When, at supper two days ago, John had declared, and not for the first time, his determination not to trade on Father’s reputation, but to act under the name of Wilkes, Rosalie had understood this to be a criticism of Edwin. She’d thought, unkindly, that John was more likely to suffer than Edwin by any comparison to Father, but, of course, she didn’t say this.

Had it been Edwin criticizing John, her instinctive protectiveness would have been the same. She loves them both. She wants them to love each other.

They arrive at the gate to the cemetery, an elaborate arrangement of twisted iron, black leaves and vines, with real leaves and vines twining between. Edwin helps Rosalie down and ties up the horse. He gives her his arm. The paths are spongy with wet leaves and mud, flanked by tall, thin Normandy poplars. We should have brought flowers, Rosalie thinks and then thinks not, remembering how Father wouldn’t suffer a flower to be cut. “This way,” she says. She sees that it’s hard for Edwin to match her gait. They keep falling out of step.

Edwin hunches against the wind. He looks very young suddenly, as if he’s sloughed off five years since breakfast. His hands are bare. He asks her to tell him about the funeral.

“It was cold like this,” she says. “Cold and gray. The whole day dressed in mourning.”

“This isn’t cold,” Edwin tells her. “I once had to walk for hours and hours through a blizzard with snow up to my neck.” Rosalie waits to see if he wants to say more. He doesn’t.

“Well, it was snowing during the funeral,” Rosalie says finally. “But not hard, not a blizzard. People still came. So many they couldn’t all fit inside. It was the funeral of a great man. We were so proud to be his family.” For just a second the shadow of Adelaide Booth falls across the conversation. Then, just as quickly, she’s gone.

They arrive at the grave and Rosalie drops his arm. The grass is dead and black and bent flat against the mud. The stone is a white marble, simple and unsentimental. Edwin cleans it with his handkerchief. “It’s not enough,” Edwin says, “for a man of his stature.”

“Father abhorred flash,” Rosalie says.

“But he wasn’t drab either. I’ll put up something better when I have the money.” He’s crying. When did that start?

“My dear boy,” Rosalie says.