The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(35)

The men—including Mr. Peter Theale, Daltry’s heir, and Mr. Alastair James, the stepson of Daltry’s aunt—would be accompanying the body to the churchyard. To give her lord his proper due, Rosie had asked Mr. Horton to arrange a stately night march that included a dozen black horses with feathered headdresses and professional funeral attendants to swell the ranks.

“That’s just as well.” Polly squeezed her hand. “It’s been a long day for you, dear.”

“I don’t know how I would have survived it without the two of you. But it’s not over yet.” Lowering her voice, Rosie said, “What is the state of affairs in the drawing room?”

The look exchanged between Polly and Aunt Helena spoke louder than words.

Today had been Rosie’s first official encounter with Daltry’s relations. As a whole, they had not greeted her with what one would term enthusiasm. Peter Theale, Daltry’s cousin and heir, had been the sole exception.

Ginger-haired and possessed of an awkward stammer, he had expressed his condolences and assured Rosie, “You n-need not worry about you future comforts, my dear.”

She wasn’t worried—not about money anyway. That had never been her reason for marrying Daltry. She knew her parents would continue to provide for her, and, moreover, she didn’t want to receive handouts from the new earl.

Nonetheless, Mr. Theale’s kindness had been comforting, especially compared to the coolness she’d sensed from her dead husband’s female relatives. At present, four of them awaited her in the drawing room. Daltry’s aunts—Mrs. Antonia James and Lady Charlotte Daltry, the dowager countess—had greeted her with a touch of frost, and his cousins, Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey, had taken their older relatives’ lead.

“Mrs. James has been complaining about the, um, odor,” Polly murmured. “The dowager countess, for her part, appears to have an issue with the lateness of the hour.”

“Everyone knows night funerals are all the rage.” Rosie’s hopes sank even further. In order to have any hope of salvaging her reputation, she would need the support of her husband’s formidable aunts. “And given that Daltry had to be brought back from Gretna, it was inevitable that he’d be a bit overripe. It’s not my fault; I couldn’t have done any better for him!”

“You’ve done your best,” Aunt Helena said firmly. “Given the circumstances, the last thing you need is to fret over impressing his relations.”

Rosie bit her lip. “But I need them, Aunt Helena. You know I do.”

Her aunt sighed but didn’t disagree. “Your mama would know what to do. You should really talk to her, Rosie. This rift between you two—it hurts Marianne dreadfully, you know.”

Rosie did know, and her misery grew. Yet every time she thought of the past Mama had kept from her—of what Coyner had intended for her, even if he hadn’t carried it out—her insides crawled. Walls sprang up in her mind; she just couldn’t cope with it. Not yet. Not with everything else on her plate.

Thus, she had been avoiding her mother and had gone to stay with Polly. Today, during the funeral, she and Mama had exchanged a few awkward words, their interactions stiff. Her parent had eventually left to tend to Sophie.

“I’m not ready to talk to her,” Rosie said, staring at her black slippers.

“Everything Marianne did, she did out of love.” With a finger, Aunt Helena tipped up Rosie’s chin. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“I love her, too. I just can’t…” To her horror, Rosie felt her voice crack.

“All right, my dear. One thing at a time.” Her aunt took her hand and squeezed it. “For now, what do you say we face the dragons together?”

Rosie nodded. Accompanied by her aunt and Polly, she returned to the drawing room.

The coffin was gone, and servants had tidied up. Mrs. Antonia James, Daltry’s dark-haired aunt, paced by the shrouded window, her tall, thin frame bristling with suppressed energy. In her forties, she was a striking woman with slashing cheekbones and feline features. In contrast, Lady Charlotte Daltry, whose husband had been the earl before Rosie’s, was a plump, hen-like woman with feathery silver curls and shrewd eyes.

Flanking Lady Charlotte were her protégées, Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey. The dowager had no children of her own, and she’d taken her husband’s orphaned nieces under her wing. The sisters were both unmarried. The younger sister, Miss Eloisa, was in her twenties and a beauty with chestnut hair, alabaster skin, and sapphire eyes. Miss Sybil, the older sister, was a spinster and muted version of her sibling. Her hair was a dirty blonde shade, and her skin had a sallow undertone. Her light blue gaze peered out timidly from beneath straight brows.

All eyes turned to Rosie: some wary, others hostile.

Daltry was right about his family, Rosie thought with an inward sigh. And if they hadn’t respected him because of his connections in trade, what hope did she have that they would welcome his bastard bride of less than a day into their fold?

Yet she needed their support. If her late husband’s relatives did not take her side, then her position would be more precarious now than before her elopement. They held the key to her social survival.

She summoned a smile. “Pardon my absence. I was making final arrangements for the procession. Shall I ring for refreshments?”