The Heir Affair, стр. 90
Custom held that Eleanor was meant to lead the family procession into the church, but she’d made an edit. Instead, she was the last to enter, walking up the aisle alone, ensuring that all 4,400 eyes in the church—and the millions watching the service from home—would be on her.
It was a masterful performance. Eleanor’s stride was appropriately slow, yet assured. Only those in the know would recognize her slightly clenched fists as a sign she was stilling herself, trying to ensure no one spotted the disproportionate weakness that remained in her right side. Her back was ramrod straight, her face under her black hat relaxed but serious. I couldn’t imagine the effort it took—the sheer amount of careful self-control. The curtsies and bows from the rest of the guests rolled from the back of the church to the front, following her like a slow-motion version of the wave. It must have looked spectacular from the overhead cameras.
Unexpectedly, Eleanor stopped right in front of me, putting a hand to her chest in a show of emotion and then dabbing at her eyes. I looked up to see her staring at me very hard, and saw in the tilt of her head a suggestion that I should stand and take her arm. Nick nudged me with his leg and I shot up out of my seat, feeling the heat of Richard’s glare on my face as I—the interloper, and not him—walked her the rest of the way to Marta’s casket.
Behind us, someone sneezed. The ensuing echo gave me a little cover.
“Are you okay?” I murmured, trying not to move my lips.
“Tired,” was all she said through a motionless mouth.
I said nothing more. While Eleanor’s grief was real, I realized it also gave her a convenient excuse to have a steady arm escorting her the rest of the way. And so I led her to Marta, where she placed her posy next to her mother’s crown and leaned toward the coffin.
“I’ll never forget,” she whispered. And then, so subtly that I almost missed it: “But I’ll never forgive, either.”
When she turned to me a second later, it was gone, her face the picture of dignified sadness once more. I took her back to her seat to commence the final farewell, but didn’t hear a word of the service over my own racing thoughts.
* * *
“It’s lovely to see you, but I’m sorry it’s under these sad circumstances,” Daphne said to me and Nick later, during the post-funeral reception. We were in the Blue Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace, and I was perched on the world’s most uncomfortable silk settee and thinking about whether or not I needed to throw up. My constant need to barf had tapered, but I hadn’t felt right since Eleanor’s salty final salute to her mother—something I wasn’t entirely sure she knew I’d overheard.
“We’re happy you were able to make it,” Nick said.
“Of course,” Daphne said. “Marta was my father’s godmother, you know. We spent a lot of time looking at old photos of them last night. I’m relieved that we’ve seen some new advances in hat trends since he was born.” She waved across the room at Freddie. “I hope he got some sleep last night. He’s had it very hard.”
“So we heard,” I said.
“When I die, stuff me into a bottle and shoot me into space,” Freddie said, sidling up to us and bowing to Daphne with a wry smile.
“Please don’t even joke about that,” she said.
“I don’t mean now,” he said. “By the time I kick it, Bex and Nick will have had three hundred babies and no one will care about me anymore. Put me in a Coke can and recycle me and go about your day. Don’t even invite anyone. Although, I’ve got to say that Great-Gran’s turnout is fantastic.”
He turned to survey the room, and then winced, as if he’d pulled something in his hurt arm. Daphne gave him a reproachful look.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted.
Daphne looked at me, exasperated. “He always says this.”
“Well, he’s home now, so we can all keep tabs on him,” I said.
“And accordingly, you can stop talking about me as if I’m not standing right here,” Freddie said.
“Sorry,” I said. “Oh, we also rented out your place as an Airbnb, just so you know. I guess we have to evict them now.”
“I’m really going to miss that income,” Nick said. “Bex and I were spending it all at the track, and I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
Freddie laughed, but he didn’t return the conversational volley.
“Nick, I think your father’s trying to get your attention,” Daphne said, gesturing over Nick’s shoulder, where Richard was, in fact, fixing him with a stern expression, accompanied by a head flick toward the handsome old man next to him.
“Ugh. That’s Lord Tarlington,” Nick said, straightening his tie. “He’s got some initiative about vegan British sausages that Father natters on about. I don’t know why we’re doing this today.”
“Why not?” Freddie asked. “Look at Gran. She’s talking shop right now, I guarantee it.”
He nodded toward Eleanor, who was perched on an armchair under the lamp that had the most flattering light, and chatting to Doris Tuesday with a pitying look on her face. There was a line of people twenty deep waiting to speak to her.
“Your father is waving at us now,” Daphne narrated. “He looks agitated.”
“Right. Well, excuse me,” Nick said. He gave Daphne a polite double-kiss farewell, and then pecked my cheek. “Freddie, we didn’t really get a chance to speak