IVY
Between my crying jags, trying to comfort Alistair, and attempting and failing to keep some sort of normalcy at the manor, Becks and I have been on the phone for four days arranging the kind of funeral that would befit a woman like Isobel Ravenscroft.
Isobel had, of course, left detailed instructions of how it should be, which was immensely helpful. Becks and I handled the flowers, the caterers, the cars, and approximately nine hundred logistical problems. God bless the woman. Alistair handled the calls—family, the people he said needed to hear it from us personally, the people Isobel would have wanted. Between us we pulled it together.
Time moved achingly slowly, and the days felt like they’d never end. At the same time, it all went way too fast. How is it that we’re already sitting here on polished pews when it felt like Isobel was alive and breathing mere hours before? The grief has not lessened. It cut us in half when we heard the news, andwe have not recovered. Yet we go through the motions because that’s what we need to do.
We move to the entrance when people start arriving. People I don't know, mostly. Isobel's people—forty years of a life I only came into at the end.
An older woman with excellent posture takes both my hands and says Isobel spoke of me often in the short time we knew each other. A man in a very good suit tells me she was the finest mind he ever argued with.
Jamie comes to me with my parents. He has his tie slightly crooked and his face very serious in the way he gets when he knows something important is happening and wants to do it right. He hugs me for a long time.
“I’m very sorry, Ivy,” he says into my shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re sad. It’s very sad when people die.”
This almost kills me, and I hug him again and hold on until I’ve composed myself.
Alistair shakes Jamie’s hand and thanks him for his condolences, then my sweet brother goes to sit with my parents. When he sees I’m still looking at him, he gives me a smile and a thumbs up. I give him one back and look away before I cry.
The service is long, which feels right.
There are some short speeches. One man says Isobel was the most terrifying person he had ever had lunch with, and he has had lunch with heads of state. The laughter that moves through the church is a ripple of relief.
Alistair’s speech is heartfelt and magnificent and has tears streaming down my cheeks. It would be impossible to love a man more. Christopher tells some funny stories that land well even though I worry through it all.
Gregory is at the end of the front pew, upright, hands folded. He’s holding up so well. He almost seems stronger than before.
The service is reaching its close when Alistair leans toward me.
“I want to take you into the vestry,” he says, thumb pressing into my palm. His mouth is against my ear. Not a joke. Not quite. “When this is over,” he whispers, “I'm going to take you somewhere and remind you that we're alive.”
I feel it go through me like a current, straight down, a pulse between my legs even though I’m grieving my mother-in-law at her funeral in a twelfth-century church. But this is how it is with us, the way we work through difficult things. Trauma-bonded to the extreme, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I find his hand under the order of service and press it hard. He turns his face back to the front, ever the respectful gentleman, his thumb still pressing. We sit there in the pew, the two of us, and I am thinking about the vestry.
The wake is at Ashworth Park.
I move through the rooms as if I’ve done it before. I know Marcus has the drinks covered in the drawing room. I know Daisy and co. need to be told about the kitchen situation before it becomes a problem. I know the caterers need redirecting fromthe east corridor. I do these things as I go, talking to staff by name, moving through the house that is not mine and operating it like it is.
Becks finds me by the stairs. She grabs me properly first—both arms, her chin on my shoulder, holding on. “How are you doing?”
“I'm fine. I'll be fine.”
My best friend pulls back and looks at my face and decides to accept that for now.
“Callum cleared it,” she says quietly. “Charity Commission sign-off came through. The Peckham program is go, thanks to that gorgeous, filthy bastard.”
I blink at her, mouth slightly open. It had completely fallen off my radar. “You’re an absolute gem, Rebecca Bradley, do you know that?”
Not only had this incredible human been my rock for the past few very difficult days, but her logistical prowess was indomitable. Some people hire their best friends and spend years regretting it, but hiring Becks was one of the smartest things I’d ever done. I may have the vision, but Becks was the one who made it all work.
“You’ve single-handedly run the Foundation, smashed through red tape, andstillsomehow had capacity to help me with this.” I gesture at the huge flower arrangement beside us.
Becks lifts her drink. “I sense you’re about to give me a promotion and generous pay raise, which I accept with grace but also great enthusiasm.”
I shake my head. “I’m not giving you a promotion,” I say. “I’m offering you partner. I should have done it from the beginning.”
She grins. “Well, wehavealways been good together.”
