Page 152 of The Ladies Least Likely

Her stomach turned over, and Ren slipped a steadying hand beneath her elbow.

She shot him a grateful look, the pang in her middle intensifying at the sight of his soft, sympathetic expression.

She could not separate the hurt of standing beside her dead mother from the hurt of knowing she must part from Ren.

It all felt like a great hand tightening her throat, making her choke for air.

She removed her glove, kissed her fingers, and pressed them to her mother’s forehead.

The skin was waxy and cool. What would a good daughter do in this situation?

Farewell, Mother, she thought . You did not live to reassume your place as duchess in your own land, but you are in a far happier land now, I pray.

“I must see to dyeing my gown and finding a cloak and veil,” Harriette said. The business of death kept her mind from sentiment, at least for the moment. “I suppose I am the chief mourner and will follow behind the coffin. I must have something suitable to wear.”

“Women do not take part in funeral processions,” Mrs. Demant said with a gasp, holding her handkerchief to her throat. “Not women of our station, at least.”

Harriette did not miss that Mrs. Demant, the wife of a merchant who had bought himself gentleman’s status through his wealth, classed herself with the daughter of a duchess.

“The procession will begin at dusk,” Mrs. Demant went on.

“There will be vulgar men among them—those paid mourners always come to such things drunk and their comments are not fit for ladies’ ears.

And the thieves and pickpockets that are likely to follow, not to mention that our coach could be robbed the moment the coffin enters the church—that happened to the Lamberts not last year, when Mrs. Lambert was laid to rest. And since we are not allowed graveside anyway, there is no reason to go. We shall sit quietly here and pray.”

“I am not allowed to be present when they bury my mother?” Harriette demanded. “Whyever not?”

“Because women carry the sins of Eve,” Mrs. Demant said primly. “No minister wants a woman on consecrated burial ground.”

“That has to be a foolish English custom,” Harriette said sharply. “But we are not English, and I am her daughter.”

The declaration felt silly the moment she uttered it, for she didn’t have the first notion of Silesian funeral customs. As a child Harriette had soon learned her mother did not want to answer many questions about the life she had left behind, and so she ceased asking them.

Neither did her aunt reminisce often about her country of birth.

Harriette now regretted this lack of knowledge, not just because of all she needs must learn when Franz Karl returned her to Lowenburg, but because she could not properly mark her mother’s passing with the customs of her country of birth.

“Nevertheless, it does not do to send a dearly departed on their way with too many demonstrations of tears.” Mrs. Demant bravely dabbed at her eyes again.

“The spirit might feel it needs to stay to console those it left behind. And it is well known that women cannot control their weeping and expressions of grief.”

A smothered sound from Ren, behind her, stood in for Harriette’s response to this.

Harriette couldn’t recall the last time she had cried about anything.

Even now she stood dry-eyed and stoic beside her mother’s coffin, wondering where in Shepton Mallet she would find crepe, which would have to suffice for her mourning since she did not have the time nor resources to order a bombazine gown.

“Mrs. De-Demant.” Ren finally spoke. “M-may her gray—Her Grace and I have a mo-mo-moment alone?”

Mrs. Demant startled as if she had noticed him for the first time.

“Mrs. Demant, the Earl of Renwick,” Harriette murmured. “Renwick, you remember Mrs. Demant. She was kind enough to take in my mother and me when we had no one.”

“Your lordship.” Mrs. Demant sank into a low curtsey. When she rose, her eyes were wide with the same realization striking Harriette. She was her mother’s sole heir. Harriette was the Duchess of Lowenburg now.

“Your lordship. May I be the first to welcome you back to Shepton Mallet? We heard with great interest of your return to England.” The woman’s cold, disapproving gaze flicked over Harriette, and Harriette stiffened her back, wondering if those dratted prints of Ren had traveled this far from London.

“I will see about tea.” Her stiff black bombazine skirts rustled away.

Ren leaned his cane against a chair and opened his arms as Harriette turned into them.

It felt so natural to seek comfort from him.

The silk of his waistcoat soothed her hot cheek, and when he stroked the curls dangling from her hat, the tight thing in her chest loosened, letting in air.

She breathed in his scent, rich and earthy and strong.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he whispered.

His hand slid along her shoulder, down her arm, then moved to her back, where he drew his hand in small, warm circles. Harriette sighed and pressed her nose into his neckcloth.

“I feel shocked more than anything,” she admitted.

“And embarrassed that I did not expect this end. And—guilt that I do not feel a deeper sense of loss.” She sniffled.

“I am mostly sorry she will not have the opportunity to return to Lowenburg as its duchess. I expect that is all she wanted from her life.”

A wave of sorrow hit her, strong and unanticipated.

Her poor, bitter mother, defeated at the end of the one thing she wished above all else.

What had brought her joy in this life? Not Harriette, that was certain.

Mrs. Demant had provided some slim comfort as well as practical necessities, but her mother had no companion of the heart. No great love.

Harriette at least had found Ren, even if she had to give him up. She squeezed him, hard, and while he gave a soft grunt to indicate discomfort, he made no move to push her away.

“Ren, I…”

She lifted her head to stare at him, and her thoughts trailed to wisps.

Her mother’s coffin was no place to make a declaration, even if the thoughts were fully formed.

She loosened her arms, conscious of the impropriety should Mrs. Demant find them in an embrace.

Her opinion of Harriette couldn’t be any lower, but up till now, Harriette had never scandalized the woman in her own home.

“What?”

He watched her steadily, his eyes a fathomless blue, a deep sky she could get lost in. She had stared at that face for hours, on her canvas and in the flesh, and still his beauty caught her breath.

She inhaled deeply and stepped away. The sickly-sweet scent of the mourning lilies, there to disguise any odors from the body, brought her to her senses. If she had to let Ren go, it was best to begin here and now.

“Will you come to the funeral?” In a strangely formal gesture, she plucked one of the funeral biscuits from the salver and held it out to him.

“If you wish.” He took the treat with a solemn air.

Princess had told her once that the lavish feasts that accompanied funerals of the Polish nobility came from an ancient custom of sin-eating.

Others ate and drank around the body to consume the sins of the deceased and let their spirit pass to the next world unburdened.

She wondered if the English custom of funeral biscuits came from the same ageless superstition.

“Mrs. Demant will appreciate being able to say there was an earl in attendance.”

“What do you need, Rhette?”

She nearly crumpled at that. In the candlelit shadows of the darkened room, with the ghostly shadows of the massed flowers dancing at the edge of her vision, his husky voice and searching eyes seemed unbearably potent, like the pull of a dream. She wanted, oh, so many things.

She wanted one thing, really. Him.

And she couldn’t have him.

“I need mourning attire, I suppose,” she said in a shaky voice. “I shall be busy this afternoon getting that in order. And—you have things to do as well?”

“See to my man of business, and discover what has been going on at the Manor.” He nodded. “Shall I meet you here?”

“I intend to join the procession,” Harriette said defiantly. “And if the minister forbids me, then I shall wait at the church gate, and I shall wail so loudly the whole town shall shudder at the sound.”

That smile she loved twisted one side of his lips. “That’s my Rhette,” he said softly. “I will leave you to it.”

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, gentle, firm, and slow. She closed her eyes and leaned into the caress. The last she might receive from him. The sweetest and most thrilling touch she’d ever received, from him or anyone.

I will leave you, too , sprang unbidden to her mind, and that thought, more than the news of her mother’s death, more than her fear and trepidation of her upcoming marriage, truly broke her heart.