Chapter 59: Lady Cecily's Testament

Perhaps he had expected his mother to die: but not so soon. Tavington felt the blow more than he had imagined he would. Once gone, his mother ceased to be the sick old woman who had plagued him and wounded Jane since their arrival in England. Mamma had become once more the lovely, doting figure of his childhood. His throat was thick with emotion.

"We must return to London at once."

John, too, was looking rather miserable. "I suppose so. Yes, we must. Caro and Pen will feel it, poor girls. We must help them."

Jane sent the express rider to the Hall to have something to eat after his journey. Linking her arms with her two companions', she urged them to walk on back with her, and talk about arrangements that had to be made.

"Where is your mother to be buried?"

"Good Lord!" John groaned. "I have no idea. Will, do you remember if she said anything about it?"

"I suppose we always presumed she'd be buried in the crypt at Wargrave Church with Father. Unless something new turns up, I think we should plan on that."

"All right, then." John frowned, thinking. "We'll have to have the formal reading of the will, just to make sure—I really didn't study that bit all that carefully. We'll have her seen to, and bring her back some time on Friday for the funeral. We should have enough time that way to have our mourning ready. Caro and Pen will come back with us, of course—a shame their first trip to Wargrave in years has to be for this! We'll see who else will come out."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jane asked, feeling she must make the offer, but hoping with all her heart they would say no.

"No, my dear," Tavington answered instantly. "There's no reason to put you and the children through all the stress of so much travel. It would be best, I think, if you stayed here and prepared the Hall for guests. Send Bordon a message about the plans and get some rest before the onslaught."

After some more thought, John said, "You may need to order in some more provisions. Uncle Colchester will come, certainly, and who knows who he'll bring with him?"

"Look here." Tavington stopped, and then made a quick decision. "Let's leave the coach here with Jane. She may need it. We'll travel on horseback and take our menservants with us. We can return in Mamma's—" he paused, grimacing. "—in Mamma's coach with the girls, and with Lucy and Protheroe if they can come, and with the hearse, and with anyone else who wishes to see Mamma off."

It was all accomplished with dispatch. By two o'clock, Jane saw the four riders disappear down the long lane and into the trees, and then she went to the nursery to play with the children.

-----

It was dark by the time they drew rein in London before their door, now decorated with the flowing black crape that betokened a house in mourning. Rivers had been watching for visitors, and welcomed them, concerned about the long cold ride they must have endured.

"Her ladyship has been laid out in the drawing room, gentlemen," he told them, in a very solemn voice. "The ladies are sitting there with her."

Without another word Tavington climbed the long staircase, with John at his back. He dreaded the sight of Mamma in her coffin, but the time had come. His sisters heard them on the stairs and came out to them, faces pale and strained, eyes reddened. Somehow, he had thought that Lucy would bear up under the loss between than Caroline and Penelope, but he had been wrong. Lucy was quite overcome with misery, and embraced both her brothers with tears. It was Penelope who was making the necessary arrangements.

She told John, "I took the liberty of sending to your tailor to make you a mourning suit. He is to have it ready by late tomorrow. I did not see the need for hurry for you, William, since you already have your mourning. We may need you to go out upon some errands for us. Mamma always liked Madame Margot's work, so I order mourning dresses from her. The undertakers were here before noon, and brought a perfectly proper coffin. Mr. Grimsby, her new lawyer, is coming on Friday morning to read Mamma's new will, but since you already read Mamma's copy, I suspect we shall have no surprises."

Lucy interrupted her. "Jane did not come with you? I am sorry not to see her, but it would have been so difficult for the children!"

"So we thought, Lucy," Tavington soothed her. "We decided it was best if Jane stayed at Wargrave and got everything ready. We will take Mamma there to be buried on Friday."

"Friday!" Caroline had been off in a world of her own, but this caught her attention. "Shall we all go? I suppose we must! What am I saying? Of course, we shall all go, but how? There are the three of us, and you and John, and Edward, and probably Uncle—"

John put his arm around his sister. It was distressing to see Caroline so upset. "We'll sort everything out, Caro—don't worry about it. Will left his carriage with Jane, but we have Mamma's. You and Pen and your maids can go in that, and if Will and I must, we will go a-horseback again. Lucy, do you think Protheroe will able to come?"

