His mother slipped her arm over Miss Bawden’s shoulders and started leading her towards the drawing room. For some inexplicable reason, he felt compelled to follow them. It wasn’t because he wanted to, but rather because he felt it was the right thing to do. Which was odd. Why did he want to be a part of this conversation? He didn’t. He just wanted a blasted biscuit.
But his biscuit could wait, at least until he could offer some comfort to Miss Bawden.
As he stepped into the drawing room, he found a chair adjacent to the settee where they were both sitting. His mother cast him a questioning look, but refrained from asking him why he was there. Despite being at odds with Miss Bawden, he couldn’t bear to see someone in pain without offering some form of comfort.
His mother spoke up. “Tell me everything that has happened.”
Miss Bawden took a deep breath, no doubt in an attempt to compose herself. “My grandfather, aunt and uncle traveled to India to oversee their business dealings, leaving behind their daughter, Francesca,” she shared. “And we just received word that my aunt and uncle died from the fever and my grandfather is still recovering.”
“That is terrible news,” his mother murmured. “How may I help you at this most difficult time?”
Miss Bawden ran a hand down her gown. “We need to go into mourning, but I am at a loss of what I should do.”
His mother offered her an understanding smile. “You have come to the right place, Dear,” she said. “You will need to get mourning gowns and accessories and a black armband for your father.”
His mother continued, “The dressmaker in the village will know what fabric to use, but typically bombazine is most often used in the countryside. Since you are mourning an uncle and aunt, I would recommend you go into mourning for at least three months. But I would strongly encourage that your cousin mourns her parents for six months.”
“I intend to dye a gown or two until we can commission our mourning gowns,” Miss Bawden said.
“I would advise against that since you can afford to buy mourning gowns. Dyeing gowns is more for thepeople who lack funds to do so,” his mother explained. “And you are now the daughter of a viscount. You must act the part, always.”
A maid stepped into the drawing room with a tea service in her hands. She placed it down on the table in front of his mother. “Would you care for me to pour, my lady?”
“No, thank you,” his mother replied as she reached for the teapot. She poured three cups of tea and extended them to the group.
Miss Bawden took a sip of her tea before asking, “What of notifying our relatives of my uncle’s and aunt’s deaths?”
His mother placed her teacup down onto the tray. “The announcements will need to be trimmed in black, and some people send black gloves along.”
“Are the black gloves necessary?” Miss Bawden asked.
“Not in my opinion,” his mother replied. “I would recommend a hatchment to be placed over the front door for at least six months.”
Miss Bawden nodded. “I believe we still have the mourning wreath from when my mother passed away.”
“That is good,” his mother said. “Just try to remember to breathe. Many people will have opinions on how you should mourn, but it is much more relaxed in the countryside.”
Tears welled up in Miss Bawden’s eyes. “I can’t believe my aunt and uncle died. It just seems unreal to me.”
Lady Dallington reached for her hand. “I am sorry for your loss, and I want to express my deepest sympathy to you and your family.”
“Thank you,” Miss Bawden murmured. “I shall pass along your condolences to my father. I know he will appreciate them.”
Winston observed the genuine sorrow in Miss Bawden’s eyes. Despite their differences, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of empathy for her, considering he had only lost his uncle five months ago.
But what could he possibly do to ease her pain? And did he even want to?
His mother’s voice cut through the stillness. “Do you wish to borrow any mourning jewelry?” she asked.
Miss Bawden put her hand up. “That is not necessary,” she replied. “I do not anticipate going to any social events while I am in mourning.”
“Normally, I would recommend you delaying your debut if your father or sister died, but I do not think it is necessary in this case, considering it was an uncle and his second wife,” his mother shared. “Based upon your elevation in status, I think it is wholly appropriate for you to be presented to Court this Season.”
Miss Bawden looked at his mother in disbelief, as if she couldn’t quite believe the words that were being said. “I have never considered attending a Season before because of our humble circumstances, but everything has changed.”
His mother leaned forward, her expression softening. “It has,” she said. “And I would be happy to host you, right alongside Elodie and Melody, assuming your father has no objections.”
Miss Bawden’s breath caught. “Do you mean it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
