Page 91 of My Dearest Duke

“As much as we’ve mourned, you’d think we’d be accustomed to it by now.”

“I have the distinct feeling that death is the one thing we will never grow familiar with.”

Morgan sighed. “And honestly, it would be a detriment to our humanity if we did become so callous.”

“Indeed,” Joan agreed.

Soon they turned the corner that led them to the square where Rowles’s mother’s town house was located. Already the mourners were collected outside, lining the street. Black carriages were driven by Friesian horses with the customary black ostrich feather in their headbands. Jobbers stood by the horses, keeping them calm. The mutes waited by the front steps, near the six pages who were all dressed in black from head to toe. It was impressive, the number of people waiting to mourn the duchess. Regardless that most were hired, it was still an impressive number and a glorious tribute that Rowles had created for his mother.

Their carriage paused before the jobbers and rolled to a stop. One of the Westmore footmen stepped from the stairs and helped them from the carriage, then escorted their party to the front door and the awaiting butler. Joan looked around her, noting all the small details that would make the whole day even more memorable.

It would be lovely, if it wasn’t a funeral.

Joan followed her brother down the hall and up the stairs. Black baize fabric was draped over every chair and table lining the hall as they approached the late duchess’s final rooms. A nurse stood, disappeared into the dark room, then returned. Rowles followed her into the hall.

“Morgan, Lady Joan,” Rowles said gently, as if they were the ones in mourning, not him.

Joan wanted to rush forward, place a hand on his shoulder or his cheek, and study his expression. Was he truly as well as he appeared to be? What exactly was going on in that beloved mind of his? Yet decorum reminded her to wait, to observe from a polite distance rather than be invasive.

“Your Grace.” She used his formal title, as was necessary for the occasion. Offering a curtsy, she stood and came to stand beside him. “Are you well?” she asked softly.

“I’m better now,” he offered, then reached down and grasped her hand. Lifting it, he placed a soft kiss on her gloved fingers. “Your presence is like a balm to my very soul.”

Joan put on a brave face, but the concern lingered. A balm she might be, but that didn’t eliminate the pain. “We are thankful to be here with you, to share in this with you.”

“I’m blessed.” Rowles nodded, then turned to Morgan. “Thank you.”

“You’ve stood beside me often enough. I could do no less, my friend.”

Rowles nodded and a nurse came from the darkened room. “Your Grace, all is ready.”

Rowles turned to her and then to Morgan and motioned for them to step aside. His mother’s body rested in her coffin within the sitting room to the left. The coffin was brought out into the hall, carried on the shoulders of the attendants. Rowles followed, and Morgan offered Joan his arm as they moved in behind him, following the procession. As they reached the front of the house, the jobbers assisted the attendants in loading the coffin into the carriage, and the procession began.

The carriage with the coffin started toward the duchess’s final resting place as another took its place. Rowles offered his hand to Joan, and she stepped into the darkness of the carriage, followed by her brother and then her betrothed. It was a silent ride to the cemetery within the carriage, but without, the mourners cried, wailed, and called out.

After the carriage halted at the cemetery, Rowles stepped out and assisted her. He offered his arm, and when she grasped it, he drew her in tightly, protectively. It was well known that any sort of funeral processional was a magnet for pickpockets and thieves. All ne’er-do-wells took the opportunity to collect what they could steal in times like these where the crowds were dense and chase was usually not given.

Rowles offered, “Selfish as it is, I’m grateful you’re here.”

“It’s not selfish at all to wish to be with the one you love,” Joan replied, squeezing his arm affectionately.

Morgan was behind her. She could hear his footsteps, closer than usual as he took up a protective stance behind them. Joan had a moment of amusement, albeit fleetingly, thinking how it would turn out if some poor thief picked Morgan as a target.

“Something humorous?” Rowles asked as they came to a stop in front of his mother’s final resting place.

“I’ll tell you later,” Joan murmured, realizing it wasn’t the time or place to share her amusement, however fleeting.

A curate stood before them, opening his well-worn Book of Common Prayer as he began to read the words of the funeral rite, starting with Psalm 121.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills;

from whence cometh my help?

My help cometh even from the LORD,

who hath made heaven and earth.

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved,

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