"Of course he will," Lucy sniffed, and then pulled herself together. "Of course he will. We'll have our carriage, and I daresay Uncle will want his own, because he might go straight on to Colneford after the funeral—"

A deep voice was heard below, and Rivers' helpless dithering.

"We might as well ask the man himself," John remarked dryly, "for here he is."

Lord Colchester was up the stairs and in the room as he finished speaking. In an old and too-small mourning coat, he resembled a ragpicker rather than an earl, but no one could fault his family feeling as he put out his huge arms to embrace his nieces, and to shake his nephews' hands with great compassion.

"My dear children! You're all here! Where is Cis? Is she--?"

Caro took him by the hand, and led him to the bier. Tavington himself had not yet had a chance to see his mother. They all moved to the coffin, and there was a long silence. Tavington thought, all things considered, his mother made a fairly good-looking corpse. It would have been faithful Fabienne, of course, who would have washed her and made her face up, this last time, with such loving care. The paint was thick, to cover the syphilitic sores, but she had done very well. Mamma's hair was dressed simply, with curls softening the sides of her face, partly concealing the linen band under her chin that was knotted out of sight behind the masses of her white hair. The shroud was fine linen, and wrapped about the body very neatly. Mamma's hands were folded across her breast and in them was a bouquet of jasmine and white roses.

There followed a difficult half-hour. Tears were shed, and not all of them by women. Lord Colchester wanted to talk of his sister's childhood, and the scrapes the two of them had got into. Some of the stories were very funny, but they tended to cause nostalgic sorrow rather than laughter. After the first wretchedness was over, Penelope called for tea, and saw that everyone drank some, and then they began a long, bracing conversation about what they all should do. John had looked quite miserable, and was glad of occupation.

"We'll have the lawyer over, as soon as we're fit to be seen. Do come, Uncle. I believe Mamma mentions you in the will for a mourning ring."

This distressed Lord Colchester again, and Caroline held one of his hands, while with the other he noisily blew his nose into his pocket-handkerchief. "I wanted Bill and Kitty to come with me," he told them, 'but they haven't any mourning yet, and were concerned that you would think them lacking in respect. They'll be along tomorrow, of course—whenever the clothes arrive. I had to come to you at once. Don't worry, I've ordered something better—" he heaved a rueful laugh, indicating his frayed mourning coat, "I had this from when I lost my own poor Anne. It seems I have put on a bit of weight without her to keep me up to the mark."

"Stay and dine with us, Uncle," Caroline urged him. "It is such a comfort to have you with us."

Of course he agreed, and the hours passed. Fabienne appeared, deeply grieving, to sit with Lady Cecily while the family ate.

Tavington had not liked his mother's maid much, but she had, after all, served his mother, and not him. He paused before going down to dinner, and asked her briefly about the nurse. "Did Mrs. Watkins ever come back?"

"No," the maid informed him, clearly very angry. "that horrible woman, that Nurse Venable—she stay until this morning. She was snoring when I come to awaken Madame early this morning. I knew Madame was dead at once. The doctor come when Miss Penelope call for him. He say it is her heart— Bien sur, it was her heart—broken, her heart, broken by—" she pressed her lips together until they were white ridges. "The doctor, he is a fool, but that much is true. That woman, she is gone as soon as the doctor leaves. She did not stay for her money. I am glad. She deserves nothing. She did not even help to lay my poor Madame out."

"Do you think—my mother suffered?"

Fabienne shrugged. "Who can say? I did not hear her cry out in the night. Perhaps she sleeps so soundly, she never wakes. There was only the bloody nose—"

"She had a bloody nose?"

"A smear of blood from the nostril, already dark by the morning. Her eyes were shut, so I pray that she feel nothing. Hélas! She is gone."

The family came in and sat with Lady Cecily. The maid was urged to get some rest, and the inconveniences caused by the nurses was the great topic of conversation with everyone. Caroline said she would send a message to Mrs. Watkins. Some wages were due her, and it was not her fault if she there had been sickness in her own family.

"I daresay that Venable creature took herself off before she could be thrown out," John growled. "She doesn't seem to have been of much use. Probably didn't have the gall to ask for money."

