Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

GEORGE SAYS GOODBYE

"Are funeral days always so grey and miserable?" George mused aloud.

"Pardon, Your Grace?" His coachman, Phillip, enquired.

"Nothing Phillip, it's quite alright, I was just muttering to myself, lamenting the weather." Indeed, when he had risen that morning, the sky had looked ominous, as black and as angry as a bull. George had wondered if the rain would hold off until after his father had been lowered into the ground, the last thing he wanted was for mourners to fall ill themselves.

Mercifully, the Almighty appeared to have heard George, for no sooner had the first handful of dirt been thrown onto his father's coffin than the sky opened above the gathered mourners, scattering them in all directions as they hastened to their carriages before they were drenched through.

As the long line of carriages wove through the narrow country lanes, the storm raged on, neither abating nor worsening. George watched as the passing scenery blurred into a water-coloured mess of mottled greens and browns, the tress obscured by the rivulets of water running down the carriage windows.

It had been very kind of the Fitzgerald's to offer to host his father's wake, especially considering his father had been less than kind towards them on more than one occasion. Secretly, George had wondered if his father had envied Lord Fitzgerald and his family, if perhaps he saw what could have been his, had he chosen a wife for love, instead of one who brought money to line his family coffers.

Already tired with the thought of needing to make small talk, George donned his hat as he exited his carriage, his driver thoughtfully having pulled up at the portico to let him out before moving the carriage to the stables where his horse might find respite.

Johnathan met him at the heavy oak doors, flanking George as they entered the room, always on guard, always on lookout for each other, even now. This small remnant of childhood gave George comfort as he started to receive the long line of people who had turned out to bid his father farewell.

George's eyes searched for Arabella, finding her across the room deep in conversation with Lord Ashenden's son. Good grief, was the man actually attempting to court Arabella at a wake? Disgust filled George, his feet carrying him across the room before he had time to think. With barely a glance at Lord Ashenden's son, Phillip, or was it Robert, George turned to address Arabella.

"Lady Fitzgerald, I wondered if I may impose upon you to help me out with a delicate situation?" With a polite nod in Lord Ashenden's direction, Arabella took George's offered arm and he slowly led them from the room. Once they reached the library, George led her inside, closing the door behind him and turning to face her. Arabella watched him expectantly, waiting for him to speak, but the words wouldn't come.