Chapter 3

THE FUNERAL OF brIAN Dubarry was a dreary affair.

People from all walks of life had flooded to the small stone church to pay their respects. It warmed Mab’s broken heart to see just how much her uncle had been liked within the community. So much so that all the pews were occupied, and those who couldn’t fit into the church waited patiently outside, their heads turned towards the entrance in anticipation of the service.

As she passed each pew on the way to the front, her arms entwined with her father’s. The church was filled with an unfamiliar hum, not the solemn, respectful quiet that Mab was used to from funeral goers. A sorrowful whir filled the air as women wept openly and men hid their sadness with bellowing coughs and laboured sniffs.

The walk down the aisle felt like the longest walk of Mab’s entire life. She all but threw herself onto the empty pew at the front reserved for family members. She took a deep steadying breath and tried her best not to stare at the closed coffin in front of her. Her itchy eyes, dry from a night of crying, strained as the spectral light from the stained-glass windows bounced off the polished wood and silver church plate, dappling about her uncle’s coffin.

Mab’s father slumped down beside her. He, too, had cried for most of the night but was working furiously in a bid to not let any tears fall from his eyes during the funeral lest the other men of the parish know that he had emotions.

Mab listened numbly to her father’s heavy breathing. She sucked in slow, deep breaths of her own to steady herself.

“Ahem,” came a soft cough from over Mab’s shoulder. “May I sit here?”

Mab strained her eyes towards the man, who was gesturing at the seat beside her. She hated herself for noting that he was conventionally handsome, perhaps in his early thirties. Slick blond hair sat beneath his top hat, and his icy blue eyes were fixated solely on Mab.

“These seats are reserved for family,” Mab whispered at him.

His lips cocked into a slight smile, before instantly turning solemn again, as if he had momentarily forgotten he was at a funeral.

Mab instantly took a disliking to him.

“Ah, but I like to think of myself as family ... of sorts,” he whispered, swooping down onto the space beside her.

Mab shuffled uncomfortably as he settled in, his shoulder touching hers despite the rest of the pew being empty. Mab wanted to swat the man away from her and chastise him for his rudeness and unfounded familiarity. However, not wanting to make a scene, Mab instead focused on trying to place the unfamiliar man. She had no male cousins on her mother’s side, nor a blood uncle. Her only family on her father’s side had been Uncle Brian, and he’d never married.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Mab actually had plenty of family on her father’s side, but they certainly wouldn’t be caught dead in such fine clothes as the man sitting beside her. They actively despised the gentry, often referring to them as “ those glorified toffy gobshites”. That being said, her Liverpudlian family did make an exception for Mab, her father and her late uncle, and they would have been at the funeral had there been time to make the journey.

Mab thought, perhaps, that the man might be one of her uncle’s bachelor friends. Mab wasn’t a hundred per cent certain – and, even if she were, she would never breathe a word of it for fear that her uncle would be arrested, or worse – but she had a sneaking suspicion that her uncle had preferred the company of men.

Though, the way the stranger was currently sliding his slimy eyes over her, she thought the latter was probably not the case for this man.

She cast a glance at her father, hoping he might shed some light on who the stranger was, but her father seemed to have not even noted his presence.

“You must be Miss Dubarry. Your uncle spoke very fondly of you, and I can see why,” the stranger whispered.

“And who might you be?” Mab snapped back. She was astounded at the sheer audacity of the stranger and very much wished her Liverpudlian family were sitting on the pew beside him. Unlike her and her father, they would have had no issue making a scene and dragging the greasy gentleman from the church and turfing him out. Mab allowed herself one snippet of a vision in which the stranger was rubbing his sore bottom in the graveyard, surrounded by burly dockers, their savage wives and wildling children.

“I am Robert Alabaster. Baron Paxton. I was very close with your uncle; we were in business together.”

Alabaster? Business?

