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"We shall respect your wishes, of course," Lane said. "But you must take special care! Are you certain riding is wise? Bayard, as head of the family-" he imbued the words with a trace of sarcasm "-do you not think you should forbid Jenna to put herself at risk?"
Bayard shrugged. "I expect she knows what's best."
A knock sounded at the door, followed by the entrance of Cousin Bayard's personal servant. A swarthy bear of a man, he resembled less a manservant, Jenna thought with an inward smile each time she encountered him, than one of the convicts who'd chosen to join Wellington's army rather than face punishment at home.
The man bowed to the assembled company with a swagger that belied the deferential gesture. "Beggin'
your pardon, your ladyships. Master, the supplies you ordered are being delivered. You need to show me where to stow 'em."
"Thank you, Frankston. I'll come at once."
"Bayard, you cannot leave now! We haven't yet settled the details of Garrett's service!" Aunt Hetty protested.
"I'm sure you can arrange something suitable without me," Bayard said. "I've more important work."
Ignoring Hetty's wail of protest, he strode out the door.
Frowning, Lane watched his cousin leave. "Work more important than upholding the honor of the Fairchild name? Dash it, Jenna, I hope to heaven Garrett's child is a son!"
"As long as the babe is healthy and safely delivered, I shall be content," she replied.
"So do we all hope! Finish your tea, cousin. You must keep up your strength now-and we shall have to take special care to see that she does, shall we not, Aunt?"
"Naturally. Now, about the service." Hetty glanced at Jenna, the frown returning to her face telling Jenna her sojourn in that lady's good graces had just ended. "It must be something suitably solemn and impressive. Though 'tis scandalous, to be reduced to holding a memorial service for a viscount whose family can trace its roots back to the Conqueror! I can't imagine why you had Garrett buried in heathenish foreign land, rather than bringing his bones back to rest among his ancestors at Fairland Trace."
Half-choking on her tea, Jenna swallowed the mouthful in one gulp. Did the woman have no discernment? Given the extent of Garrett's wounds-knee, thigh, chest, shoulder-did she not realize to what condition his poor lifeless body would have been reduced after the several-day transit in July heat from Brussels to distant Northumberland?
A flash of memory seared her-finding Garrett, after a frantic all-day search, lying among the dead on the Waterloo plain, no more than a valiant spirit stubbornly holding on in a ragged scrap of flesh. Nausea seized her stomach and her throat closed in anguish.
She couldn't bear to remember. Tea sloshed over the rim as she set her cup down. "It-wasn't possible."
Shooting Aunt Hetty a warning look, Cousin Lane took her hands in his and rubbed them gently. "I'm sure it wasn't. You did everything you could, under the most ghastly of circumstances. We realize that."
The older woman sniffed. "All the more reason to hold the most impressive of services. St. George's, Hanover Square, I should think. Prinny and the cabinet will certainly attend, and Wellington, of course.
We could have a funeral cortege from the house-"
"No!" Jenna cried. "No funeral. I've buried him once. I will not do it again."
"Now that I am aware of your delicate condition, my dear," Hetty said with a thin smile, "I will make some allowances, for ladies in your circumstances sometimes take the most peculiar ideas into their heads. But the decision isn't yours alone. There's the family's honor to be considered, and I would be failing in my duty if I allowed Garrett's passing to be commemorated in less than a fashion befitting a Viscount Fairchild of Fairland Trace."
"What was being viscount to Garrett?" Jenna exclaimed. "He never expected it, was shocked to learn of the accident that brought him the title. Garrett lived and died a soldier. He's buried near the field where he fell. Let him rest in peace!"
"Please, ladies, don't upset yourselves!" Cousin Lane appealed to them. "Surely we can arrange something which will accommodate Jenna's grief while still upholding the dignity of the family. Aunt Hetty, why do you not plan on a memorial service like the one we discussed? I believe Society would understand if Jenna does not attend, given the recentness of her bereavement. She could receive the mourner's condolences at the reception here afterward."
He turned to Jenna. "Do you think you could bear that, Jenna? Just a reception, to honor Garrett and let his friends mourn with you?"
