I am your son, so why have you always hated me? As I can see, my only crime against you was being born.
“Where is my father now?”
“In the crypt at All Saints church. The vicar is pressing for us to get the burial service underway as soon as possible.”
Delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to do anyone any good. And Stephen wanted to leave for town first thing in the morning. The quicker he was away from this place, the better.
“Alright. Get whoever wants to come to the service assembled, and I shall meet you at the church in an hour,” replied Stephen.
“Very good, Sir Stephen. Shall I make a time for you and me to discuss estate matters and the transition of ownership?” replied Granville.
The old man is really dead. This place is now mine, but I just can’t think about it right now.
“Perhaps we should wait until I can find a moment to give things my full attention.”
Granville’s cheeks turned a scarlet red. “I humbly beg your pardon. That was most uncivilized of me. Of course, you wish to spend some time in quiet reflection of your father. I would never wish to impose on your hour of grief.”
Even the trusty old family steward seemed to expect Stephen to feelsomethingover the loss of his father. Why society suddenly decided that all manner of customs and social dictates should come into play just because someone had died was beyond him.
I don’t feel anything.
Stephen wouldn’t be shedding any tears, nor wasting hours in silent regret. He had given up on that long ago, coming to the firm conclusion that none of it was worth his emotional energy.
It was time to set Granville straight on the sort of funeral Sir Robert Moore was going to get, as well as the amount of time his son intended to invest in mourning him.
“Let’s get the service done and my father buried. After which, I shall walk across the road into theWhite Hartand shout everyone there a whisky to toast the passing of Sir Robert. After that, I will return here, pack some papers, and make ready to head back to London at first light.”
His hand was on the gate before Granville finally mustered a reply. “I thought, perhaps . . . of course. Very good, Sir Stephen.”
Stephen’s long strides took him quickly back past the stables, toward the long drive. He wasn’t even going to bother with his horse.
Granville’s kind words had rattled him.
What he needed was a long walk, alone. Time away from people to check that the locks on his heart were secure—that emotions of any kind had not managed to find their way in.
Because if there was one thing Sir Stephen Moore was certain he wouldn’t ever do, it was to waste a single tear for a man who had never once called him son.
Chapter Five
By the time he reached the church, Stephen had his emotional armor firmly back in place. It was impenetrable—nothing would get through. Of that he was determined.
At the crunch of boots on gravel, he turned. The sight which greeted his gaze instantly melted his iron breastplate.
“Oh no. Oh damn,” he muttered.
A small cart appeared in the courtyard of All Saints. On board were Mister and Mrs. Granville, the latter dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Behind them slowly walked the estate staff and what had to be at least half the residents of the village of Witley. All come to pay their respects to the late Sir Robert.
How am I to deal with this?
He gritted his teeth, praying that no one would come near him and offer their sincere condolences. But when he saw the downcast eyes and sad expressions on their faces, it was clear he was in for a trying time.
Hold your nerve and get through it. That’s all you have to do.
While the rest of the mourners headed to the graveside and gathered around it, Stephen waited for his steward. If he kept the Granvilles close, using them as a shield of sorts, then the locals might not be tempted to come and talk to him.
He could only hope.
The small cart drew to a halt, and Mister Granville stepped down. He helped his wife alight, then turned and helped a third person. Stephen looked closer. He hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the cart.
