Like any public ritual, funerals had an element of performance about them.
“And you know what it takes to manage an audience,” her mum had said.
Nick, Richard and Richard’s management team decided the form of the funeral service, but it was Lanie and Kate who handled the backstage details. People had to be fed, accommodated, their concerns met; and in doing so, Lanie could influence the flow of emotions—or try to. She attempted to build in space for Nick and Richard to mourn.
She worried over Richard’s drawn expression and Nick’s severe one. The difference between father and son was evident in their response to the social and public demands of Chloe’s death. Richard accepted the burden. Nick resented it.
What gave her hope was that he resented it primarily for the toll it cost Richard.
The two Tawes men finally stood shoulder to shoulder and took on the world.
Unlike the funeral, the burial was private. There was still a large crowd, but that was because Chloe had touched many lives. The vicar from the local parish presided, and many of the villagers and Waterhill staff were present, along with family and friends. The vicar kept the service simple and brief. It suited the small private graveyard at Waterhill, with its green lawn, old yew trees and softly rustling beech trees. Sunlight patterned their silver bark.
In the background, two toddlers chased each other around the tombstones. And that was right, too. Chloe would have loved the promise of life.
The vicar concluded.
As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Richard placed a single red rose onto it before stepping back.
One of the women who worked in the craft studios in the converted stables had brought her guitar, and she began to sing, in a pure, unaffected voice the old song of love and hope, Amazing Grace.
Richard spoke over her. “We’ll remember Chloe, who graced my life.”
“Our lives,” Nick said firmly.
Lanie joined in the singing.
As it ended, Nick tugged at her hand, positioning them to act as buffers and give Richard a moment longer with his thoughts. They absorbed the murmurs of sympathy that people wanted to offer until Richard joined them.
He did more than join them. He swept the whole group away from the grave and out of the cemetery into the sunshine. He did it simply by moving forward himself. “The wake is in the Great Hall, and you’re all welcome.” Then he busied himself in conversation with an aged aunt.
Already cars were streaming up the driveway: guests from the funeral who hadn’t been invited to the burial, but were here for the wake.
“Tomorrow, it’ll be over,” Nick muttered. He cast a look over his shoulder at Chloe’s grave. His mouth tightened and his pace increased, impatient of the people who would have spoken with him.
Lanie kept pace, grateful that the head gardener had ordered the path from the chapel to the front of the house smoothed. She’d have hated to twist an ankle in her heels.
Regardless of her sense of outsider status, of not having a right to her part in the scene, she found herself forming part of the welcoming group at the entrance to the hall.
Nick had retreated into his most reserved persona, and it was obvious that he’d inherited that reserve from his father.
Richard looked haggard but severely controlled. He listened and responded with meticulous politeness and no visible emotion to various offers of sympathy, both clumsy and facile.
It was left to Lanie to fill the gap and respond with warmth to the honest emotion of many of the mourners. She couldn’t bear to see them stand discomfited, abandoned by their hosts’ rigid reserve.
She found allies in the vicar’s wife and a surprisingly sympathetic head of a multinational corporation, and passed the genuinely upset mourners on to them. By the time the new arrivals had slowed to a trickle, she would willingly have abandoned her post to retreat upstairs to Nick’s room. Instead, she managed a smile when he indicated that she should precede him into the hall.
For an instant, his distant expression relaxed and he put a hand at her waist.
“Oh, sorry.” Kate grimaced at interrupting their private moment. “It’s just that…”
Lanie bowed to the inevitable and dived into the chaos.
The Great Hall echoed less than she would have believed. But then, the original Tudor builders had designed it to host mass gatherings such as this. The high vaulted ceiling funneled the noise away.
Richard took up a position by the cold hearth. One of the wait staff immediately served him a large whiskey.
“One of Richard’s cousins,” Kate whispered as she led Chloe into the drawing room where the women had gathered. Just as with a suburban social gathering, there was a separation of the sexes. “Tilda is proving difficult.”
An understatement. The woman must have been nipping at a flask throughout the afternoon because she was now quite drunk; unpleasantly so. Her head lolled, loose and bobbing, with its cap of badly cut, cheaply dyed, blonde hair. Her tongue would sneak out and lick the corners of her mouth where the pink of her lipstick had smudged. Worst was the sly, unhappy gleam in her red-rimmed eyes.
It was obvious that she’d be more than happy to make a scene.
“I’ll handle it.”
Kate nodded and crossed over to the tables set up to serve tea and coffee, but from behind the urns, she watched worriedly.
Lanie bent and whispered in Tilda’s ear.
Instantly, the drunken woman stood and wobbled her way out of the room.
“What did you say to her?” Nick appeared.
“I threatened her,” Lanie said calmly. Of what use were years of honed perception and cold reading if she couldn’t manipulate a difficult person when needed? Yes, Tilda deserved compassion, but today Lanie was all about protecting Nick and Richard. “I told her that unless she went immediately to her room, I’d tell everyone that her husband had left her and she couldn’t pay her debts.”
Nick blinked. “Seymour left her?”
