And then he was gone from view.
A gasp went up. Marianne slipped backwards so fast her chair tumbled over with a loud bang, while Charlotte stared at theman on the ground. Their aunt attempted to usher them away, but pandemonium had been unleashed.
Evelyn, teacup in hand, bent down slightly so she could look underneath the table—and there he was—her husband. Eyes and mouth open, a pool of blood streaming from his head.
“Well,” she said to herself as she straightened and placed down her cup, “that was certainly unexpected.”
“I cannot believe you are a widow. You weren’t even married for two hours,” Charlotte said later that day. The empathy one might have expected to hear was absent; her words were tinged with relief for her sister, and Evelyn was grateful for it.
“I am aware,” she said, her legs pulled up on the chaise. She had kicked off her uncomfortable bridal shoes and tucked her feet under herself, sitting in a most unladylike posture—but she was a widow now. She could sit as she pleased. She had fulfilled her duty to society. She had been married, and now, through divine providence, she was free.
She paused, chiding herself for being so wholly unfeeling. He had been a person, after all. And that person had only ever looked at her and treated her as though she were a piece of furniture, but he had been a living, breathing person. And now he was dead. Buried. Well, not yet buried. Presently, he lay downstairs in what had been the parlor, and the undertaker represented him.
“Are they still there?” she asked.
“Is who still there?” Eugenia asked. Evelyn realized she had not been thinking—she had been talking out loud.
“The undertaker,” she said.
“Oh yes, they will be here sometime,” Eugenia said. “They are preparing the parlor still. All the windows have already been hung with black, and the candles have been set up. We will have to receive visitors, although I am unsure how many will attend. Most of his family had already died, and he had no children. And his friends witnessed the entire event unfold. I doubt they want to relive it.”
“Who is the heir now?” Charlotte asked, practical as ever.
Evelyn shrugged. “I am uncertain. I think there was a cousin of some sort. Or maybe a nephew? He mentioned him once or twice. He was supposed to be at the wedding and didn’t come.”
“It is a nephew,” Aunt Eugenia said. “That is his name. He is the son of the late Duke’s younger brother, who passed away at a young age. It is rumored that he has been living in Edinburgh. And if what I heard about him is correct, he is somewhat of a magnet for scandal. Always in the broadsheets.”
“Is he?” Charlotte said. “What is his name? I read the broadsheets and I do not recall?—”
“Nathaniel Sinclair,” they chorused.
And Charlotte gasped. “I have heard about him! Goodness! He engages in all sorts of debauchery—gambling, women, drinking.”
“Oh, delightful. He’s like our father—aside from gathering up assorted women,” Evelyn muttered and rolled her eyes.
“Enough of him. What about you?” Marianne asked. “What will you do?”
Evelyn looked up. “Do? Nothing. I have given what was expected of me—my hand in marriage. Now I will do what all widows do: live without the burden of having to wed again. I should be entitled to the dower house and my jointure. I shall live perfectly well now, a just reward for my efforts.”
Charlotte tipped her head to one side. “You must be relieved. Eight months of fretting and worrying, and it was all over in two hours.”
Evelyn pressed her lips together. “Yes, indeed. I should feel worse,” she said, the guilty feelings from earlier resurfacing again. “But I do not.”
“I should write to your father,” Aunt Eugenia said. Evelyn looked up at once.
“Please do not. He will attempt to marry me off to some other octogenarian immediately. Or he will move on to Charlotte and Marianne.”
“Surely not,” she said. “As a widow, you have a whole year of mourning before you. We shall have to get you some black clothing.”
“Will I be required to observe a year of mourning?” Evelyn said. “We were not even married half a day.”
Eugenia shrugged. “It will be expected.”
They were interrupted then by a knock on the door. Though Sinclair Manor was a large, sprawling estate, the drawing room was located very close to the front door, so one could always hear all the comings and goings.
She got up, aware that she was still wearing her wedding gown. The day had been such a whirl. A physician had been summoned to attempt to do the impossible—bring her dead husband back from the land of the, well… dead. People had left, others had come. And the undertaker had shown up.
It was early evening, and only now, as someone else knocked on the door, did she realize she had never changed her clothes. All her things were in trunks upstairs, and she knew that the maid had not had time to unpack. There was no point to it anyway. She was going to move into the house—or so she assumed.