Tavington privately thought it was odd. Most people of that sort always had the gall to ask for money, even if they had been utterly useless. Possibly the woman had feared they would blame her for their mother's death. He was distracted from continuing this thought by the conversation of the others. His sisters, including Lucy, intended to sit up watching with their mother all night. Tavington thought it very dutiful of them, but was not about to join them. He must get some rest if his head were to be clear for business tomorrow. John agreed with him, and they escorted their uncle downstairs, with more handshakes and professions of affection before the old man left.

-----

So the house was his now, in all but name. He would have that too, after the will was read on the morrow. Early Thursday morning, Tavington wandered about upstairs, walking the long corridor, stopping before his mother's room. The door was open, and the maids were busy cleaning the room. They saw him, and bobbed respectfully.

"Go on with your work. Don't mind me."

He entered the bedroom. The bed was stripped of linen, and looked very strange to him. It was cold, for the window had been opened to air the chamber. Little Jenny, the smallest of the maids, was dusting. She, too, curtseyed at the appearance of the handsome but frightening Colonel, and went back to cleaning at his command. He wondered if Jane would want this room, and rather thought not. Though it was the best and largest in the house, it would be his mother's for years, probably. Perhaps by the time the boys were old enough to need proper bedchambers, his mother's spirit would be far enough away.

"Beg pardon, sir."

It was the little maid. She gave him a bob, and with eyes on the floor, she said, "We are very sorry, I'm sure, for your loss, sir. 'Tis a grievous thing to lose a mother."

She could not have been much older than Deborah Porter, and she meant well. Tavington was softened enough by recent events not to send her about her business with a sharp word.

"I thank you. She lived a long life, and perhaps it is best that she no longer suffers. Her maid thinks her end was peaceful, at least, and I thank God for it." He thought again of Fabienne's words.

"Was there a great deal of blood?"

"No,sir. Just the face. Ma'mselle cleaned Madame up herself, so there was none on the sheets---"

Tavington nodded, and left the room, and did not hear the rest of the sentence.

"—It was only on the pillow. Strange, that—it was on the underside. How would it get there? Sir?"

-----

The day was a dreary round of preparations for the funeral. His sisters, in the end, had taken turns waking and sleeping. Lucy had spent part of the night in her old room, and met Tavington on the stairs, as they went down to breakfast together.

They held hands in silence, until Tavington said, "Don't come to the reading of the will, Lucy. John and I had a look at it. It will only hurt you. Mamma was not in her right mind when she wrote it."

"I must come, William," she replied. "I must hear her last words, even if they are cruel. I am so sad that she never forgave me. I love Edward and Ned, but sometimes I wonder if I am a wicked, selfish person."

"No!" he answered forcefully. "You're nothing of the sort. You're a very good person, and you wanted a normal life. There is nothing wicked about that. Mamma was ill. She was horrible to Jane, too, who certainly did not deserve it."

Since he already was dressed in mourning, it was Tavington who played host to the friends and family who called to pay their respect. Protheroe arrived later, to see to Lucy, but also to assist Tavington. He always had an appropriate suit of black ready, he told Tavington, since his profession often took him to houses in mourning. Mamma's favored modiste arrived in the afternoon, to finish off some plain mourning gowns for his sisters. They would no doubt be very expensive. His brother's tailor made an appearance, accompanied by four assistants, and Sir John was in mourning in a few hours.

A steady stream of deliveries came to the house: mourning livery for the butler and footmen, cloth for the maids to sew into their own mourning costumes. Cloaks and coats for the family arrived. Gradually his brother and his sisters appeared to greet the visitors, looking strange and funereal in deepest black. Some visitors merely left cards. Letters arrived, and Caroline was once again their secretary, taking note of who sent messages of condolence.

Arrangements were made for the reading of the will the following morning, to be followed by a breakfast, and then the party would leave immediately for Wargrave for the funeral to be held in the afternoon. Lord Colchester would indeed join the funeral train, along with the Sattersbys and the Trumfleets. The Bilsthorpes, if they came, would meet them at Wargrave. The funeral would be a small, private affair, since the lawyer, when applied to, had said that the lady had specified nothing about the matter in her will.

Late in the afternoon, Letty and Fanshawe came to call, Tavington's sisters were particularly happy to see Letty. They did not stay long. Letty gave him a letter for her sister and a compassionate look. The Parrots arrived, and Lady Parrott made a sobbing spectacle of herself at the coffin, her voice shrilling above the hushed tones of the others. It was a relief when the last of them left, and the family could sit down to another quiet dinner, and another evening spent watching over the pale figure holding macabre court in the drawing room.

