Paragon Walk by Anne Perry Page A

of some deep and twisting pain. Was it for Fanny? Or for death in general? Or was it even grief for the living, because he knew or guessed something of the “whited sepulchers” Fulbert had spoken of? Or was it fear?
    Charlotte stepped back and touched Vespasia’s arm.
    “Who is he?”
    “Hallam Cayley,” Vespasia replied. “Widower. His wife was one of the Cardews. She died about two years ago. Pretty woman, lot of money, but not much sense.”
    “Oh.” So that explained his tight body and the confusion of pain in his face. Perhaps she herself was staring around at all these people, occupying her mind with questions to keep it from the memory of other funerals, personal ones that hurt too much to bear recalling?
    The ceremony was over. Slowly, with extreme decorum, they all turned as if on a single pivot and began the walk back to the road and the carriages. They would meet at Paragon Walk again at Afton Nash’s for the obligatory baked meats. Then the ritual could be considered accomplished.
    “I see you remarked the Frenchman,” Vespasia observed under her breath.
    Charlotte considered feigning innocence, and decided it would not work.
    “Next to Selena?”
    “Naturally.”
    They walked, or rather processed, down the narrow path, through the gateway, and out onto the footpath. Afton, as the eldest brother, embarked into his carriage first, then Jessamyn, with Diggory a few moments behind her. He had been talking to George, and Jessamyn was obliged to wait for him. Charlotte saw the flicker of irritation pass across her face. Fulbert had come in a separate carriage for the occasion and had offered a ride to the Misses Horbury, dressed in ornate and antique black. It took them several moments to seat themselves satisfactorily.
    George and Emily were next, and Charlotte found herself moving before she was really ready to leave. She looked across at Emily. Emily caught her eye and smiled wearily in return. Charlotte was happy to see that she had slipped her hand into George’s and he was holding it protectively.
    The funeral breakfast was very splendid, as she had expected it to be. There was nothing ostentatious—one did not draw attention to a death that had come about in such an appalling manner—but there was enough to feed half of Society on the great table, and Charlotte thought at a quick estimation that every man, woman, and child on her own street could have lived on it for a month, with care.
    People split into little groups, whispering together, no one wishing to be the first to begin.
    “Why do we always eat after funerals?” Charlotte asked, unconsciously frowning. “I’ve never felt less like it.”
    “Convention,” George replied, looking at her. He had the finest eyes she had ever seen. “It’s the only sort of hospitality everyone understands. Anyway, what else could one do? We can’t simply stand here, and we can hardly dance!”
    Charlotte suppressed a desire to giggle. It was as formal and ridiculous as an old-fashioned dance.
    She glanced around the room. He was right; everyone was a little awkward, and eating eased the tension. It would be vulgar to show emotion, at least for men. Women were expected to be frail, though weeping was frowned upon, because it was embarrassing and no one knew what to do about it. But one could always faint; that was quite acceptable and gave one the perfect excuse to retire. Eating was an occupation that covered the hiatus between obvious mourning and the time when one could decently go and leave the whole matter of death behind.
    Emily put out her hand to claim Charlotte’s attention. She turned, to find herself facing a woman in extremely expensive black with a rather heavyset man beside her. “May I present my sister, Mrs. Pitt? Lord and Lady Dilbridge.”
    Charlotte responded with the usual courtesies.
    “Such a dreadful affair,” Grace Dilbridge said with a sigh. “And such a shock! One would never have expected it of the