* * *
The next morning we all assembled in the hall looking like a collection of very well-dressed crows. Or possibly magpies, given the men’s white shirt fronts and the deep blue, relieved with cream, that Lady Radcliffe deemed correct for ladies who were not related to the deceased.
‘It would be bad form to wear deep mourning, as though to claim a relationship with the deceased,’ she explained. ‘We appear sombre, but not do pretend any excess of emotion.’
‘Is Lord Tillingham’s mother still alive?’ I asked. It was bad enough for his surviving uncles and cousins, but I flinched mentally at the thought of offering condolences to a bereaved parent.
‘No. She died some years ago. A consumption, poor soul. Alexander Prescott is married to Georgina – Adrien’s mama, of course. She was a Wilmott, I believe. One of the Wiltshire Wilmotts. Their eldest son, Marcus, is married to Clarissa, one of the Hendersons who have a very remote connection to the Duke of Sutherland. Charles, the next son, is married to Anne. Her father is a banker: always convenient,’ she added wryly. ‘Then the youngest of poor Henry’s uncles, Horace, married Prunella Lambert, daughter of Sir Digby Lambert. She is a foolish creature. None of their three sons are married and I blame her entirely – she is making no effort with them whatsoever.’
‘I have met Jerald, who is the youngest, I think.’
‘Quite the charmer, but very immature,’ Lady Radcliffe said. ‘The sort of boy who keeps imagining himself in love – the more hopeless, the better. He needs a sensible wife to steady him and stop this romantic nonsense. They all do.’
James made a poor attempt at stifling a snort of amusement, possibly because his mother blithely ignored the fact that he was never going to settle down with a nice sensible wife. ‘They aren’t so bad. There’s nothing vicious about any of them, I’d have said. They are just enjoying the fact they have no personal responsibilities and a father who gives them a reasonable allowance.’
* * *
Tillingham Hall was impressive, although not as large as Whitebeams, Luc’s Suffolk home. The park was smaller, the stable range far simpler and the house was a single block without wings, I noted, feeling a proprietary pride on Luc’s behalf. It was rather stolid-looking, with a central, flat-roofed part flanked by sections with one more floor on either side, giving the effect of two towers.
There were a number of carriages spilling out from the stable yard towards the carriage drive in front of the house where a long black vehicle was standing, draped in black and with poles at each corner topped by black ostrich plumes. Grooms were leading out a team of four black horses with black drapery over their backs and more nodding plumes fixed between their ears.
‘We are in good time,’ Luc said as our footman opened the carriage door. ‘I will walk you in, discover who else is attending the interment, then James and I will take our places in the procession.’
It took me a moment to work it out, then I realised that the carriages following the hearse and family coaches would be in order of the precedence of their occupants.
The front door was draped in evergreens and black swags and stood wide open. The butler bowed us in and took Lady Radcliffe and me through into the house while Luc spoke to a footman.
I was not certain what to expect, but the ladies filling the large drawing room were not in any obvious great distress and certainly there was no weeping going on. We were announced and a middle-aged woman, who I assumed was Georgina, Adrien’s mother, came forward to greet us. She was, with Doctor Prescott unmarried, the ranking lady of the family and I wondered how long it would be before she was the actual mistress of this house. At least it was a pleasant July day and the sickly new Viscount did not have to contend with rain or bone-chilling winds: those would probably finish him off.
I curtseyed and shook hands and murmured my sympathies and then another lady came forward and took us off to introduce us around the room.
Lady Radcliffe knew most of them, of course, at least by sight, but I had to concentrate hard to memorise the Prescott wives. I did not try too hard with anyone not named Prescott, because there had appeared to be no motive for any of the relatives not in the direct line.
Finally we came to someone I did recognise, Miss Jordan. I curtseyed to Lady Jordan, seated beside her with a face like a wet Wednesday, and gestured to the chair on the other side. ‘May I?’
I didn’t wait for a reply, but sat next to the bereaved fiancée. ‘I am so sorry to have to meet you again at such a very sad time.’
Arabella gave me a faint smile and I thought how she had changed in only a few days. Black did not suit her, her pink cheeks were white, her glossy brunette hair was scraped back into a painfully severe style and I could have sworn she had lost weight. Her eyes were haunted, although perhaps that was only a result of the dark shadows beneath them.
I asked if she was making a long stay and she nodded. ‘Everyone has been very kind. Mrs Alexander says that she would welcome my company as she has no daughters of
her own. Mama is staying too, but Papa must return home this afternoon.’
Her voice was expressionless and I remembered that her father had estates to the south of here, adjoining other Prescott properties. Why were she and her mother staying on? Was it because Mrs Alexander Prescott had two unmarried sons, Bertram and Adrien, I wondered? Adrien, of course, considered himself betrothed to Rowena McNeil, but I wondered if his mother had an eye on Arabella Jordan for Bertram.
Presumably the prescribed period of mourning would allow Arabella to re-join the Marriage Mart next Season, but perhaps her mother thought that a younger son of a man soon to be a viscount was better than risking a less prestigious match when Arabella would be a year older. Despite her gloomy expression she must have been glad of the invitation for a prolonged stay: the two mothers could get together and conclude the business before the late Viscount was more than a few days in his tomb.
Arabella’s clear unhappiness was a puzzle, though. Had she really been in love with a man thirteen years her senior, who had not been particularly good-looking and appeared to have a particularly bland and staid character? Admittedly, I had not seen the murdered viscount at his best…
There was a stir amongst the whispering crowd of ladies, sounds from the hallway beyond the closed doors, and Mrs Alexander stood, followed by her daughters-in-law and her sister-in-law. They moved to the windows and the rest of us stood too, watching as the coffin was carried down the steps and slid into the hearse. It moved off at a walking pace, preceded by black-clad men carrying long staves and followed by a cortege of at least twenty carriages.
We stood until the last vanished from sight, then Mrs Alexander tugged the bell pull. ‘I imagine we would all welcome a little refreshment.’
I certainly would. It was now midday and the atmosphere of gloom and restraint was giving me an appetite, for some reason. I appreciated what Mrs Alexander considered a little refreshment: the staff, clearly poised for the bell, came in almost immediately with the tea urn and plate after plate of dainty savouries and little cakes.
Lady Radcliffe had briefed me thoroughly on what to expect and I knew that when the men returned from the family vault in the nearby church they would be accompanied by other, less exalted, gentlemen who had not followed behind the coffin – the squire, the vicar, the local doctor and so forth, all accompanied by their wives and adult children.
When everyone had gathered, more of the ground floor reception rooms would be thrown open and food laid out in the form of a buffet, thus enabling mingling. It would also allow the humbler folk to make a discreet exit after a certain time, followed by the higher-ranking guests.