On the day of the funeral, a steady rain was falling.
If the water filled the grave already dug, it would be a problem—a serious one. Listening to the priest chant the solemn prayer, Theodore Ruttgard found himself thinking that, then suddenly lifted his gaze.
Soft whispers floated here and there like drifting dust, brushing against his ears.
“I can’t believe it. That woman even dares show her face at the funeral.”
“If she had any thought for Lord Theodore, she would never dare.”
“She’s a stain on the Ruttgard name.”
“She was the Count’s foster daughter, cherished as if she were his own. Attending the funeral is her duty.”
“Duty? Don’t make me laugh. When you think of how that woman and her mother drove the Countess to her death, Lord Theodore ought to have torn her to pieces.”
“Sir Pavel’s position as well. However fond he was of the bastard child, he lost his only heir because of her. How could he have been at peace?”
The criticisms and sneers continued, but Olivia Peril, standing neatly in a corner of the chapel with her face hidden behind a black veil, betrayed no expression.
She must be grieving, Theodore thought. Unlike him.
For his father had loved Olivia, and Olivia had loved his father. The late Count had been less his own father than Olivia’s.
“Perhaps she’s rejoicing.”
And the mourners knew it too.
“Hasn’t it been nearly ten years since Lord Theodore fell out with his father? I’ve heard he never returned home once, not even exchanged letters.”
“He didn’t even keep his father’s deathbed vigil.”
“That’s too harsh. The one most grieved to miss that vigil is Lord Theodore himself.”
“Poor Count!”
“Truthfully, it was his own doing. He was besotted with his mistress and bastard, drove his wife to death—of course the son would hate him.”
Most who spoke so were distant relatives or visitors from afar. The retainers who had long served the Count looked uneasy, but said nothing.
It was no secret in Ruttgard that the late Count Pavel had fallen for a woman named Peril and neglected his wife. The Countess, pregnant with their second child, had learned of Peril and Olivia’s existence, collapsed in shock, and miscarried. Tragically, though it had been purely a marriage of alliance, she had truly loved Pavel.
And not long after, she died. People whispered it was no different from murder by the Count’s hand.
Though Pavel had been a lord of virtue, that incident ruined his honor entirely.
And the loss of honor brought real cost. The Countess’s family, the House of Nox, and all her kin severed ties with House Ruttgard. Pavel lost his standing at court, and the Ruttgard name itself fell in credit.
Relatives begged him to cast Peril out and apologize to the Nox family. Pavel did apologize, but he never dismissed Peril, nor remarried.
“Do you think vows to a lady so lightly broken? Lady Peril shall ever have my loyalty and protection.”
At the very least they urged him to remarry into a good house, but Pavel refused. Everyone knew it was for Peril’s sake, so all mocked his talk of loyalty to a “lady.”
No one even knew if Peril had any right to be called a lady. Her parentage and house were unknown. In her manners and education she seemed to have noble schooling, but if she truly had, she would never have played the role of another man’s mistress.
When Peril died, the Ruttgard kin had sighed with relief. Surely now Pavel would come to his senses and wed a woman of true dignity and rank.
But Pavel never remarried. After his only son Theodore left home, he lived relying only on Peril’s daughter, Olivia.
So even a funeral that should have been reverent was rife with gossip.
Theodore let it pass.
People’s words were truth and falsehood both. He had despised his father, hated him, and he did not feel much grief even now.
But not quite for the reasons they thought. In the passionate days of youth, he had resented his father, but now with his heart cooled, even his hatred was largely gone. His father was simply a man with great flaws and great strengths, nothing more.
At such times Theodore felt anew that even hatred was but another form of affection.
“Theo.”
His cousin Andrei Nox whispered at his side. Theodore shook his head lightly, meaning he was fine.
He had returned to fulfill his duty as Ruttgard’s heir, and would continue to do so. No other feeling had a place.
“May the path of the departed be lit bright before him.”
The priest’s prayer ended. The organ began a funeral hymn.
By custom, Theodore stepped forward first, placing a flower into his father’s coffin. Then he stepped aside, watching the procession of offerings and giving thanks to the mourners.
From close kin the flowers continued in order of intimacy. But until even those who had never met the Count in life had come to lay flowers, Olivia only stood in the shadows.
At last, when none remained, Theodore glanced at her. Perhaps she was too stricken with grief to move.
“Shall we close?”
The priest asked him softly. Theodore did not nod, only waited.
At last Olivia moved. The very last.
Pavel Ruttgard already lay buried in blossoms. Olivia set her white flower down gently, almost as if ashamed to add it.
Theodore watched her. He could not see her face behind the veil, but her calm gesture did not look as if she were weeping.
He nodded at the priest to end it. At the signal, two deacons carefully closed the lid.
Several mourners broke down then, sobbing aloud. Theodore looked at Olivia again, but she still stood straight and silent.
The priest rang the bell and led the way out. The coffin followed, then choir and censers.
Theodore’s place was just behind the censer-bearer. His uncle Denis followed, supporting his weeping aunt Daria. In the order of flowers offered, the mourners made a long procession to the gravesite.
Would Olivia follow at the rear again? Or slip away to avoid their eyes?
For an instant Theodore wondered, then thought it did not matter. Pavel would have made his arrangements for her.
For her future, for her grief.
***
That evening, the heirs of House Ruttgard gathered in the study.
It was an unseemly thing. Having buried the Count today, they should have spent the night steeped in mourning, begun talk of inheritance only days later—at the earliest, tomorrow evening.
But the Ruttgard kin would not wait.
“What’s the use of delay, when the business must be done anyway?”
Pavel’s younger brother Denis muttered, justifying himself, his voice echoing in the quiet study. He was drowning in debts he could never repay, from waste and failed ventures.
No one answered. The study was silent, yet charged, like the air before a storm. As if some great quarrel must soon erupt.
It is no strange thing, thought Marquis Ascensio, executor of the will, narrowing his eyes as he studied the room. Pavel’s sins run deep.