Page 156 of The Ladies Least Likely

“Pay you three guineas,” Ren said, reaching for his purse.

It was still full, remarkably. Not only had his drinks been provided all day, but no one had attempted to rob him while his attention was elsewhere.

He counted out the gold coins, and the eyes of both Cain and the gentleman called Spratt widened considerably.

“Ye might have me wife’s mother for that price,” Cain observed.

Ren swapped his tricorne for Spratt’s flat black felt hat with its trailing black scarf.

He affixed the black silk armband to his sleeve and pulled on the gloves.

They were tight, but he wasn’t in a position to complain.

A black cloak would have been proper—Harriette would have appreciated the effort—but too late for that now.

“For your information,” he said to Cain, dropping three more guineas into the man’s pocket. “And your family.”

Cain’s eyes went as round as the rarely seen coins. “Ought to be beggin’ your pardon for all the times we bammed ye as a kiddey,” he said. “Ye’ve turned out a right fellow, Runtwick.”

“Bygones,” Ren said, stowing his purse. “So long as you s-stop calling me R-Runtwick. Good ev’nin, fellows.”

His leg was sore and stiff from sitting too long, and the cobbles of the High Street proved treacherously uneven. He leaned on his cane as he limped along, too focused on keeping himself upright to be concerned with his gait.

The entire town appeared to be turned out into the street.

Shops were dark and shuttered, some windows even boarded as if in anticipation of a riot, while noise and light spilled from public houses and common areas.

In many buildings the windows above shops were lit and open, the residents awake to the action below.

Voices came from everywhere, most of them a muddle, but far down the street Ren spotted the bob and flicker of torchlight and the sound of a bell. The procession had begun.

The mute led the way, dressed in his black suit and sash.

Behind him, a group of children from the almshouse carried torches and rang small bells.

Eight men in black cloaks, with black scarves drifting from their hats, supported the bier with its black velvet pall and tall black plumes waving in the night air.

Behind them, in a space all her own, walked a woman in broad black skirts and cape.

A full veil covered her from her tall black hat to the black silk ribbons hemming her skirts.

Black gloves covered hands clutching a large golden cross depending from a black beaded string hung around her neck.

He didn’t know where Harriette had found full mourning attire—likely Mrs. Demant, faced with Harriette’s intractable decision to be part of the procession, had decided she would commit the outrage in the dignity of full mourning dress.

She looked like Grief incarnate as she moved along, with the branched candelabra carried by two more children following behind her, their light bouncing off the deep black of her veil.

Passersby who mumbled blessings, called to friends they recognized, or kept up a steady stream of chatter, fell silent, staring, as the apparition neared them.

“Relief!” croaked one of the pall bearers on the near side, and a man from the group behind Harriette hurried forward.

He assumed his share of the burden while the wearied man gratefully fell to the rear, glancing nervously at Harriette as she passed and crossing himself in superstition.

Ren took advantage of the brief commotion to slide into the procession with the men behind.

As Harriette passed, he touched the long veil, briefly stirring the dark lace with his finger.

A glint of white behind the curtain told him she had spared him a smile.

He wouldn’t presume to walk beside her; she was, as she’d said, the chief mourner, and her place was alone at the front of the procession.

But at least he’d managed to haul himself here, despite being properly shot in the neck.

And his limp was hardly unique, given that most of the men here had already partaken freely at the funeral feast, both the ones who had been hired to perform and those discharging familial duties.

Ren spotted one black-garbed gentleman whom he guessed from the portrait he’d seen in the formal parlor to be Mr. Demant, his cheeks pleasantly brightened by drink, humming a dolorous hymn as he swayed happily from side to side.

The wailers performed with vigor, providing far more caterwauling than Ren thought necessary.

It surprised him not a bit that Mrs. Demant should demand these touches that, in his opinion, were overdone.

There would be no caterwauling at his funeral, Ren decided; he’d ask Harriette to see to it. She’d do that for him.

