He didn't, and as she watched him say his farewells to her mother and take his leave, her stomach twisted so painfully that she believed she might vomit.
It took all her strength to hold it together, not to go rushing after him and demand to know why he had failed to talk to her.
It isn't personal,she tried to tell herself. He never spoke with Catherine or Mary either.
But it felt utterly personal. And the snub was almost too much for her to bear.
A hand slipped into hers, and she blinked, finally turning her gaze from where George had disappeared out of the churchyard.
“Are you well?”
Mary looked up at her with her big blue eyes, and Cecelia forced a smile.
“Yes, of course.”
She would not let her sister see her cry – not for her father – not for the childhood friend it seemed she had lost.
She forced herself through the motions, deciding it was best to take things one step at a time.
George was home. And that both scared her and made her hopeful in equal measure.
He was safe. He looked well, save for the dullness in his gaze. Perhaps one day she might finally be able to speak with him. And that was what really mattered to her.
She longed to ask him how he had been, how was Walter? Was France truly so terrible?
There were so many questions, some she dared not even admit to herself.
But today was not the day she would get her answers. And so, she resigned herself to being the perfect daughter and not to think of him. Though that was almost impossible now that she had laid eyes upon his face, and now that she had seen the pain behind his gaze.
What had he been through? What could she do to fix it?
Deep down, she knew the answer. Nothing.
She had lost the right to anything like that a long time ago.
Chapter 2
Why George had shown up to the earl’s funeral, he didn’t know. But he tried his best to push it from his mind as he spent the entire night looking over the important documents of his father’s – his – estate.
It was something he had put off for a long while. Even though he had returned to England months ago, he had failed to show his face at home.
His mother had sent several letters, pleading him to return, to take care of all the business his father had left him, and to accept the dukedom that had been laid at his feet.
And it wasn’t until he heard of the earl’s demise that he finally plucked up the courage to go. How could he not have done? The earl had been as much a part of his family as his own mother and father over the years. In fact, sometimes more so, for the earl had never expected anything of him. He had merely been proud of the young man he had become, and George would forever be thankful for that.
He would have been grateful for the earl to be there now, to help him make heads or tails of the accounts his father had left. Everything appeared to be in shambles. There was much to do.
And he spent much of the night pouring through letters, ledgers, and bills, feeling as if he were drowning in the work that he had left for himself.
As the dawn turned grey outside, there was a gentle knock upon his study door.
For a second, he considered ignoring it. He had no desire to speak with anyone right now. He had heard the front doorbell ringing only moments earlier, though he couldn’t imagine who would be visiting him at such an unreasonable hour.
And so, he called, “Enter!”
Mr Dawling, the man who had served as his father’s butler for as long as George could remember, entered the room with his head bowed. A silver tray in his hands caused George to sigh with relief. It was not a visitor but the post.
“Your Grace, a letter has arrived for you,” Mr Dawling said, stepping forward, “it is marked urgent.”