“Seymour? What a name! If that’s her husband, yes.” Lanie assessed the room. No one seemed to have noticed Tilda’s hurried exit. Lanie could relax for a minute.
“How do you know he’s left Tilda? She said…” He paused, recalling. “Seymour was working and sent his apologies.”
Lanie thought of outlining her reasoning. Not here and not now. “Rumor and observation.” She dashed across the room and rescued a cup and saucer from the shaking hand of an octogenarian who couldn’t find a table on which to set them down.
Two hovering women took the opportunity to swoop on Nick.
He grimaced.
So did Lanie, but she’d seen him cope with worse. She took a moment to stretch her neck muscles and roll her shoulders.
Tilda had been an easy read: the puffy flesh above her wedding ring that suggested the band of metal had been jammed on; the sudden weight gain from comfortable plumpness to ill health that showed in the straining seams of her little black dress; the way she continually touched the ring, and clutched at her handbag. True, the handbag contained her hidden flask and she’d be worried to hide it while keeping it near, but concern for her handbag also indicated a fixation on the purse inside, and that kind of fixation generally meant money worries. That tallied with Tilda’s gaze flickering over the expensive objects in the drawing room, calculating their cost, or rather, the price they’d fetch. Familiar with Waterhill, she could hardly be seeing the objects for the first time.
Most of all, Tilda exhibited a nasty envy of Richard. No one in their right mind would envy him at this time, so the cause became obvious: Tilda, too, had lost a spouse, but she wasn’t accorded space to mourn her husband. That meant separation, unsought by her. She envied Richard the support and respect he received.
Later, someone would have to help Tilda, at least with her debts.
Even the worst days ended.
Heading upstairs, Lanie’s muscles hurt from the strain of being on display and aware of constant judgement. Her neck
was tight and her shoulders set too high. An unpleasant number of women—and men— had carefully allowed her to overhear them commenting on her pushing in, presuming. Such criticism, on top of the emotionally punishing day, sucked.
“Who do I think I am?” she muttered sarcastically. “One very tired, very grumpy, very in need of a soak in a hot bath woman.”
Her own family had sent her supportive messages, that she’d respond to tomorrow.
Nick had strode off into the night, muttering something about going for a ride.
Riding a horse at night sounded dangerous to her, but she could sympathize with his need to escape the house. There’d been an explosively contained quality to him all day.
She walked into their room and had never in her life been so glad to shut a bedroom door behind her. She slumped against it before finding a tiny surge of energy; enough to make it to the bathroom and shed her clothes.
She’d be damned if she’d worry that the pipes might gurgle and wake people if she ran a bath. She deserved it.
“Ahhh.” She sank into the hot water and felt all her muscles melt.
What a horrible, endless day. She closed her eyes and drifted. It was only the water cooling that made her leave the bath, and by then, she was yawning. She dried off cursorily and fell into the big bed and deep into sleep. She was vaguely aware of Nick joining her, but when she woke, he’d already gone.
The sunshine of the previous day had gone, too. Rain fell steadily, enclosing Waterhill in a gray pall. Water dripped from the trees and darkened the gravel of the rose garden.
Lanie studied the choices of expensive clothing that hung in the vast wardrobe allotted to her. None of them bore even the slightest pretense of 1950s fashion. For a moment she was melancholy, and not for a sensible reason, but because she could feel that part of her life closing. The comfort and protection the 1950s costumes had given her—their magic—had expired. She was back in the real world.
She exited the room, tugging at the sleeves of a light lavender and gray tweed suit. The matching gray shoes pinched. It was just as much a costume as anything else she’d ever worn, but Nick had been right days ago. Clothes signaled authority. This outfit screamed “Lady of the Manor”, although the short skirt stated that she was a young and fashionable lady. After today, Waterhill would be free of the intruders and she could drop the role. Until then…no, she wouldn’t let any of the snobbish set put her down.
Her first stop was the kitchen, for allies. “Good morning. Any problems?”
Kate glanced up from a toasted bacon sandwich. “We’re holding in there.” She was eating at the table, but perched on the edge of her chair. Until the guests had gone, she wouldn’t relax either. Around her, the catering staff were assembling a substantial breakfast spread and taking it through to the dining room.
Lanie trailed after them, sniffing the smells of good food and wishing she was more in the mood to appreciate the breakfast. “Good morning.”
Nick and Richard were already at the table, along with a smattering of early-rising guests.
The muted, unhappy hum of conversation barely rippled with her entrance. She served herself scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and toast from the buffet, and slipped into a chair beside Nick.
He had a plate of bacon and eggs—or the remnants of one. He lingered over a cup of coffee. He was also two thirds of the long table away from Richard, and frowning.
She wasn’t used to seeing him unshaven. She’d have admired the edginess it gave him, if she didn’t suspect it to be a true reflection of his mood.
An unshaven Nick was a Nick defying the world. It signaled icebergs ahead.
Today, they didn’t match. She’d tried so hard to fit in. The neat tidiness of her tweed suit complemented the daylight grandeur of the dining room. With its curtains drawn back, the parkland of Waterhill added somber greens, grays and brown to the scene. Inside, discreet lighting drew a sparkle from silver and glassware, and would have enabled newspapers to be read, if anyone were rude enough to do so.