Mab’s father had a shipping business which had made her family the immense fortune they now sat on. Without a son, her father had handed the reins of the shipping business to her uncle, who had spent his time flitting between the docks in Liverpool and his estate, which neighboured Mab’s, in Cheshire. Of course, her father still technically owned the business, but his interest had waned substantially over the years, instead preferring the quiet life on his extensive tenanted farmlands. Surely, however, had her uncle taken on a partner , her father would have been informed?

That said, her uncle had been very busy over the past few months. So much so that on almost every occasion Mab had gone to visit her uncle, she’d either just missed him or she’d bumped into him just as he was leaving. He was so busy that he would barely stop to plant a fleeting kiss on her cheek and utter a promise over his shoulder that he would make time soon to visit her for a game of cards before he jumped into a carriage and took off towards town. Perhaps this partnership was only budding, and her uncle had simply not yet had the chance to inform her father?

“You are looking very well today, Miss Dubarry,” Lord Paxton murmured, his lips twitching into what he presumably thought was a seductive smile.

Mab gritted her teeth together.

Before she could reply with a watered-down scathing remark, the ancient Reverend Mildew made his way out of the vestry.

MAB AND HER FATHER were the last to leave the graveyard. Mab thought she had no more tears to give, but a final few trickled down her cheek as her father mumbled down to his brother’s soil-dappled coffin, “Too young ... too young ... I was supposed to go first ...”

Mab’s father clung onto her arm as she veered him towards Uncle Brian’s manor, which was fortunately only a five-minute walk from the church. Her father had already informed the servants that he would take his time going through his brother’s estate and whoever wanted to stay was more than welcome to do so for the foreseeable future.

“He was supposed to look after you,” her father muttered as they walked up the gravel path. He turned to look at her, his large hands grasping tightly on her shoulders. “What will you do when I die?”

“Father,” Mab whispered gently. “You are not going anywhere for a very long time. Not if I have any say in the matter.”

Her father’s brows knotted together, but he said nothing else.

Within a few minutes, they were welcomed at the door by the butler, dressed head to toe in black, his red-rimmed eyes bulging in his head. As they passed the droves of mourners, the atmosphere changed from that of the funeral. While there still was the odd teary-eyed mourner, the crowd had begun to share their most memorable stories of Brian Dubarry. Mab deposited her father on a plush armchair and turned back to the crowd, eager to hear more about her uncle. She felt oddly comforted that he wouldn’t be forgotten anytime soon.

“Ah! Miss Dubarry!” Lord Paxton elbowed his way towards Mab, almost knocking a maid over. The maid glared back at him with utmost distaste before scurrying off to replenish an empty decanter.

Glorified toffy gobshite , Mab thought.

“ Mr Alabaster ,” Mab said coolly, taking great delight in the way his lip curled at being addressed incorrectly. Mab instantly recalled her father’s warning from her childhood: You can tell a lot about a person by how they treat those less fortunate than themselves. Lord Paxton clearly had no regard for the servants, and Mab’s dislike for the man grew intensely.

Her father’s warning was one of the many, many reasons she’d resided herself to a life of spinsterhood. The vast majority of “gentlemen” that she’d met were charming and charismatic. But while all the other women watched how well they danced at the ball or how deep their pockets were, Mab always made a point of noting how they interacted with the servants. She’d seen many a woman swoon over a fanciful gentleman, only to turn up to future balls as a quiet and demure wife, like they’d had the life sucked out of them.

Of the few men she’d noted who were kind to the servants around them, Mab always found other reasons as to why they wouldn’t make a good husband for her. Many of them seemed, for lack of a better word, timid. And while Mab would love to have a husband that would listen to her and take her advice, she didn’t want one to bully. On the rare occasion she’d let such a man briefly court her, no matter what she said, they would instantly agree with her.

