She drew her hand back, leaned her head against the chair, and closed her eyes.
On the way to the library, she’d caught herself walking to her mother’s room to sit with her for a few minutes until she realized what she was doing. Morna Herridge would never require her presence again. Sarah should give orders to have the room transformed back into the Summer Parlor again, but she doubted if she’d ever sit there in the evening working on her needlework.
She found her scissors and cut the string, beginning to read each letter. By the third, she was weeping again, but she didn’t allow her grief to interfere with her duty. Toward the bottom of the stack, she realized that she’d stopped crying, intent on finishing her chore.
When she finished, she stared at a new sheet of stationery, knowing that she should begin to work on the most important letter, the one she’d not written, the one that hung over her head like the Sword of Damocles.
Suddenly, she knew that she couldn’t write that letter because that letter should not be written.
She stood and made her way to the butler’s pantry, where Thomas was polishing the silver in his work apron. At the sight of her, he stepped back and reached for his jacket.
