"How is Emily?" Fiona asked, as she sipped the sherry that Roberts had decreed was proper for this solemn occasion. What Hamish would give for a dram or ten of Bruce Mackenzie’s finest whisky.
"She’s in shock." Worried, he observed his wife where she sat wearing deepest black beside his mother, who had proven a rock during these difficult days. He supposed if anyone understood grief, it was Mamma. "I’ve hardly got a peep out of her."
A large number of mourners – the wake spread into the library and the dining room – lined up to express their sympathies to Sir John’s daughter. Emily greeted everyone with the same frozen politeness. Not even Sir Humphry Davy managed to coax more than a few words from her.
"She told me she was very close to her father." During the last days of Sir John’s life, Fiona had helped in the sickroom, and she and Emily showed signs of becoming friends. Marina had offered to help, too, but it soon became apparent that however good her intentions, she wasn’t cut out for nursing.
"She wasn’t just his daughter. She was his assistant and his sounding board and his inspiration. They were inseparable."
"Even when the end is expected, it’s difficult to acce
pt," Diarmid said. "You’ll need to be patient with her."
"I don’t think she even knows I’m in the house," he said grimly. When he tried to talk to her, she looked at him as if his words made no sense.
"The sharpest sorrow will pass with time," Diarmid said.
"Yes." But even after it did, Hamish couldn’t imagine his presence would be any more welcome. Since her father’s death, Emily spent most of her time in her room. The first night when he’d heard her crying, he’d knocked on her door and asked if she wanted company. She told him to go away. She’d been silently telling him to go away ever since.
He’d cooperated because what else could he do?
He had his own grief to cope with. It mightn’t be on the scale of Emily’s, but he’d loved Sir John. One of the few joys of this hurried marriage was how much it had pleased Emily’s father.
"We’re heading home tomorrow, laddie," Diarmid said. "The bairns have been out of their routine for too long, and they’re getting fractious. We’d love to have ye and Emily to stay, if you can bring yourselves to leave London. Perhaps a change of scene will do ye both good."
"Thank you, cuz," Hamish said. "I appreciate you remaining for the funeral. I hoped we’d see more of each other during your visit."
"Cannae be helped." Diarmid clapped him on the shoulder and gave him an understanding smile. "Think seriously about the visit. Ye both need family right now, and things between you and Emily mightn’t seem so strange and discordant when you’re with friends."
Hamish would like to think so, but he doubted it. Right now, Emily seemed to hate him. She was locked away in a private world of grief, and his vitality and vigor offended her.
But how could he abandon her when she had nobody else? He’d noted at the wedding that she had no close family. The school friend who had been her bridesmaid had called once, but the visit had only lasted twenty minutes. She hadn’t called again, although she was among those paying their respects today.
"We should go and say goodbye to Emily," Fiona said, her delicate features expressing concern. "Hamish, if you think it would help, we’ll stay. Children or no children."
Hamish summoned a smile and stifled the urge to say that nothing would help. "Thank you, Fiona. You’re a treasure."
She was. Diarmid was a lucky man.
"Not really. I care about Emily. I hate to see her suffer."
Fiona knew more than enough about suffering. Her happiness now had been hard-won, and Hamish knew she never took it for granted.
"It’s very nice of you, but you should both go home. Emily needs quiet and time to find herself again. These last few years, caring for her father has been her whole life." Only as he said it did he realize how odd that sounded from a new husband.
"Be kind to her, laddie," Diarmid said. "You’ll find your way back to each other in time."
Hamish was too heartsick to argue with his cousin’s unjustified optimism. "I’ll write."
"So will I – or at least Fiona will." They embraced, parting with a couple of hearty slaps on the back that did nothing to hide their deep affection.
"Goodbye, Hamish," Fiona said. "Come and see us for Christmas."
Hamish couldn’t stifle a wince at the prospect of a big, boisterous celebration, brimming with jollity and love and laughter. "I’ll let you know," he said, although they both knew that he’d be spending Christmas far from the Highlands.
He kissed her cheek, avoiding the pity he knew he’d find in her lovely blue eyes. "Goodbye, Fiona."
He watched as Diarmid and Fiona crossed to Emily. His cousin bent over her hand with the courtly elegance that came so naturally to him. Fiona leaned in to kiss her cheek.