A funeral
March 12, 1820
London, England
Graham stood stock-still through the greetings of the mourners at the house—no longer his father’s home or even Tom’s, but Benjamin’s—and he sat solemn and quiet all through the carriage ride to the family cemetery and the burial itself.
He kept his thoughts occupied with things other than his father and his eldest brother decomposing in boxes beneath the ground. Instead, he focused all his energy on ire and judgment. On the furtive glances cast at Benjamin, now the Duke of Rivington. The return of his youngest brother, Gray, for the funeral.
Throughout the day, they had been approached by newly arriving mourners and the battle was alive in each one—how to balance the line between mourner and sycophant. How much respect was just enough while still currying favor with the new duke who should never have been. It was sickening and something to keep the wave of grief at bay.
But now that his family and their closest friends had returned home, now that the staff was openly weeping, and now that he had to really look at Sera—God, Sera, with her shocked eyes that seemed to see nothing at all—he felt his throat close.
His hands had never felt more present. Like large blocks of ice. He kept opening and closing his palms and realized he wanted to hold Benjamin’s hand—something they hadn’t done since they were children. They were orphans now. And while he knew no one cared for an orphan at his age, they were orphans, just the same.
How old was Sera? But nineteen? Her blank expression made her seem ancient.
The chaos in the house was quickly dealt with by Alice Belle. She sent home most of the staff, thanked the others for their service in this time of need, had supper prepared—something simple, she insisted—and bundled Sera off to bed.
Alice was so dependable in that way. He wasn’t sure what they would do without her. If Benjamin had any sense, he would marry her. She had taken care of the Rivington estates since before Sera’s marriage into the family, until her sister had been ready to take up the reins.
Or maybe it was his duty to marry Alice, he thought. It would be a simple arrangement. Not a romantic one, but both parties would be similarly aware.
Then his eyes rested on Dinah. Her hair had grown longer since their last encounter. It curled against the back of her neck, into the collar of her black mourning gown. The color was dreadful on her, making her skin seem sallow and her lips pale. She was speaking to Bridget. Both had been keeping a watchful eye on Sera before Alice had guided her away.
Dinah was worried, and she should be worried. Sera had been inconsolable. Still, Dinah was the only one whose cheeks were dry, whose eyes weren’t red. She hadn’t cried. Not a single tear.
He wondered how she did it. How she managed it. How she could turn off a world’s worth of emotions and not feel love or pain.
Ah, but she had felt it once, hadn’t she?
The kiss flashed through his mind. He’d meant it to be a simple peck. He’d meant to press his lips to hers, to hold her tight, to shake her up for a moment. He’d been angry enough to take the liberty.
He hadn’t meant to taste her and then want more. He hadn’t meant to take her tongue prisoner, to run his hands over her body. Most of all, he hadn’t meant for her to melt into him and hold him close in return.
Graham had meant to teach her a lesson, but he had been the one affected. The one who had to turn and run before he did something he would regret, before he crossed the line. As if the kiss already hadn’t done that.
He’d returned to his room hours later, needing her to be gone but silently hoping she would still be there. Because if she was still there . . . Well . . . then what? It would mean arrangements and marriage and Dinah in his life every day, and he’d begun to realize those thoughts were not so bad. He spared a thought for her every day. Why not a glance, a word, a life, as well?
He’d hated himself for his betrayal of his feelings for Lily, and most of all he’d hated Dinah for not being affected. She hadn’t been in his room, and the next day all the Belles except Sera had departed for the city. There had been no note reprimanding him, no outraged missive demanding that he do the honorable thing.
No, other than that single utterance of Shakespeare! It was as though he had not affected her at all. Just as she was unaffected now.
But damn it, he would see her moved again. He crossed the room to her.
He knew the exact moment she became aware of him. Her neck straightened, her gloved hand touched the curls at her nape, and her gaze slid to him. She made some effort to speak to Bridget and met him partway in the parlor.
“Graham,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
His lower lip trembled. No, this was not how seeing her again was supposed to be. He was supposed to be the one in charge, with the upper hand. Instead, he was going to embarrass himself in front of her, in front of them all. He stalked past her and into the library, closing the door hard behind him. He took deep breaths and pressed his eyes shut, squeezing away tears.
What would Tom have said of how he’d mistreated Dinah? His brother would have been appalled, and rightfully so. To have her usher apologies, instead, even though it was understandable given the occasion, made him feel less of a man.
The library door creaked open, and he knew without a doubt who had entered. He had known she would come, hadn’t he? He turned around to find her standing still.
He took three quick steps to her, sank to his knees, and wrapped his arms around her hips to her gasp of surprise. He rested the side of his face against her belly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He repeated the phrase over and over, his voice hoarse and shaken.
* * *
Dinah looked down at the top of Graham’s head in shock. He held her tightly around her hips, his face buried in her dress. After a moment, she let her fingers rest in his hair. “It’s all right,” she said.
“It is not all right.”
