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Rowles squeezed her hand and nodded his thanks to the maid, who set the tea service on the small table before them.
Taking up her former place against the wall, awaiting the instructions of her mistress, the maid once again became a silent sentinel keeping watch.
Joan sighed softly; it was a sound of contentment but also wistfulness. “I’ll pour. How would you like your tea?”
“Thank you. With cream and sugar, please.” And with a grin he whispered, “However, nothing is as sweet as you, so why even bother?”
Her blush gave away her pleasure at the artless compliment.
And as Rowles sipped his tea, he couldn’t help but thank the heavens that while he mourned, he was also blessed with the greatest promise of future joy. A life with Joan.
Thirty
Joan took in a deep, determined breath through her nose as she focused on anything but her reflection.
She would stand by Rowles tonight as he said his final goodbyes to his mother, but in doing so, it would freshen the memories of her own goodbyes.
Her father.
Her mother.
Her brother.
So much loss.
The mourning clothes chafed at her skin, as if reminding her further of the pain of outliving loved ones. But regardless of the pain of her own memories, she wouldn’t have Rowles walk the path ahead alone.
Like she hadn’t let Morgan walk alone that night they mourned their father.
Or when they’d buried what remained of their brother after the fire that had taken his life.
No. If ever Morgan had needed her, it was when they’d buried his twin. He’d changed that day.
But death coming to an older person didn’t make it less powerful in the experience of the loss. Joan breathed deeply, then looked up. She studied her reflection. The deep-purple hue of the gown made her skin paler, or perhaps it was the effect painful memories have on a person. Her hair was in a simple chignon because tonight was a night when she’d wish to blend in.
With a reluctant sigh, she stood from her place before the mirror and stepped into the comfortable slippers laid out by her maid. The veil she donned next would hide much of her face, but it was still apparent she was a woman, and thus she would stand out since she wasn’t going to walk among the hired mourners, who were usually women. No, she’d stay beside Rowles and Morgan.
Exactly where she should be.
It was odd, the fact that women didn’t usually attend funerals. It made sense in some distorted aspect, given the low expectation for women’s emotional stamina in grievous situations. Was it such a crime to shed a tear, to mourn a loss?
She shook off the indignation at the societal constriction and took her leave. As she took the stairs to the main floor, she noted that Morgan was already waiting. He was dressed in black. As she came to stand by his side, she prayed fervently that this would be the last funeral they would attend for quite some time.
“Are you certain you wish to come?” Morgan asked, even as he led her to the front of the house and their carriage.
“Yes,” Joan replied directly.
“Very well, please, stay close—”
“I always have, haven’t I?” Joan cut in, meeting his gaze.
Morgan conceded, “Yes, yes, you have. Even when I didn’t know you were in attendance. You always stayed close.”
Joan took Morgan’s offered hand and stepped into the carriage, then took a seat and arranged her skirts. The carriage moved forward, and Joan took another deep breath.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Morgan broke the silence.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