-----

All the material signs of mourning were obtained by Friday morning. The family gathered for the reading of the will, some exhausted by sitting up all night. Protheroe came early, bringing Ned, who would travel with his mother and father to Wargrave. His nursemaid took him upstairs, and was told him keep him quiet and amused, and not to stuff him so full of sweets that he would be sick on the journey. Tavington moved restlessly about the house, not liking to spend any more time in the drawing room with Mamma than absolutely necessary. They were keeping the drawing room cold, without a fire, though with the funeral to be held promptly, there was little reason to worry about possible deterioration . Penelope had ordered a new bouquet for each day. Tavington thought it very sweet of her.

Their uncle returned, now accompanied by Sattersby and Kitty, and to Tavington's even greater annoyance, with Trumfleet and Anne. While Kitty was simply a reminder of horrible stupidity on his part, Anne was a troublemaker, and always had been. With some exasperation, Tavington managed to thank his uncle for bringing them along.

"I sent for them as soon as I heard about Cis. It was not too far for them to come. I sent an express to Sarah and Bilsthorpe, too, and perhaps they will manage the journey. I told them to go right to Wargrave, if they were coming at all."

His uncle's touching optimism about the affection among his children and his sister's never failed to exasperate Tavington. His uncle was welcome: his cousins were not.

However, they were here and looking the part of grieving relations, whatever their private views, and Tavington knew that his mother had remembered them in her will. They were all shown to the drawing room and solemnly bade farewell to Lady Cecily, whose appearance was as yet unchanged. John then spoke to the undertakers in attendance, and told them to close the coffin. More tears were shed as the nails were driven in. Afterwards, the party went downstairs to the library, where the will would be read.

Traylor Grimsby, his mother's lawyer was already established there, and was greeted civilly. He, of course, was completely aware of the family quarrels and the reason why Lady Cecily had withdrawn her favor from the Protheroes. However, he was a professional, and was here to perform his duty. There might be those gathered to together today who looked upon him as an opportunist and an interloper. It did not matter to him.

Tavington thought him silky and effete, but he had the official copy of the will, and must be treated as his mother's legal representative.

"'In the name of God, Amen,'" Grimsby began.

The beginning was quite familiar. Lady Cecily left her house, its contents, and her money to her beloved son, William Mortimer Tavington, with the exception of specific bequests in her will—and, it appeared, more bequests in the codicils, which were new to him.

Tavington grimaced. Mamma must have decided to leave various keepsakes to her favorites, for he was unsure how much actual money was left. As far as they knew, her debts were paid, and Protheroe had continued pressing the collection of monies owed to her. Tavington had not asked Protheroe about the exact sums recently, not wanting to appear like a vulture. It was enough that he would not be responsible for a mountain of debt. Among the first exceptions were the bequests to Caroline and Penelope. Though they no doubt deserved more, their mother had at least left them her personal jewelry. Caroline was to receive her diamond parure—a necklace, a pair of bracelets, earrings, brooch, and ring—that Lady Cecily had received on the day of her wedding from her brother. Lord Colchester teared up at this, and patted Caroline's hand, whispering how glad he was that she should have them.

Penelope was to receive her sapphires and her best pearl set. Lady Cecily's niece by marriage, Catherine Mortimer, Lady Sattersby, was bequeathed "the Indian ruby ring." Lady Trumfleet was to receive her black pearl necklace. Her other niece, Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe, was to receive "the curious brooch of amber and pearls." Tavington heard Lucy sigh. She had liked that brooch very much when they were children. The rest of the jewelry was to be divided between her two daughters as they saw fit.

Lady Cecily noted that another set of jewels, the old-fashioned set of rose-cut diamonds, was not her personal jewelry, but were Tavington family jewels, and thus devolved upon her eldest son, Sir John St. Leger Tavington. She wanted no one to say that she was claiming anything not rightfully hers, but Dir John had not troubled himself to marry, and thus there had been no Lady Tavington with a claim that superseded hers.

John perked up at this. He had not read the paragraphs concerning the jewelry very carefully, and was quite pleased to think that here was something nice for Emily. The jewels might need to be reset, however, in a more up-to-date style. He must take them out and have a look at them.

