Lawrence and Jeremy didn't notice. Well-scrubbed and wet-combed, they were following Mrs. Cameron down the central aisle to the oak-and-velvet pew reserved for the earl. Tristan could not see beneath the black veil his sister insisted on wearing, but he could just imagine the tears trailing down her pale cheeks. "Of course you can," he replied through gritted teeth. "It's just a church service. God knows we suffered through enough of them when Mother went through her Blessed Virgin devotion years." Of course, that was Roman masses they had endured, for their mother returned to her mystical papist practices whenever they were in Italy. Even now he could not breathe in the heavy sweet scent of incense without seeing his mother's perfect Madonna face raised up with a martyr's joy. Three years, that passion had lasted. This service, God willing, would only take an hour, if he could get Anna to cross the threshold. Anna took a sobbing breath, but didn't protest as he took her arm and drew her to the Haverton pew.
