Page 6 of Save You (Maxton Hall #2)

Lydia

Percy walks into the front hall just as I’m putting on Mum’s pearl necklace. “Are you ready to leave, miss?” he asks, stopping a few feet away from me. “Mr. Beaufort and your brother are waiting in the car.”

I don’t answer, just do up the clasp of the necklace and check my hair one last time. Then I slowly lower my hands.

I study my reflection. Dad’s funeral planner didn’t just take care of all the organization, she saw to it that Dad, James, and I were dressed by a stylist this morning.

My hair is in an updo and my face is done.

“Waterproof mascara—that’ll help you get through the day, my lovely,” the young woman twittered.

I briefly considered wiping both hands over my eyes while the makeup was still wet, deliberately destroying her handiwork, but Dad’s fierce glare held me back.

It’s only for his sake that I’m looking presentable now.

I’ve got more makeup on than I’ve ever worn before, even doing photoshoots for new Beaufort’s collections.

There’s delicate eyeshadow and subtle eyeliner, there are three coats of that mascara on my lashes, and she’s contoured my face sharply.

My cheekbones are a bit more prominent now than they’ve been in the last little while.

Dad frowned in surprise when the stylist commented on my plump face. I might be able to hide the pregnancy for another month or two—but not much longer.

The minute I imagine my family’s reaction to the news, I feel as though someone’s constricting my throat. But I can’t think about that now. Not today.

After what feels like an eternity, I say “no” in answer to Percy’s question, despite which, I turn and stride fiercely toward the door.

He follows me in silence. At the cloakroom, he tries to help me with my coat, but I turn away from him.

The look in his eyes is so full of sympathy that I can’t bear it right now; instead, I slip my arms into my sleeves myself and walk outside.

The ground is covered with frost that glitters slightly in the sun.

I head cautiously down the steps toward the black limousine parked at the bottom of them.

Percy opens the door and I thank him, get in, and drop onto the back seat next to James.

The mood in the car is oppressive. Neither James nor our father, who is sitting perpendicular to us, takes any notice of me.

I’m wearing a black sheath dress with long flounced sleeves, and they’re both in black suits, specially made for today.

The dark fabric is making my brother look even paler than he already is.

The stylist did her best to add a little color to his cheeks, but it didn’t do much good.

The makeup has worked miracles on Dad, though. There’s no more sign of his black eye.

I shake my head as I study them both. My family is an absolute wreck.

The drive to the cemetery goes by in a daze. I try to copy Dad and James in keeping my mind somewhere else entirely, but that fails utterly the moment we stop and Percy swears under his breath.

The press are out in force at the cemetery gates.

I squint over to James, but his face is blank as he puts on sunglasses and waits for the car door to be opened.

I gulp hard and pull my coat tighter around me.

Then I slip my own shades onto my nose. The sight of the barging reporters is making me genuinely sick.

The journalists and paparazzi call out to us, but the only words I take in are my name and James’s.

I ignore them, straighten my shoulders, and hurry past. As we reach the chapel, cemetery staff open the doors for us so that we can walk straight in without waiting.

The first thing I see is the coffin in front of the altar. It’s black, and the light from the lamps hanging from the high chapel ceiling is reflected on the smooth, glossy surface.

The second is the woman standing right in front of the coffin. Her hair is as red as Mum’s but falls in soft waves to her shoulders. She too is wearing a black coat, which reaches to her knees.

“Aunt Ophelia?” I croak, taking a step toward her.

She turns. Ophelia is five years younger than Mum and, although her features are softer and her expression is less earnest, you can tell at a glance that she’s her sister.

“Lydia.” In her eyes, I can see the same deep grief that I’ve been feeling for days.

I want to go to her and give her a hug, but before I can take a single step further, my father takes my upper arm.

His eyes are icy cold as he looks at Ophelia and then at me.

He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

A painful ache fills my body. This is Mum’s funeral.

They might not have had the best of relationships, but they were sisters.

And I’m sure Mum would have wanted us to be there for Ophelia today.

Taking no notice of me or my resistance, my father puts an arm around my shoulders. It’s not a loving gesture; it feels more like an unyielding vise. As he steers me toward the row of seats reserved for us, I turn to Ophelia again, but she’s vanished into the sea of people in black.

The funeral procession is accompanied by more than a dozen security personnel who walk alongside us and make sure the press don’t get too close.

Most of them are tactful enough to position themselves along the edge of the path, but some hold their cameras so close to our faces that I could stretch out a hand and touch them.

After a while, I look over to James, who is walking beside me, staring stoically at our father’s back.

His face looks set in stone, hard and expressionless, and I wish I could see into his eyes.

Then I might know what’s going on inside him.

I wonder if he did any coke or had a drink before we left.

In the last few days—since the evening Ruby came round, in fact—he’s withdrawn entirely into himself and won’t talk to me or to the boys either.

I can’t blame him. In some ways, we’re very similar.

I could have done with something to help me through these apparently endless, awful days too.

I tuned out of the eulogy back in the chapel.

It seemed to go on forever. If I’d listened to everything the vicar said about Mum, I’d probably have broken down.

Instead, I put up an invisible wall between myself and my emotions and focused entirely on not sobbing loudly.

I can imagine how Dad would have reacted to that.

I try to conjure that wall back up again now, as we finally come to a stop by Mum’s grave.

I stare into the black hole that’s been dug in the ground and firmly push all emotions away.

For a moment, I think it’s working. The vicar starts to speak again, but I don’t listen to him, don’t think about anything.

But as the coffin is lowered into the grave, I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.

It’s as though there’s something huge and dark inside me rising up and sealing my throat so that no air can get through.

Every thought I’ve been trying to suppress for the last few hours fights its way to the top of my mind.

Mum’s lifeless body is lying in that coffin.

She’s never coming back.

She’s dead.

I feel sick. I gasp quietly and press my hand to my mouth, swaying slightly to one side.

“Lydia?” I hear James’s voice as if from miles away.

I can only shake my head. I try desperately to remember everything Dad drummed into us before the funeral. Stand up straight, keep the sunglasses on at all times, no tears. He didn’t want to give the press any more drama than necessary.

It costs me my last ounce of strength to pull myself together.

I try not to think about Mum. That I can never again ask her advice.

That she’ll never again bring a cup of tea to my room when I’ve spent too long at my desk studying.

That she’ll never hug me again. That she’ll never get to know her grandchild.

That I’m entirely alone, and scared of losing James and Dad too, because our family is falling a little bit further apart with every passing day.

A quiet sob breaks free of my throat. I press my trembling lips firmly together so as not to make another sound.

“Lydia,” James repeats, more urgently this time.

He moves closer to me, so that our arms touch through the thick fabric of our coats.

Slowly, I raise my eyes. James has taken off the shades and is looking at me, his eyes dark.

I can see something in them that I’ve been desperately searching for in the last few weeks.

Something that reminds me that he’s my brother and will always stay with me.

James raises his hand hesitantly to my face. It’s icy cold but still feels good as his thumb brushes my cheek.

“Fuck Dad,” he whispers to me. “If you want to cry, you go ahead and cry. OK?”

The intimacy in his eyes and the honesty of his words finally break down the wall inside me.

I let the feelings swirl into a whirlwind because James is there to hold me tight.

He puts an arm around my shoulder and holds me close to his side.

I bury my face in his chest. He feels like home, and my heavy heart lightens a tiny bit.

While my tears drip incessantly onto his coat, we watch on together as the coffin is lowered little by little, until it reaches the bottom.