Fifty pounds was left to her brother, Lord Colchester, to buy a mourning ring in her memory. "—And let it be a handsome one," the will specified.

Tavington bit back a smile. Lord Colchester wiped his nose. Money for mourning rings was left to her friends Annabella, Lady Parrott and Viscount Ravenswood, and to her nephew, Lord Sattersby. In addition, Lord Ravenswood was to be given the miniature portrait of her painted in her blue Court dress in 1749. Tavington mentally checked off one of the bequests, since Lord Ravenswood was already dead. He glanced guiltily at Lucy, who was looking very sad, and recalled that Lord Ravenswood had likely been her father. Perhaps he should see that Lucy received that particular portrait.

Lady Cecily's clothes and lace were the perquisites of her faithful maid, Fabienne Boulanger. In addition, she wished said Fabienne Boulanger to receive a pension of fifty pounds per annum,"that she not be driven by want to an evil life."

Tavington grimaced again. Mamma's clothing must be worth at least five hundred pounds! He hoped that his mother had had at least a thousand pounds left of her fortune. If she had, he could have it invested, and the interest would pay the maid her pension. It was Mamma's money, after all, and she had a right to leave it to whom she liked. The maid had indeed been fond of her: fonder and more faithful than others. The lawyer read the portions of the will concerning his own remuneration. Nothing unreasonable there. Tavington frowned thoughtfully. If he must, he would sell something out of the house to pay these bequests. There were all sorts of valuables. In Mamma's room alone there was a clutter of expensive trifles. Of course, he would let Lucy go through them, too, so that she would have something. It was too bad about the brooch.

Now came the part about Lucy, specifically cutting her off. "The undutiful daughter" was rebuked a last time. Lady Cecily had made a point of mentioning her, so that no one would think she had forgotten her, and that there was some mistake in the will. She was left nothing-not even her mother's blessing. Lucy began to cry at this, and Protheroe pulled her close to comfort her. Penelope, on her other side, took her hand, and whispered earnestly in her ear. Yes, Tavington decided, he would see that Lucy received something. After all, who knew when Mamma's illness had begun to affect her mind?

Their mother had added some codicils that did not appear in the will they had seen. The first, written in early 1780, concerned the disposal of her property in the event of her son William's death. The house and its contents were to go jointly to her daughters, Caroline Cecily Tavington and Penelope Priscilla Tavington, with the reservation that the house was not to be turned into some sort of institution for undeserving paupers. She did not wish to encourage Penelope's foolish charities. Because of that, her money was not to be left to them, lest they give it away to reformed prostitutes and abandoned bastards. Nor was her money to go to John, "who already had more than was good for him." John snorted at that. Tavington saw Anne smirk, and shot her a glare that made her look away. In the event of her son William's death, Lady Cecily's money was to be divided between her nieces: Anne, Lady Trumfleet, and Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe. Tavington, on hearing that, nearly snorted himself, very glad he was alive and that his cousins would get jewelry and nothing else. No thanks to the rebels!

Anne looked vexed, which pleased him. The lawyer moved on to some codicils which Lady Cecily had added at various times shortly after Tavington's return to England. Surprisingly, she had left her carriage to her son, Sir John.

"—for I cannot bear to see him going about in that ridiculous curricle. He will break his neck. He ought to ride in a coach and four, more befitting his dignity as a Member of Parliament."

She had also specified that various Tavington family articles must be regarded as John's: the old christening cup from the time of James I; the volumes in the library regarding the Tavington lineage. She understood that these were not hers to bequeath, but she wished to make clear that they could not be regarded as contents of the house that she was free to bequeath to her son William. Tavington smiled sourly here, wondering if this had been written as a reaction to his marriage.

Finally, Lady Cecily wished to specify that her children were the rightful possessors of certain papers of hers, which were kept in a box of ivory and ebony. If they were to lay hands on these papers at any time in the future, they was authorized to make what use of them he wished, and Lady Cecily hoped they would profit greatly thereby.

The box? Is that what she's been going on about?

"When is that codicil dated?" he asked the lawyer.

"October fifth of last year, sir," Grimsby replied.

He continued the will to its end, in which Lady Cecily commended her soul to God. A silence followed.