She shushed him. His shoulders shook against her, and she realized he was crying. She ached with the desire to make his pain go away. She had thought of little else but Graham since that night in his bedroom. The images of him had been consuming, overpowering. He had sought to teach her a lesson, and he had been overwhelmingly successful.
She had spent the past few months engaged in her own scientific experiment. She had pinched and prodded herself whenever she had romantic feelings, all to no avail. She had surrounded herself with her friends and her family and good wine and music in an attempt to form better memories. But nothing lessened the heat and thrill of that moment with him.
But more surprising still was how much she’d missed him, missed someone she had no expectation of seeing or hearing from on a day-to-day basis. He had become a necessary part of her day, an obsessive thought forever tarrying in the back of her mind. She had struggled with how to satisfy her hunger for information about him. She read the sheets, in case his name was mentioned, asked after the Abernathy family at every opportunity. She had even ventured down to her father’s office by the docks, a short distance from Christian Hughes’s boxing club, just in case Graham might chance by.
And then the accident had happened, and Graham’s father and brother had died, and she had no notion of anything but the need to see him, to know his feelings. Now that he was on his knees before her, she would have given anything to soothe him.
“On your feet, Graham, please.”
He rose before her, tears staining his cheeks, and a strange expression crossed his face, one of confusion. He reached out to wipe her cheek, and it came away wet. Then his fingers curled tight into the fabric of her gown and she was hauled against him.
For a moment, she thought he would kiss her again, but instead, he buried his face in her neck and cried. She placed her arms around him and held him close.
“I miss them both. Even my father. And I thought he was a bastard,” he said.
“He could be.”
“No more than I can be.” He clutched her tighter.
“Or I.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she could not assess their origin. She was devastated for her family’s loss but also felt a sense of relief that she and Graham had finally repaired their relationship, even though she didn’t know to what extent.
Tears of sadness, of relief, of happiness, and even of joy, all at once . . . Who would have known it was possible?
* * *
When the last guest had left and the house was silent, Graham and Benjamin sat alone in the study. From their seats in the wingback chairs, they stared across the room to a mahogany table, atop which sat the silver tray of spirits—the tray from which, when they were children, their father would often pour a drink prior to a tirade or sometimes a beating. Not that Graham had ever received beatings. No, he’d been the good son, the one who’d tried to make his father happy. It had reached the point where the younger Graham cringed whenever he heard the sound of crystal clinking, since it so often preceded a switch being taken to Benjamin’s or Gray’s backside.
“You should throw it out,” Graham said as Benjamin’s stare grew darker.
“First the tray, then what? Then I burn down the entire house?” Benjamin said. “How ungrateful we sound.”
Graham crossed the room to the tray and poured a drink for himself and for Benjamin. The decanter jingled against the glass. He crossed the room, holding out one of the glasses to his brother. “We must make new memories, Benjamin. We don’t have to forget the old ones. Some were happy, especially those of Tom.” His voice choked, and he took a quick drink. “Gray is back now, as well. We must start anew.”
Benjamin accepted the glass, his face still dark and moody beneath his slashed brows.
“We will make new memories,” Graham repeated firmly. “Happy ones. So that when we look back on the old ones, they won’t hurt as much.”
“Cheers, then.” Benjamin lifted his glass and tossed back the liquor. With a sigh, he set the empty tumbler down hard on the table. “I am sure this is premature; however, despite your silence on the matter, it has not escaped my attention over the years that perhaps there is a certain young lady who holds your particular interest.”
Graham’s cheeks flushed. Had Benjamin seen him with Dinah earlier? He’d been so indiscreet. Only later did he realize how inappropriately he’d behaved, the effect it could have on her reputation.
“I wanted to let you know that when you are ready to make your intentions official, unlike Father, you will have my support.”
Graham smiled. “Thank you, Benjamin. But you needn’t worry yourself thinking you are going against his wishes. Father would have been more than happy with the match.”
“Really?” Benjamin tilted his head and squinted. “I could have sworn there was a young lady from a concert you dragged me to in London a few years ago. No one of consequence.”
Lily?
“Yes, I see your meaning now. We were speaking of different ladies,” Graham said, staring down into his glass. “The lady from the concert is married and with child.” How simple it all seemed now. He couldn’t deny his feelings for her had been strong, couldn’t deny he had imagined a life with her that was no longer possible. Yet the thought did not weaken his knees.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I had been led to believe your attachment was great, but then . . . there is another?”
It was too much to speak of now. Benjamin would have questions, and Graham was not certain he had answers. He did not know when it had started. He did not know how it had begun. He did not know if it was Dinah’s experiment or something else. He only knew one thing.
“There is . . . hope,” he said. And hope was a wondrous thing.
* * *
D.,
As you can imagine, the house is still in chaos. I thank the Lord nightly for your sister Alice, as well as for our dear friend Mr. Robert Crawford, both of whom have engaged themselves in assisting us.
I am to understand that we are still to have the annual Belle fete at Woodbury in a few months’ time. With your permission, I hope we may continue the conversation that began between us four years ago, as its resolution is, I hope, a foregone conclusion.
G.