Jenna took a shuddering breath. Could she force herself to nod and shake the hands of the gawking curious, most of them strangers? But at least she'd be spared the torment of a long funeral service lamenting Garrett's loss and extolling his many virtues.
She had that litany of regret by heart.
Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly weary, tired of tussling with Aunt Hetty over the running of the house, of dealing with her petty criticism of everything Jenna did- or didn't do-of carrying the crushing burden of grief. Slumping back, she said, "Yes, I suppose I can endure it."
"You look fatigued, my dear," Lane said with concern.
"I am, a little," she admitted.
"Why not go upstairs and rest? Aunt Hetty and I will finish here. I'll walk Jenna up," he said to his aunt.
"If you must," Aunt Hetty said, her tone implying she felt Jenna sadly lacking to shirk so important a duty.
Putting a solicitous hand under her elbow, Lane escorted her from the room. When they reached the hall, he said softly, "Please try to forgive Aunt Hetty's pettishness. She'd been living in straited circumstances after her husband's death and was thrilled when Garrett invited her to come here to look after Fairchild House while he remained away with the army. Now that you have arrived, she's terribly afraid you will supplant her and send her back to her modest lodgings in Bath."
"If she fears that, I should think she'd be making herself agreeable, rather than crossing me at every turn."
He smiled wryly. "So one would think. But of course, she adored Garrett, and feels strongly that his demise should be commemorated with all due pomp and ceremony. An aim, I must admit, with which I am entirely in sympathy. All the years I was growing up, Garrett was my hero."
Jenna felt her eyes filling. "He was mine, too. Do you not think I wish him suitably honored?"
"Of course, and you are being wonderfully brave about all this. 'Tis so difficult, even for me, to accept his loss. I cannot imagine how terrible it must be for you."
There being no answer to that, Jenna gave none.
As they ascended the stairs, Lane hailed a passing footman. "Tell Lady Fairchild's maid to bring up tea in an hour." After the man trotted off, he turned to Jenna. "I'm sorry, that was rather presumptuous.
Forgive me?"
Too tired to resent a usurpation of her authority for which, in another life, she would have given him a sharp set down, she shrugged. "It appears everyone wants to dictate my actions. At least you, cousin, seem to have my welfare at heart."
They reached the door to her chamber, but when she turned to go in, he retained her hand, halting her.
"I'm sorry you must suffer through this all over again. I hope you indeed realize I will do everything within my power to make things as easy as possible for you."
His kind words brought tears once again to the surface. "Thank you, cousin. I appreciate that."
Grief and the coming child did exhaust her, for she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She woke an hour later at Sancha's knock, feeling much refreshed. Before she could decide whether to ride yet again, choose a book from the library downstairs, or take a carriage to inspect the selection at Hatchard's, a footman knocked to inform her that she had callers below.
She wondered who it might be. Since she had no acquaintance in London beyond her husband's family, it must be someone from the army who had learned of her return.
Ah, that it might be Major Hartwell or Captain Percy, good friends and two of her late father's finest subordinates! Feeling a stir of interest for the first time since arriving in England, she instructed the footman to tell the visitors she would be down directly.
But her enthusiasm checked the moment she stepped across into the parlor. Rather than those old compatriots, smiling at her from the sofa was Mrs. Ada Anderson, wife to the colonel of the Fighting Fifth's neighboring brigade.
Before she could utter a word, the woman spied her. "Jenna, so you left Brussels at last! I had to call as soon as I learned you'd arrived and convey my deepest, sincerest sympathy!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Anderson." Jenna pasted a smile on her face while mentally kicking herself for coming down without first ascertaining the identity of her visitors. Now she would have to remain at least half an hour or be thought unpardonably rude. "Please, do sit down. How kind of you to come with-" she indicated the tall, angular woman in the modish bonnet and pelisse.
"Lady Fairchild, allow me to present my sister Persephone, Lady Montclare. You may remember I intended to send you back to her in London after your papa died at Badajoz. Except that you snabbled yourself a husband first! I was, you will recall, quite vexed at you for throwing away your chance at a London Season and entrusting your hand and fortune to a mere younger son. Who knew then he'd turn out to be viscount one day, eh, you clever girl?"