Tavington admitted his own disappointment. Mamma's treatment of Lucy had been very bad. And then, too, he had hoped at the last that she would relent and acknowledge, if not Jane, then at least one or both of her grandsons. She could have left a book, a picture, or an ornament—any kind of trifle. How much trouble could that have been? It would have meant so much to Lucy if Ned had been mentioned. As for William Francis—Tavington had never understood his mother's indifference to his enchanting little son. How could she not love him? It was strange and wounding. He would choose something from the house, and put it aside for his son, and tell him someday that it was from his grandmother.

Caroline audibly assured Lucy that they would divide the jewels with her. "Mamma was not in her right mind for a long time, dearest," she said, echoing Tavington's own thought. "If she had not been ill, I know you would have been reconciled. Try to remember her as she was when we were children."

John, very sensibly, asked Protheroe in an undertone, "Did she have enough money left for all those bequests?"

"Yes," Protheroe answered, surprising Tavington somewhat. He added very softly, for Tavington's ear alone. "Her fortune was greatly diminished, but with her debts to others paid, and with gambling debts to her collected as far as possible, there remains some forty-nine hundred pounds, more or less."

"Really?" Tavington was quite surprised—even pleased, he admitted to himself. Not wishing to sound greedy, he added, "Then there will be no difficulty honoring her wishes?"

"None. I presume you wish to set aside a sum to pay the pension to the maid."

"Of course. No one's going to hurry the poor woman away, but she will be glad to know that she is provided for."

And I will not have to auction off Mamma's things to do it. After the burial, I shall have Lucy go through it all, and choose what she would like. Something else occurred to him.

"Uncle," he asked Lord Colchester, "in Mamma's last days she went on and on about that box. No one knows what she meant. Do you have any idea about papers in a—what? An ivory and ebony box?"

His uncle shook his head. "No idea. Some strange fancy of hers, I suspect. Poor Cis! A sorry end, but I shall wear the ring and think of happier times!"

The will being read, the family adjourned to have breakfast together in the dining room. Mr. Grimsby was invited, but politely declined, to everyone's relief. Penelope had seen that the breakfast was ample and comforting, and they lingered over it. Many anecdotes were related of the deceased, mentioning her beauty, her high spirits, her great acquaintance, her days at Court. There was some satisfaction expressed by those receiving keepsakes. Lady Trumfleet, however, was not satisfied with merely mentioning her bequest.

"It was so kind of my aunt to think of me. Her beautiful black pearls! I shall treasure them for her sake. My dear Caroline, since I am here—would it not be easier for all concerned if I took them with me now? Then you would not have to bother with sending them on." She smiled graciously at Kitty. "And Kitty's ring, too. Why should she not have it now? It really would be the easiest thing."

Kitty, to her credit, turned red, feeling Anne's bad taste in demanding the jewelry before the funeral. Caroline looked angry and upset, but rang for a footman.

Crisply, she said, "Ask my mother's maid to find her black pearls and the Indian ruby ring, and put them in boxes for Lady Trumfleet and Lady Sattersby."

"—and Sarah's brooch, too, if it is not too much trouble," Anne added sweetly. "I can give it to her the next time I see her."

Incensed, Caroline replied, "I can give it to her the next time I see her. I would not dream of troubling you."

"La! It is no trouble at all. I cannot get those lovely pearls out of my head. Did not my dear aunt have some earrings that matched? I wonder that she did not mention them. It seems a pity to break up the set."

"A great pity," Caroline replied stonily, "but such was my mother's will."

Her voice had risen, and by this time, the whole table was listening. Lord Colchester, doting as he was, felt that Anne had been, perhaps, a little too forward.

"Never mind, Anne my dear," he declared cheerfully. "I'll take the brooch, and give it to Sarah. We shall see each other later today, like as not. I don't see any reason to hurry, but if it worries you, let's settle the business, and leave dear Caroline to think about more important things."

There was great embarrassment at the table. Caroline was furious, and even Penelope was put out. Lucy stared at her plate. Sattersby, the least surprised at Anne of the entire party. rolled his eyes expressively at his wife.

Kitty whispered to John, by whom she sat, "Please believe I never said anything about the ring. I can wait perfectly well until everyone has had time to recover."

"Never mind," John whispered back. "Just be glad you're here to get the ring. If Caroline had let Anne have it to give to you, ten to one you'd never have seen it! Anne never saw a piece of jewelry that she didn't like."

