A funeral was the culmination of a contest—sickness, accident, age, it mattered not—in which Death was the victor. The deceased was the vanquished, and Death's prize was a black-draped catafalque.
In this case, the coffin of James Roberson.
Grant Roberson, the 10th Earl of Straithern, stood beside a marble-encased pillar, unwilling to join his mother in the family pew. He would be trapped there while the rest of the congregation stared at the back of his head, no doubt hoping for a reaction. They would be doomed to disappointment. He had no intention of expressing his grief for his brother in public.
The chapel was a sea of black: hats, veils, mourning suits, and dresses. The hundreds of candles could do nothing to illuminate the shadows since even the day was leaning toward darkness. The fog outside seemed to permeate the very brick, pool at the feet of the congregation, and hover below the casket as if impatient for the moment of his interment.
"My condolences, Your Lordship."
Grant turned his head slightly, glanced at the man who'd been the Roberson family physician for two decades, and nodded.
Dr. Fenton's appearance was such that people tended to overlook him. He was short and bewhiskered, with a bulbous nose and a rounded chin. His brown eyes were often filled with kindness, but their expression was hidden behind thick spectacles. When he was distressed or anxious, or most insistent upon a point, he removed them and polished them with his handkerchief or his cuff, or whatever piece of clothing presented itself.
Now he was diligently rubbing at the frames with the hem of his waistcoat.
"I did all that I could to save him, Your Lordship."
It hadn't been enough. But now was not the time to condemn the man's methods or the fact that he'd also been unable to save Grant's other brother six months earlier. The physician would be the first to explain that medicine was an imperfect science.
Perhaps Grant should have enlisted the aid of the nearest wise woman instead.
"We need to examine you at your earliest convenience, Your Lordship," Dr. Fenton said in a low voice.
Grant took advantage of the choir's interruption. A dozen angelic boyish voices spiraled toward the vaulted ceiling, marking the beginning of the service.
Dr. Fenton, however, was not daunted. "The sooner, Your Lordship, the better."
Grant folded his arms and stared down at the stone floor. "I hardly think this is the proper time to discuss my health, Dr. Fenton."
"I can think of no better place, Your Lordship."
Was the man joking? A swift glance assured Grant that he was not. There was nothing remotely amused about Dr. Fenton's sober expression. Instead, the man's gaze met his directly, forcing Grant to think about something he didn't particularly care to consider at the moment.
In a month, a week, a few days, he might well be the one resting on the catafalque before the altar. Who would mourn him? His overburdened mother? By rights, no woman should have had to endure the death of a husband and two of her sons. Would his death be the final blow? Or would she simply endure as she was now, stiff and silent, unbending in her grief?
"Tomorrow," Grant said. "That's time enough. Surely I'll survive until tomorrow. You can examine me then."
The physician nodded, and had the tact to move away, leaving Grant to his contemplation of mortality.
A blood disease. In the midst of attending James, Dr. Fenton had hinted as much. A hereditary anomaly. Grant was, like his two brothers before him, doomed.
James had died five days ago, just as Andrew had six months earlier. Their symptoms had been eerily similar: lethargy, followed by an unearthly paleness as if the body were being readied...