She knew that her marrying would make her father happy. She had tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep with the sound of her father’s gasping sobs from down the hallway, and had decided that, perhaps, she would maybe rethink her stance on spinsterhood. Not because her view had changed, but because she’d caught a glimpse of her father in the library examining the family tree, presumably in a bid to find the closest male heir in his family, who would be looking after his daughter should he drop dead in the morning.

While she loved her Liverpudlian family, she knew for a fact that not a single one of them would willingly take a step up in society and join the ranks of the people they despised – Mab and her father notwithstanding. Her father would have to go to the very twigs of the family tree to find someone willing to take on the business and, subsequently, her. And the thought of having to place her life in the hands of an unknown male relative was, perhaps, on a par with placing it in the hands of a husband.

Reluctantly, she’d conceded that at least she’d have a choice when it came to picking her husband. She’d just have to be very, very vigilant about it.

She also had one other teensy-weensy problem that might make the whole affair of finding an agreeable husband that much more difficult.

Her virtue.

Or lack thereof.

“Miss Dubarry?” Lord Paxton’s cool voice pulled Mab from her thoughts. “I was just saying how lovely you were looking.”

“In my funeral attire?” she snapped.

“Ah, well, yes ... It is an unfortunate occasion that we must first meet at a funeral. But your uncle had mentioned your beauty, and, I must say, he was not exaggerating.”

Mab felt her mouth hang open, but no words would come.

Lord Paxton, however, seemed to have no issue with filling the silence. “I was wondering if you may find it acceptable for me to call upon you some time?”

“ Mr Alabaster ,” Mab finally managed to say. “Please do excuse me, I must see to my father.”

Mab darted off before Lord Paxton could argue.

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were the hardest. It seemed like everything in Mab’s home held some memory of her uncle. She couldn’t bear to go into the library – the novel she’d been reading had been a gift from her uncle. She didn’t have the energy to play cards, her last game with her uncle was still fresh in her mind. She couldn’t even find joy in afternoon tea, remembering her uncle nearly choking on a sandwich with laughter when she’d said something funny the last time they’d luncheoned together.

As the weeks ticked along, Mab no longer saw the ghosts of her uncle at every turn in her dreary house. She stopped crying herself to sleep at night, and her father wasn’t moping around the house as much.

Things were relatively back to normal.

Which meant Mab’s father had started reading, at length, from the announcement columns in a bid to ignite her interest in finding a husband once more. She supposed she ought to tell her father that she had decided, for his sanity, that she would begin looking for a partner in earnest. But his aggressive tactics quickly got her back up, and she thought a few more days of digging her heels in was in order.

Today, her father was aggressively hinting at the other merits a lady might find in the company of a husband.

It took all Mab’s might not to roll her eyes.

She was well versed in that particular topic.

And her fancies lay in tall, dark strangers who, preferably, worked the land.

It had all begun on the day she’d taken a trip to see the fairy tree. While her dislike for gentlemen had been well established, her brief observation of the then teenaged Viscount Blackwater had cemented that notion.

But what had come of that encounter was her piqued interest in the stable boy.

Though his features were lost to time, and she had a terrible memory for faces, Mab could still hear his peal of undiluted laughter, which rippled across the foggy meadow. No gentleman, outside of her father and uncle, of course, had ever laughed in her presence the way that boy had, despite Mab being unabashedly witty at times. Her jokes had often caught gentlemen unawares, Mab being the cause of many soiled shirts by uttering a remark when gentlemen were mid-gulp. Though, instead of a figurative pat on the back for her humorous observations, she usually was thrown a look of disdain. Nowadays, she didn’t bother wasting her wits on gentlemen.

Instead, she put her efforts into those from a lower station than herself. At least they appreciated a good joke, even if it did originate from the lips of a lady. A handful of these interactions had resulted in a well-needed tumble. Of course, Mab would only ever take a man to her bed who was interested, unattached and could keep a secret.

