I smiled and glanced at the stone in front of Lady Ferdinand. Her husband’s name was carved beneath a simple cross and the dates. I hadn’t known him well. He’d died before Jade, back when grief had been something that had happened to other households.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.
“No worries, dear. You didn’t interrupt.” She adjusted her grip on the roses. “I was just telling Arthur that the vicar’s new haircut makes him look startled. He would have appreciated the update.”
“I’m sure he would.”
She smiled. “He enjoyed information that was both useless and unkind.”
A cool, damp breeze moved through the cemetery. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets and looked at the kids. Billie was now balancing a rock on her head.
Lady Ferdinand followed my gaze. “They’re doing better.”
I let out a small breath. “That makes one of us who thinks so.”
“No.” She studied me for a moment. “That makes all of us except you.”
I looked down at the grass. “They’re having a hard time.”
“Of course they are. They lost their mother. No matter how much time passes, they’ll always feel that void in their lives.”
“I keep thinking I should be better at this by now.”
“At what?”
“All of it.”
“That is not an answer, dear.”
I sighed. “Parenting. Grieving. Work. Getting everyone fed. Remembering dentist appointments. Keeping nannies from fleeing the premises.”
“Ah,” she said. “I take it that last one has become difficult?”
“You could say that.”
“How many now?”
I hesitated and rubbed the back of my neck. “Depends on how we’re counting.”
“The truthful way.”
“Nine.”
Her brows rose.
“Ten, if Alice counts,” I added.
“Who’s Alice?”
I shrugged. “No one knows.”
Lady Ferdinand laughed with enough force that her driver looked over in concern.
“I’m glad my suffering entertains you,” I said.
“It does, a little.” She patted my arm with her gloved hand. “Only because you look so wounded by the predictable consequences of raising intelligent children without enough structure.”
I stared at her.