From what Ren had gathered, Mrs. Demant had kept Harriette’s mother the way some people kept an exotic pet or handsome slaves, feeding and dressing them to display to others as a sign of status.

Mrs. Demant had always believed her mother’s assurances of noble birth, Harriette had said, and no doubt she found her faith justified when her long-time lodger turned up a foreign duchess.

What that gained Mrs. Demant otherwise, Ren couldn’t say, but he supposed Harriette would find some way to recognize the family’s long support and service.

Giving Mr. Demant some sort of title, perhaps?

From what he could guess, nothing would please the aspiring Mrs. Demant more, though she would be likely to suggest a pension be granted, too.

These thoughts amused him until they came to the market square, where the street widened and the crowd multiplied considerably.

Throngs of people stood about the huge stone Buckland Cross and the Shambles, the covered stalls that ran the length of the market.

Vendors were at work, hawking hot pies and candies, and pickpockets were doubtless at work as well, Ren thought, touching the bulge of his purse beneath his waistcoat.

Torches set into the brackets of buildings lit the square, and lamps had been brought out and set upon tables.

It looked like a festival of sorts, but the taut sense of anticipation in the air was not of the celebratory kind.

The noise behind him intensified, and it was no longer the forced, conventional moans and howls that the wailers were paid to produce.

He heard drunken singing, shouts and calls, and beneath that, other sounds of discord—the muffled blows of items crashing together, what sounded like splintering wood, and the distinct crinkle of breaking glass.

Another procession was coming up the street, and it had none of the dignity or formality of a funeral. These were men intent on making a mark.

The tension in the air heightened as the funeral procession marched through the square.

The buzz of conversation sounded like the drone of insects in high summer, when he and Harriette had lain in surrounding fields, watching clouds float across the sky.

Or rather, Ren dozed while Harriette sketched everything: the clouds, the sheep, the clodden hump of Glastonbury Tor rising in the distance. And him.

He watched her moving through her private pool of torchlight and wondered if she felt the crackling tension, flaring like lightning through the air.

Her back was straight, her steps slow and steady, the floor-length veil rippling lightly as she walked.

If the mob broke upon them, he wondered where he could take her. Would the churchyard be safe?

“Down with Jenny!” The bellowed chant of the mob rose above the clang of bells and buzz of chatter as the crowd behind them spilled into the square. “Down with Jenny! Men, not machines!”

An answering roar met the new arrivals, and the crowd came alive.

The crowd of marching men swelled in an instant, bristling with torches, staves, clubs, and whatever else they could lay hands on as weapons.

Encouraging cheers came from onlookers, further feeding the frenzy.

The men in the procession behind Ren moved closer, nearly treading on his heels.

As the procession turned into the narrow street leading to the church and churchyard, Ren glanced behind to see the market square lit with diabolical brightness.

People leaned from upstairs windows, throwing scarves and other items he couldn’t identify to the massing men below, and the volume of the noise was deafening.

Ren drew closer to Harriette, hoping to provide some protection.

He couldn’t fight like a regular man, but his body at least could be a shield.

The procession halted in the dark, narrow passage leading to the tall stone wall about the church.

The vicar stood before the gate, draped in black, holding his prayer book.

The mute stepped forward with his staff and knocked three times on the wooden gate, another ancient superstition, the noise meant to direct the passing spirit where to go.

“Who comes?” the minister called. In the flicker of torchlight Ren saw him cast a nervous glance toward the square, only a street away. The glow of torchlight was evident above the buildings, as was the noise.

“I am Christiana Ulrich, Duchess of Lowenburg, daughter to Karl Augustus, Duke of Lowenburg and Prince of the Lesser Isles,” Harriette answered in a clear, steady voice that carried.

The vicar shifted, clutching his prayer book.

“I do not know you. Who comes?” he asked again, raising his voice to be heard above the sudden rise of noise from the market.

It sounded like carts were being overturned and windows broken.

Ren wondered if the vicar was being made nervous by the mob and that was why he wasn’t letting them in.

“I am Christiana Ulrich, Duchess of Lowenburg,” Harriette said again.