Her latest beau was her father’s new stable master, Dameon. That was until she’d found a hoard of her late mother’s missing silverware under his bed a couple of nights ago. He’d threatened to tell her father about her indiscretions if she said anything, and she was still trying to come up with a plan of how to get her mother’s heirlooms back, get rid of Dameon, and still keep her secret.

“Mab? Did you hear me?” her father said, pulling her from her thoughts. He sat in his usual tattered reading chair. Her mother had always sat on the matching chair. Unlike her father’s, it was almost in pristine condition after fifteen years of disuse.

“Sorry, Father,” she mumbled.

Her father let out an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said, refusing to look Mab in the eye. “I have tried my damnedest to afford you the chance to find your own husband. But it’s blatantly clear that you intend to do no such thing.”

Mab winced. While her father usually spoke without an accent, she knew she was in trouble the moment his docker’s twang bubbled to the surface. He pulled a letter out of his pocket. He rang the bell and Mr Ross came bustling through the door, quill and pot of ink in hand. Her father signed the letter with force and handed it to Mr Ross, whose face instantly turned scarlet as he attempted to blow-dry the signature while walking out of the room.

“Father, what is going on?”

Her father shuffled uncomfortably before drawing a deep breath and reluctantly meeting her gaze. “I was asked for your hand in marriage a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to say anything; you were grieving. But I have decided to accept.”

Mab’s mouth hung open.

“You ... you’ve accepted a proposal?” Mab’s fingers grasped at her skirts. She felt her heart thud as if it were trying to escape her chest, and her vision started to blur. Mab pinched her thigh through her skirts. No , she thought. No, you’ve never swooned, not once in your life, and you certainly won’t be starting now!

She breathed deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, until her heart slowed. Her father stood, panic warping his face, though he’d wisely decided to remain on his side of the room.

“How could you do this to me?” she whispered to her feet.

Her father at least had the decency to look momentarily ashamed. He quickly straightened himself, a look of steely determination settling on his face. “You have had your chance, Mab. And Mr Alabaster is a perfectly fine choice. He’s got a bit of money, a good family name and a title. He’s handsome and seems determined to make something of himself ...”

Her father’s voice faded into the background. Alabaster? Why did her spine tingle at that name? She racked her brain, desperately dredging it for any memory of a Mr Alabaster.

She saw a pinkish blob with piercing ice-blue eyes in her mind’s eye, with no features, as was typical for Mab. However, behind the blob was a stained-glass window, and the sounds of sobbing and—

Dear God!

He couldn’t have ...

“... and, well, there was once the talk of ... but I’m sure that’s all in the past—”

“Robert Alabaster?” Mab bellowed. “You’ve paired me with Robert Alabaster?”

Her father blanched briefly before composing himself. “He’s a perfectly adequate suitor for someone of your age. He’s a baron! Well, he will be. By all accounts, his estranged father isn’t long for this world. He wrote to me after the funeral—”

“Oh, how romantic ,” Mab seethed. She realised with a sickening thought, perhaps even more despicable than his inappropriate comments at the funeral, that he was already calling himself by the title his estranged father still held.

“Perhaps he was a little inappropriate. But, nonetheless, Mab, this is the first proposal you’ve had in a while. And I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass.”

“Opportunity? I had no idea I was such a burden to you, Father, that you would pass me to the first man who said please . ”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” her father snapped back.

Mab stood abruptly to her feet. Her chair scraped on the wooden floor, toppled and fell with a resounding crash.

“I will not marry that man,” Mab hissed. Her father couldn’t force her to wed a man she did not want to. Short of having her bound, gagged and dragged up the aisle by wild horses, there was no way she would marry Mr Alabaster.

“It has been decided. Come the end of the month, you will be married to Mr Alabaster.” In a slightly more ominous tone, he added, “Or else ...”

“Or else what, Father?” Mab challenged.

“You do not want to find out,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry, Mab. You simply have no choice left in the matter.”

“That is what you think, Father.”