Page 31 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"I think that I shall take myself off to The Ring'O'Bells to offer a toast to our departed friend," Mr Mifford said, with a twinkle in his eye, "Would you care to join me?"
"No, thank you," Henry shook his head; the funeral had left him feeling melancholy and he wished to be alone.
"Though, please," he continued, taking a small purse of coins from his breast pocket, "Do have a round on me."
Mr Burke and Mr Hare materialised at that very moment, having made quick work of filling in the grave--their industry inspired, Henry guessed, by the promise of a free drink.
The trio of men departed for the village, leaving Henry alone in the graveyard. He had not said his intentions aloud, but as Mr Mifford hurried the two gravediggers away, Henry guessed that the vicar had known what he would do next.
The graveyard was as old as the church, with headstones dating back centuries scattered like daisies across it. Henry picked his way along the haphazard path, toward the rear of the church, where the Lockheart family graves were located. His father's tombstone stood out amongst the others, being newer and less weather-beaten. It was also far simpler than the previous dukes'--the third duke's being particularly ostentatious--for his father had been a simple man, not much taken with displays of wealth and pomp.
Henry stood for a moment in silence, as he paid his respects. The feeling of guilt which he had been trying to suppress threatened to overwhelm him as he noted the bunch of dahlias--his mother's favourite bloom--placed tenderly at the base of the headstone.
What type of man was he to have neglected his father's grave, as well as his estate, for so long?
A coward, Henry thought, with a jolt of self-revulsion; that's all he was.
Unable to stomach it any longer, Henry turned away from his father's grave, desperate to be away. He had tethered his stallion by the church gate, and once he had untied the reins, Henry mounted him and urged him into a gallop.
He followed the Bath Road for a spell, before veering off down a bridle path which led to a path which ran alongside the river. There, he would be in less danger of running into someone, he thought, not at all in the mood to suffer the presence of another.
His misanthropy was tested, a few minutes later, when he spotted a familiar figure making her way along the path.
Miss Mifford, in a cream coloured walking dress worn beneath a short, fitted spencer, was traipsing along the riverbank, her face hidden somewhat by a fetching bonnet topped with a plume of white feathers.
"Miss Mifford," Henry called, pulling his steed to a trot, before drawing him to a halt.
"Your Grace," Miss Mifford looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat, her expression open as ever.
Henry felt his breath catch a little in his throat as she smiled up at him; her earnest goodness was what elevated her looks from a standard beauty to something divine. Henry had known many women during his lifetime, but none could hold a candle to Miss Mifford, whose eyes shone bright with kindness and warmth. The ladies of the ton looked at him with knowing eyes and spoke in half-truths, as though their conversation was but a game to them. Miss Mifford, for all her quirks, was not the sort of girl who would tease a man for her own amusement.
"I am just returning from the funeral," Henry said, once he had dismounted his horse so that he might walk alongside her.
"I trust it went well?" Miss Mifford enquired, all polite, English formality.
"As well as can be expected," Henry was equally proper in his reply. It would not do to confess to Miss Mifford that the whole affair had left Henry feeling melancholic and introspective, much better to discuss the weather or other such benignities. Henry was a duke; it would be unthinkable for him to express an emotion in public, let alone two.
"I expect you feel rather out of sorts after it," Miss Mifford offered, surprising Henry with her directness, "One cannot help but feel affected by death, even if one was not particularly close to the departed."
"It does remind one of one's own mortality," Henry agreed, philosophically, as he wondered how he might navigate the conversation toward the weather.
"And I suppose it made you think of your father," Miss Mifford replied, continuing down the very road Henry had hoped to avoid.
He opened his mouth to offer a curt reply, but to his surprise, he found that the sound which came out was merely a gurgle. His throat burned and his eyes stung, and had Henry not held one of the most prestigious titles in the land, he might have sworn he was on the verge of tears.
Heaven only knew how Miss Mifford interpreted the strange noise that Henry had made into meaning, but somehow she did. Her eyes filled with concern and she reached out for Henry's hand, seemingly without thinking. The instant that she clutched it, she let it go, a blush staining her cheeks.
"Oh, I am sorry," she whispered, in a suitable tone of mortification.
"No, I'm sorry," Henry responded in turn, feeling terribly English for apologising for someone's having felt the need to apologise.
"I should not have mentioned your father," Miss Mifford continued on, determined to right her wrong, "It is obviously still an open wound."
Henry made a noncommittal sound, more restrained than the last noise he had made. For a moment this reply felt adequate, then to his horror, an urge crept over him--the urge to share.
"I'm afraid that it is a wound which refuses to heal," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "I regret my father's passing and I regret that I did not have a chance to apologise to him for my behaviour before he died."
"Was there a great falling out?" Miss Mifford questioned, finally turning to look at him.