Within the quarter hour, the pieces of jewelry, each in its own proper case, was brought down and distributed. Anne opened hers immediately, to exclaim over the beauty of her aunt's bequest. Kitty would have preferred not to do anything so rude as make a parade of her possession, especially in front of Lucy, whom she felt sorry for. She had met Lucy before their marriages, and had thought her very lovely and very nice. It was sad to see her brought so low—married to a mere lawyer, and cut off by her mother. Perhaps she had brought it on herself, but Kitty could not help feeling that Lady Cecily had been the chief culprit.

Caroline, however, wanted her to make certain the ring was in good condition. Kitty understood that she wished her receipt of the jewel to be publicly witnessed, lest there be complications later.

"Oh, my, it is lovely!" she said, opening the little box. It was a massive, dome-shaped ring: heavy gold heaped with pigeon-blood rubies. A great one in the center, surrounded by two ovals of smaller stones. It was quite magnificent—even exotic. She did not yield to the temptation to put it on at once, but showed it to Sir John on one side, and on the other to Lord Trumfleet, who grunted in approval.

Lord Colchester casually shoved the box containing the brooch in a pocket, and was quiet deaf to any application by his daughter to show it to the assembled company.

"Sarah will see it," he declared. "It's no one else's business."

There was a general movement to prepare for the journey. The undertakers brought the coffin down the stairs, to seal it into the lead outer coffin already waiting in the hearse. The carriages had been brought round, and the luggage loaded. It would be quite a cortege: Caroline, Penelope and their maids would travel in their mother's coach; Tavington and John with their uncle; the Sattersbys, Trumfleets, and Protheroes each in their own carriage. Even with a team of eight to the hearse, the journey would take longer than usual, due to the weight of the coffin. They did not expect to reach Wargrave much before four o'clock. The funeral would take place almost immediately. Even if it were dark, it would not be very difficult, since the burial would be in the crypt, and no one would be falling down into open graves in a dark churchyard.

Tavington nearly ran into Kitty in all the confusion with the carriages. She looked up at him shyly. He had exchanged not more than ten words with her at the ball, and said nothing but the briefest of greeting today. Sattersby was watching her, fiercely possessive, and Tavington did not wish to make any more trouble between man and wife. Even the light, discreet touch of Kitty's gloved hand on his arm awakened no emotions. Whatever had been there was gone, and he simply flicked her a polite smile as he bowed and made way for her. Her husband hurried up, jealously handing her into their coach. Tavington stood back, and then told his uncle that he must have a word with his mother's maid.

She came at the summons, looking very frightened, and Tavington imagined she thought he was about to order her out of the house.

"I must leave for my mother's funeral immediately. However, Lady Cecily was generous to you in her will, and has left you a pension. I shall return Monday to discuss it with you. Please do not depart before then. I am sorry I have no more time to speak of it, but I must go. Until then."

He left a stunned and tearful Fabienne behind him. The door shut on her exclamations about the nobility and munificence of her poor Madame.

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The last two days had been tiring. Even Lord Colchester was worn out by his vigil over his sister's coffin. The three men chatted a little, and dozed during the carriage ride. John brought out a flask of brandy, and they shared it solemnly, referring to Lady Cecily. Colchester was not as blind to his children's faults as he might have seemed, for he apologized for Anne's pushing ways.

"Think nothing of it, Uncle," Tavington replied. "We all know how Anne is. It's just that it was unkind to make such a show of her bequest while Lucy received nothing."

"Poor Lucy!" Colchester exclaimed. "Protheroe seems a good sort. Is she happy with the fellow?"

"Very much so. He is very devoted to her and to their son. She often brings Ned with her when she visits at Mortimer Square. He's a delightful child. You must make his acquaintance once we are all at Wargrave."

"I'd like that. I find the waiting hard until Kitty has her first. I daresay I shall make a great ass of myself over the youngster. Hope it's a boy, of course, but little girls are dear creatures. Kitty will be a very good mother, I'm sure."

"Nothing more likely," replied John, saving Tavington from having to say anything. "Uncle—are you sure you don't know anything about a box? Mamma might have stowed something away at Colneford. It might have been an idle fancy, or it might not."

"No, really, my dear boy. Can't think what she was going on about. Is there any brandy left?"

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Next: Of Funerals and Other Family Gatherings