November 1st—All Saints’ Day
‘Mr Pierce, please.’ Someone nudged him gently, though the gentleness didn’t stop John from scampering, swatting at the threat, mingling with remnants of disquieting dreams. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr Willcombe needs you.’
Some semblance of meaning pierced his foggy mind, and blinking against the little light in the room, John dragged himself to sitting, and peered at the figure beside him.
Fred’s valet.
‘What’s happened?’ John croaked, rubbing a hand over his face.
He looked over at the window—he’d never drawn the curtains—and found that though the storm was gone, it wasn’t forgotten in the dark grey of…early morning, he noted, glancing at the clock on the mantel which read seven.
‘It’s Mr Willcombe,’ the valet said gravely. John’s heart leapt, then calmed when the man continued. ‘The elder, sir. He passed in the night.’
Damn.
‘Where’s Fred?’ John asked, tearing from bed, and into clothes.
His friend must be…a mess.
Whatever their feelings towards one another, a parent’s death was never easy.
At least I’m here for him.
‘Mr Willcombe’s in the corridor, at Mr Willcombe’s door. He… We weren’t sure what to do, sir.’
‘You did well, fetching me. Who else knows?’
‘All the servants, likely. We had to break down the door. Of the guests, only Dr Merrow.’
John nodded, pulling on his braces and boots, grabbing what clothing remained to finish as they walked, signalling to the valet to lead the way.
John’s suspicions were correct, and his heart twisted. Fred was a mess. In only trousers and a half-tucked shirt, curled up beside the closed door of his father’s room, knees to his chest, face streamed with tears and twisted in agony.
Fendrick and Mrs Gregor—the housekeeper—stood vigil, faces blank, backs straight, with some footmen, uncertainty written in their eyes.
‘Are there guests in the nearby rooms?’ John asked.
‘No,’ Mrs Gregor said.
‘Please ensure everything is…normal, for now,’ John instructed, their leader now by default. ‘Dr Merrow’s in there?’ Fendrick nodded. ‘I’ll speak to him, and take care of Mr Willcombe. No word of this should reach the guests’ ears until Mr Willcombe decides how to proceed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the two senior servants chanted in unison.
With a bow, and a curtsey, they and everyone else present, disappeared.
Satisfied he had a moment to…console his friend, John went to Fred, crouching before him, and gently placing a hand on his knee.
Fred looked at him, despair pouring from his eyes.
‘I’m so sorry, Fred.’
‘I came…’ Fred gasped, choking back more sobs. ‘To speak with him, and I… The same day,’ he whispered, uncomprehending. ‘What sort of cruel joke is this?’
‘Fred—’
The door beside them opened, Dr Merrow in all his wispy gravity, stepping out, and closing the door.
Their gazes met, and after hesitating to see if John or Fred would rise, the doctor nodded.
‘His heart, I fear. It would’ve been quick, Mr Willcombe,’ he said, full of true sympathy. Fred shook his head, turning away. ‘My sincerest condolences.’
‘Thank you,’ John said in the long, ensuing silence. ‘I’ll see Mr Willcombe taken care of, and we’ll discuss next steps.’
A nod, and the doctor too was gone.
‘His heart broke for Mama. I suppose there’s poetry in that.’
John opened his mouth, but rustling clothes and a tiny gasp caught his attention.
Glancing behind him, he found Miss Powell at the top of the stairs, looking nearly as devastated, and disbelieving, as Fred. But there was something else in her typically brilliant eyes, which looked like…
Guilt.
A second later it was gone, and so was she.
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