The man’s sons, son-in-law and future son-in-law murmured their agreement and drank deeply. Jeremy merely sipped his ale to be agreeable, not out of any real desire for the drink.
The death of the neighbor seemed to have hit the family hard, the duke most of all. There had even been talk of delaying the wedding out of respect for the dead, but the newly widowed Mrs. Hawthorne had foreseen such a decision. She had sent a note forbidding anyone to consider delaying the nuptials. So the wedding would take place a few days earlier than planned, with the funeral to follow a day later.
He had to admit it was hard to look forward to a wedding when the dead was waiting for burial not far away.
After the wedding, he’d been told the Westfalls would observe three months of mourning for their dear departed friend and neighbor. Everyone from duke down to pot boy would clad themselves in black and the house would close to guests. He’d already seen signs of preparations being made by servants on his way down. He wasn’t sure what would happen to his visit to the country, but he assumed Lady Rivers would eventually send him back to London before his two weeks were up.
He sipped his ale and contemplated his own demise. Would anyone even notice he was gone? Would he be famous by then and mourned by hundreds of ardent admirers? Would he be mourned the way Mr. Hawthorne was? By a woman who couldn’t imagine life without him?
Life carried on unscripted and adlibbed. It was only in a play that an actor could ever know the fate of the character he played.
He buried his nose in his tankard. Mr. Hawthorne’s passing had made him maudlin and the drink certainly wasn’t helping. Jeremy had never been much for overindulgence of spirits or ale, but the Westfalls appeared to be seasoned campaigners of such indulgences. He was trying to fit in by appearing to share their vices. He took note of Lord Rafferty reaching for a new tankard and took a hasty pretend sip of his, so no one would offer to fetch him more.
The gathering of men eventually split into small groups, each one taking turns to venture close to the duke for a few words before drifting away again. But soon the talk was not of the dearly departed but of the future.
The duke sighed heavily after one group departed. “Of course, the daughter’s chances of making a match now are in tatters for another year. Can’t accept suitors calling on her now until their mourning is over.”
“They’ll mourn the full two years,” Mr. Whitfield explained to Jeremy.
“A pair of women, one widowed, one unwed, with only young children to lend a hand will struggle,” Rafferty warned. “Rebecca is concerned how they’ll fare in the ye
ars to come.”
“I expect the estate might need to be sold,” Whitfield said quietly.
“No. Mrs. Hawthorne will have help, whether she agrees to it or not,” the duke vowed. “I owe it to Hawthorne to look out for them. He was the best of men. I’ll buy the farm if need be to keep them with a roof over their heads. Gillian wants to take the eldest to London with us when she’s out of mourning and give her a chance to make a good match there.”
“It is good of her to take such an interest,” Jeremy murmured, feeling he should add something to the conversation. “A match will surely be made with the duchess’ help.”
They all nodded, staring into their tankards before drinking deeply again.
Jeremy was starting to feel the effects of the drink he’d consumed and set his tankard aside. He had to keep his wits about him, to stay in character for the whole two weeks. Thankfully, no one seemed inclined to do more than drink for now.
The duke and those gathered closest appeared to be firm friends all. Rafferty, soon to be married into the family, was freely helping himself to a fresh tankard without leave, Whitfield swiped the duke’s tankard from his hand and refilled it without saying a word.
Whitfield did not drink as much as the others, Jeremy noted, but his sadness was palpable. “Jessica has decided to stay another night with the Hawthornes. Natalia needs help with the little ones.”
“That leaves the widow and the farm to be managed.”
Jeremy knew little about the managing of a farm other than what he’d overheard last night. “Lady Rivers mentioned the land seemed to be in decline.”
All eyes turned on him.
The duke smashed his fist on the arm of his chair suddenly. “I should have seen it. But of course, Fanny has always been a sharp one. It pains me that I didn’t realize until now that they were struggling. I could have been of help earlier, and perhaps…”
Perhaps Hawthorne would have lived longer? Jeremy shook his head and stood, snatching up his tankard. His tongue suddenly could not stay silent. “Death comes to all on silent wings to cease suffering but often brings regret to those left behind in its wake. It is the way of the world, and naught can be done to stand in death’s path. We must stand together and face the challenges of the here and now as men of compassion and hope.”
Everyone stared at him.
“The soul of a poet,” Whitfield observed with a slight smile.
The duke sighed heavily. “Truer words have never been spoken, though. Hawthorne’s pain has ended and ours just begun, I fear.”
The man who’d been hoping to catch Lady Rivers approached and offered his condolences. “Sad times, your grace,” he murmured. “Sad times indeed.”
The duke stood to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming, Lord Thwaite. I’ll be sure to tell Hawthorne’s widow you mourned with us today when I see her next.”
Thwaite nodded. “No need. I shall pay my respects to her soon myself.”