Some of the older men around the table looked as if they’d like to be.
Newspapers provided a bastion from behind which to prepare for the day, or hide from people. The bright social chatter of morning people brought a wince from the elderly Tawes cousin opposite Lanie.
She smiled at him sympathetically before concentrating on her breakfast—or trying to.
The tension between Nick and Richard dominated the room. Nick was withdrawn and Richard eyed him with evident and angry disapproval. They were in the same room, but there was a gulf between them again. No, not a gulf. A glittering, cutting crystal wall.
The pendulum of their relationship had swung sharply from emotional alliance to distance.
Lanie pressed her lips together, restraining a swearword. Both idiots probably thought they were re-establishing their independence. Needing and appreciating one another didn’t mean dependence or, horror of horrors, weakness.
And I’m in a bad mood, too. It was natural. The funeral and all the busy-ness of preparing for it was over. Now, there was nothing to distract them from picking up their lives, without Chloe.
Maybe Nick and Richard could have adjusted to the swings and shifts in their relationship if they’d been alone. Families did. Small talk and reminiscences filled the uncertainty of changing aspects of the relationship. But with all these people present, there was no time and no privacy to focus on the tie between them.
So the two men had withdrawn into old roles of wary acceptance, and even that was strained.
Nick had dropped everything to support his dad, and Richard had dropped his defenses and allowed Nick to see him as a fallible, vulnerable human. But, today, Richard was very much in control. He sat at the head of the table, impeccably dressed and looking haggard but in charge. And Nick, what was his role, here?
Lanie ate her smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, and considered her own role. Keeping the lines of communication open between father and son was her self-appointed job, a tribute to Chloe and an expression of her own love. She was here to support Nick, and that included helping him to be there for his dad. But today, Nick seemed distant from everyone.
He refilled her coffee cup.
She smiled at him, relieved by the sign of caring, and liking the brush of his arm against hers as he poured the coffee. The grimness of the morning faded a little.
A near smile glimmered in his dark eyes as he set the pot down.
“The way I see it—” the harsh voice of cousin Tilda, joining the table with a full plate, interrupted them.
Nick sat back in his chair, fingers drumming on the table. His gaze went to Richard and away. He drank his coffee like a man marking time.
An ominous vibe built, forecasting a storm. People ate hurriedly, social chatter faltering.
Lanie was relieved to see Nick’s friend, Nelson, enter the dining room. She smiled at him.
Nelson raised his eyebrows, then nodded. He ambled over to join them. “Morning. I’m not keen on breakfast, but coffee, now coffee is a gift from the gods.” He collected a cup and sat down on the other side of Lanie.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked the inane question, uncaring of the answer. It was something to fill the silence.
“We can always sleep on the plane,” Nick answered.
Lanie’s head swiveled sharply enough that she put a hand to her neck, afraid of whiplash.
His voice had been too deliberate, pitched to reach Richard at the head of the table.
“I have to fly back to Mexico.” Nelson spoke to Lanie, but he eyed his friend thoughtfully. “I left things unfinished. Not just the garden. A future project.”
“I’ll finish filming.” Nick pushed away his empty coffee cup. “If you’re packed, Lanie, I can drop you back at the museum on my way to the airport.”
He hadn’t said anything to her privately of his plans. He hadn’t indicated that she was no longer needed—wanted—at Waterhill. It felt like a snub. She drank some o
range juice, feigning composure as she debated her response.
Unfortunately, her silence gave Richard his chance to respond. “You’re leaving?” Less a question than censure.
“I’m catching the plane out to Mexico with Nelson this evening.”
Nelson ducked his head, signaling that this was not his fight.
He needn’t have worried. Richard reserved his ire for his son. “And you didn’t have the courtesy to tell me?”
Lanie closed her eyes, comprehension dawning. In the past, Nick would have told Chloe and she would have eased things.
Lanie didn’t have that chance—because Nick hadn’t told her!
Chapter 17
The presence of Nelson in the backseat removed any possibility of a genuine discussion between Nick and Lanie as Nick sped back to London.
Lanie hadn’t bothered to pack. She’d thrown her few personal belongings into her overlarge handbag and left the expensive clothes bought for her hanging in Nick’s wardrobe.
Given the cold fury between Nick and Richard, the sooner they had space between them, the safer. That way they couldn’t say things they’d regret.
Possibly regret.
She was cross with both of them and disappointed that she hadn’t been able to stop the breach. More than that, she felt an echo of it in her and Nick’s relationship. He was pulling back from everyone. Maybe that was his way of coping; in which case, her own withdrawal from her family a year ago was now being paid back in spades. She could feel him putting up walls. Karma was a sneaky witch.
She stared out the passenger window, Nick watched the road, and Nelson was absorbed in negotiating world peace—or something—on his phone. Arriving in London was a relief.
“Drop me at the nearest station. I can catch the Tube,” she said.
“Don’t be stupid.”
Whooo. Her breath caught.
“Sorry.” Nick put a hand on her knee. “Really sorry. Let me at least drive you home.”
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