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“You will realise soon enough the true reality of this world,” Rowena said, reaching for the door again. “Victor has gone travelling, and you are here in order to marry.”
“I wish he had not left,” Violette said, finding the words coming louder this time. “I wish everything could have stayed the same. Or even more, I wish I could have gone with him!”
“That would never have been possible.”
“Why not?”
“Violette, listen!” Rowena’s words were surprisingly cutting, reminding Violette of that same strength she had felt earlier grasping her arm. “It is just the world we live in. You must make your peace with that. You are a woman, and this is your lot in life. Make of it what you will, but in the end, there is only one path for us all to take.”
The words made Violette lay her hands over her face, trying desperately to stop her tears. Rowena said no more as she walked out the door, leaving Violette alone to cry.
She found herself sinking down to her knees with the despair of it all. Rupert seemed to sense her sadness, for he hurried out of his basket and ran toward her, trying to lick her arm in comfort as she cried.
“Make of it what you will. That’s what she said, Rupert,” she said quietly, thinking on those words. “Maybe she is wrong. Maybe there is more than one path to take.” Violette liked the idea. She only had to think about what possible path that could be.
***
“You two were a while. What did Lord Brunlow say about our business then?” The Marquess of Whithead, Lord Harold Catling, was sitting in a grand armchair in the parlour when he looked up from his newspaper at two of his sons’ entrance.
Marcus walked in first, with Walter close behind him, moving toward their father at a slow pace.
“He agreed to sell us the land,” Marcus said as he took the seat beside his father.
“Excellent news, and the particulars?” the Marquess asked, looking between his two sons. The same dark brows and eyes that Marcus knew resided in his own face, the Marquess now flicked between the two of them.
“Walter is handling them,” Marcus said, pointing to his brother. Walter offered another one of those reassuring smiles though Marcus saw through it. Deep down, it worried them both that Marcus lacked much skill or know-how in estate management and matters such as these.
The particulars interested Walter much more than they did Marcus, but since Walter was the third son, and Marcus was the second, now, it was really Marcus’ responsibility to take the lead in such matters. A position he was ill-suited to.
“Wonderful, then the matter is settled,” the Marquess said as he folded up the newspaper and placed it down on a table nearby. “Anything else happen of note?”
Marcus stayed quiet, for he knew he should say that nothing else happened, yet his mind kept turning back to Lady Violette and the impression she had left on him.
“No,” Walter said, taking up the slack of conversation. “How have preparations gone ahead here?”
“All is set for tomorrow,” the Marquess said tightly, sitting forward in his chair. “The funeral will take place at midday.”
Marcus felt that familiar gut-wrenching pain that had taken up residence in his stomach for the last month. Ever since they had received the letter from James’ travel companion about James’ death, it felt as though their world had fallen out from under their feet.
“Everyone will start arriving at the family chapel around eleven-thirty. We shall hold the wake here in the house,” the Marquess said, his tone surprisingly business-like despite the occasion. The formality of the words made Marcus stare at his father a little more intently.
He was the one who had been there when his father read of James’ death. He remembered the way the Marquess had fallen apart, showing the true depths of his grief, on his knees before the fire, crying into his hands whilst Marcus stayed by his side, with a hand to his father’s shoulder.
Marcus had done his own grieving in private behind closed doors, but he could not remove the sadness from his own voice when he talked with others. It would always be there now, that grief lingering, like a scar that could never heal.
“We’ll leave that matter until tomorrow.” The Marquess went on, dismissing the matter of their brother’s funeral with a wave of his hand as he turned his focus to Marcus.
“It is not so easy to forget, Father,” Marcus said tightly, as Walter nodded at his side.
“I know that.” The Marquess’ voice was a little sharper. “Yet we must move on with the world. You are the heir now, Marcus. You must take your brother’s place in all our business matters. There is much more to discuss and do, and we do not have long in which to do it.”
“Surely I have my whole life to learn the ropes?” Marcus asked, frowning.
“And what if I were to drop down dead tomorrow?”
“Father, please!” Marcus said, sounding panicked as he rubbed his hands through his hair. “Have we not talked about death enough as of late?” He could see Walter shifting uncomfortably at his side, just as disquieted by the situation.
“What if it were to happen?”
