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hillside when she wished she had listened to her mother. She should not have come. The sun beat down ruthlessly upon her head, yet she did not think to open her parasol. She stood gripping the ivory carved handle, standing a little apart from the others in isolated misery. A hum of bright chatter filled the air as the other ladies and gentlemen present speculated what lay beneath that mysterious mountain of canvas.
    Kate realized this was not a funeral service. That had been held in the church for Harry weeks ago. This was only the dedication of his memorial, but everyone did not have to act as though this were some sort of Hyde Park fête, as though Harry had died years ago.
    The only one displaying any grief was Harry's stepmama. The Dowager Lady Lytton sniffed in her black-edged handkerchief as she stood conversing with Julia. Kate, who found the old lady with her brassy curls and painted cheeks rather shocking, had been unable to do more than murmur a few polite words to her.
    If such a thing had been possible, Kate thought she would far rather have stepped back a few paces and mingled with Harry's servants. From the youngest chambermaid to the stately old butler, Mr. Grayshaw, they remained somberly quiet, their faces a reflection of sorrowful respect. To Kate, there seemed to be more honest emotion in the way one of the stable lads surreptitiously wiped his eyes on his sleeve than all of Lady Lytton's elegant dabbings.
    Even more did Kate wish herself far away when she drew too close to Squire Gresham and chanced to overhear some of the remarks he was making to his wife.
    "You don't think it'd be considered too forward, do you, Sophy," he mumbled, "if I was just to drop a word in Lady Lytton's ear? There's a couple of prime hunters of Harry's I've always had my eye on and I wouldn't want anyone else stealing a march on me."
    "I doubt it would do you a particle of good, Squire," said Mrs. Gresham. "Those horses would rightfully be the property of the new earl, his to dispose of."
    "That dour cousin of Harry's from up north?" the squire growled. "A penny pinching Scot who will drive a hard bargain. Rot the luck!"
    Her heart firing with indignation, Kate moved back so she did not have to hear anymore. She had scolded Harry herself for his preoccupation with his horses, but somehow the squire scheming over Harry's grave to have his favorite hunters inspired Kate with a most unchristian desire to break her parasol over Gresham's head.
    It was a relief when Reverend Thorpe commanded everyone to silence and began his speech. After the first few words, Kate blotted out the sound of his voice. She did not want to her the vicar damning Harry with faint praise.
    Her head thumped unpleasantly as she brushed her damp brow with the back of her glove. It was so hot. Was it only her fancy or had the breezes here been much more warm and gentle when Harry had been alive?
    She could not say. She had only been to this hillside the one time before, and that had been spring. Harry had driven her out here to ask her to be his bride. If her answer had been different, she, too, would be wearing black, but she would have had nearly two years with Harry. If she had married him, perhaps he would never have gone away. She would have dissuaded him from rushing off to fight Bonaparte. Harry might still be—
    Kate squeezed her eyes tight. No, she could not think such things as that. She had given Harry the only possible answer she could. Never could she have married him. If she had ever been the least unsure, matters had been made clear to her that morning Papa had called her into his study.
    The bishop's silvery halo of hair had been bent over his desk, as ever spread with pages of some scholarly text he was working upon. His stern eyes softened as he invited Kate to be seated.
    He came directly to the point. Lord Lytton was being most particular in his attentions to Kate. Papa trusted that even such a reckless young man as he would not trifle with