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A grim laugh escaped him.
At least he, as the rest of his family, was well supplied with mourning clothes, being but four months out of mourning for his father.
He had best go up and set Belling to packing, before he informed his mother, or attended to dinner for himself. As he hurried up the stairs, he prayed that the morning would bring clear skies, and passable roads, or even the relatively short distance to London would take the full day.
Chapter Three
Greenleigh House was a welcome sight after a day of formal matters – a day in which Leon had felt most strange, for, being dressed in full mourning was rather strange when one was not also in seclusion from society. To go about daily business while dressed that way felt wrong – yet here he was, as was every person of the ton, doing just that, in respect for the King’s passing.
In his home, he could choose to wear something other than unrelieved black – at least when there was no chance of anyone but his mother and the staff seeing him. Not that his wardrobe boasted anything flamboyant, but even small touches of lightness were worthwhile.
He worried, though, about Maggie. She had been terribly distressed by his and Mother’s departure, and by their mourning clothes, becoming frantic with the belief that someone else very close to her must have died. In the end, Mrs Withercombe had found it necessary to resort to laudanum to get her to sleep at all the previous night.
They had decided that, whilst he must stay in London for at least the next few weeks, his mother would spend half of each week at Greenleigh Park to attend to Maggie. That decision left Leon wracked with guilt, yet he could see no other option – he needed to be here, needed to be seen in the House, and in society, to do his formal duty, and establish himself as a sober and respectable man in the opinion of those in power.
He settled at the pianoforte after dinner, and allowed his cares to fade away into music – and into the memory of Lady Iris Gardenbrook.
Would he see her at any social events? There were still quiet events held, even with the mourning, and he would attend some of them. Seeing her would not be the same as playing a duet with her… but it would perhaps at least allow them a conversation on the subject of music, even if not the conversation he would like to have with her…
He played that piece again – the one which now seemed barely real without her beside him – and tried his best to forget about everything else. To forget his poor ailing sister, to forget the strain which lived forever on Mrs Withercombe’s face, and his mother’s, to forget the fact that his life was wrapped in tight bonds by the secrets he must keep.
For the first time, the music failed him – it eased the pain, but he could no longer use it to forget – not now that it was inextricably bound up in his mind with the woman he wanted, yet could not allow himself to have.
>>>
Iris sighed, regarding herself in the mirror.
Black did not suit her – it made her pale skin look sallow, and her dark gold hair look tarnished. Eight weeks. So only another six weeks and she could change to less deep mourning colours. And then another four weeks after that before she could shed mourning entirely. Surely she could cope for that long, especially as everyone else had to suffer it too. It would make the latter part of the Season even more bright and colourful than usual, she was sure, once everyone shed the dark shades of visible grief. She fidgeted, wanting to move.
“Do sit still, my Lady, so that I can pin these jet beads into place in your hair.” Lina, her maid, sounded only a little annoyed, for she had been maid to Iris for three years now, and knew full well that Iris loathed the drabness of black which deep mourning required. “There. That should stay in place for the evening.”
“Thank you, Lina.”
Iris rose, and went downstairs, knowing that her mother and Thorne would be waiting. They were to attend a quiet musicale at Lady Wells’ home – a musicale at which, no doubt, only the most drear and funereal of pieces would be presented. Even loving music as she did, Iris could not bring herself to enjoy an entire evening of mournful works.
Perhaps, if she were lucky, Lord Greenleigh would be there, and they might manage a conversation about more uplifting music? She had seen him only twice since the King’s death, and on neither of those occasions had there been the opportunity for more than a most formal greeting. Their eyes had met, and each time, she had been filled with the sensation that he wanted to say so much more, as she did, that he harboured feelings for her which could not be openly spoken of.
But perhaps she was simply deluding herself.
If so, it was a delusion she would persist in, until such time as his feelings were proven, one way or the other.
>>>
She had smiled at him, and their eyes had met, filled with their shared horror at the painful sounds being presented as music, but there had been no opportunity, yet again, for them to speak beyond a stilted greeting. Now, as he settled into the carriage for the short journey back to Greenleigh House, he wondered if he would ever have more than those stolen glances with her again.
“…possibly suitable to marry? Leon, have you heard anything I’ve just said?”
He blinked, and brought his eyes to his mother.
“Ah… I have not, I am ashamed to admit. Please, repeat it, and I will give you my full attention.”
She shook her head slightly, sighed, and began again.
“I asked you if, amongst the young ladies you have met, you have discovered any yet whom you might consider possibly suitable to marry? Surely, this period of mourning for the King provides an opportunity to see how they comport themselves when they must be sedate and respectable at all times.”
“Mother, I have told you before – I cannot see how I can possibly consider marriage, when the situation with Maggie is as it is – and getting worse! Surely you cannot suggest that she is improving?”
For a moment, his mother’s face was twisted with grief and pain – then that expression was firmly wiped away.
