Funerals happened quickly in this world, Rip noticed. He suspected it may have something to do with embalming, or rather the lack of it.

Preserving bodies, of course, was an ancient practice. The Egyptians were particularly good at it. But the use of embalming fluid did not reach widespread practice in his world until the 20th century or so, even though the techniques were perfected before then.

Rip recalled the story of a hurricane hitting the gulf coast and destroying a cemetery. When a fresh body was found in the cleanup afterward, rescuers at first thought they found a victim of the storm. In fact, the man was a Civil War veteran who had been buried in an expensive lead coffin, hermetically sealed. The storm waters disinterred the coffin and broke it open, exposing the preserved body to the elements for the first time in decades.

All these thoughts raced through his mind as he sat on a train heading north with Blair.

She had not spoken much since the attack. The police took copious notes from multiple interviews, a photographer took pictures, and then they were finally allowed to move Sir Winston’s body.

Blair and Rip returned home late that evening, exhausted. Nancy knew what happened, as did everyone else. The attack made the front page of all the papers.

This morning, they set out for the family estate, placing Sir Winston’s coffin in a luggage car on the train.

One oddity Rip felt compelled to ask Blair about included a tiny bell on top of the coffin. It dangled from a small belfry built near the front, with a string going inside a tiny hole.

Apparently there had been some instances of people declared dead suddenly reviving after their coffins were sealed. Struck by horror at the thought of burying someone alive, the current mortuary trend was to include a bell string so that should such a thing happen, the victim could signal the living and be released before burial.

The bell never rang as Rip and Blair watched arbiters load the coffin onto the luggage car.

They would bury Sir Winston in a cemetery near the family estate, Blair informed Rip, in a plot next to her mother. The funeral would be a small one, attended only by friends and family. Nancy would take another train later in the day. She, along with all the family’s servants, would attend.

Blair did not say much as the train headed north.

At last they disembarked at a village called Ravenwick. A tall, thin older man dressed in a very nice suit waited for them at the station. He gave Blair a brief, one-armed hug. She responded by leaning into him. Her head came up to his chest.

“I’ll see to his remains, Lady Blair. You go on to the house.”

“Thank you, Jonesie.”

The man turned to Rip and put out his hand.

“Sir Coulter, I am Jerod Jones, the Brooke family butler. How do you do? The manor has been following all of your exploits in the paper.”

Rip shook his hand.

“One of the good papers, I hope.”

“The Standard Trumpet. It is ‘The News for Truth,’ after all. The morning editions reach us on the evening train from Leeds.”

Rip smiled, already liking the man. He also felt impressed that an Ethinium paper could be delivered hundreds of miles away to this small village, another positive indicator of the Umbrian postal service’s efficiency. As near as he could tell, they were about 300 miles north of Ethinium, which seemed much farther than it would be back home.

Jonesie directed them to a carriage he had waiting for the couple. They climbed in and the horse clip-clopped away from the train station, heading out into the countryside.

A light mist fell, making the sky overcast. Rip thought the weather matched Blair’s mood. She spoke little on the short ride to the manor.

Several minutes later, the carriage driver came to a driveway of crushed gravel circling a large marble fountain. A huge three-story mansion faced them, with steps leading up to a solid wooden double door.

“This place looks more like a palace than a manor,” Rip murmured.

Blair said, “It’s all rather expensive. I don’t know what it cost Father, but I know practically every dime from the estate goes toward this house.”

A stream of servants poured out the doors as the driver set the brake before jumping down to help them out. Most were women, dressed in maid uniforms, but a few men peppered the crowd. Rip thought most of the men were outside workers, based on their clothing.

The maids hurried to hug and make a fuss over Blair, while those too far away turned their attention to Rip. He shook hands and spoke to the men, greeting the women with nods. Each person told him what they do, which he found interesting since he did not ask.

“I’m Lily Dobbs, one of the downstairs maids.”

“Jess Walker. I’m the gardener.”

“Hello, I’m Frank Bradston. I take care of Sir Brooke’s horses and dogs, and anything that needs fixing inside or out.”

Rip politely greeted them all, and before too long he and Blair had cycled through everyone.

Blair asked for their attention, lifting her voice.

“I know you’re all concerned about the future. But I want to assure you that I have no plans to sell Brooke Manor, nor change any of our current employment arrangements.”

A sigh seemed to go through the crowd of servants. Rip realized with the death of Sir Winston, worries about the future would be natural, especially among those whose livelihood depended on the man. Blair essentially said everyone’s jobs were safe, at least for now.

“And those no longer working with us, the elderly Mrs. Dobbs, for instance, our arrangements for their retirement will continue.”

Lily Dobbs smiled and curtsied. If Rip had to guess, he would bet “the elderly Mrs. Dobbs” was Lily’s mother.

He realized that working for a house like this essentially meant lifetime employment. Once someone grew old, or disabled, the Brookes would continue providing for them in gratitude for their loyal service.

It was not government welfare, but a security pact between families. One family would serve the other in return for lifetime employment and retirement benefits.

It was very foreign from the way Rip understood employment, but he supposed it worked well. Evidently, it had been working well here for centuries.

Blair continued speaking for a while, thanking everyone for their support during this difficult time, and wrapped things up by indicating the funeral would begin soon.

“We have a bit of time to prepare before heading over there. I will see you all at the cemetery in half an hour.”

The crowd dispersed, most heading back inside. A few stayed to share a few more words with Brooke. There were many hugs and arms grasped, with a few tears shed, too, as the women comforted Blair as much as she comforted them.

Finally, she led Rip inside, and in the main hall another portrait of father and daughter stood on the far wall.

Unlike the one in her townhouse, painted when she was much younger, here Blair posed as a nearly grown woman in her late teens. She stood beside her father, who looked splendid in hunting clothes, a shotgun over one shoulder.

He looked proud of the daughter beside him, her arm in the crook of his elbow. Both looked happy. Blair had a winsome smile, as if hiding secrets, a woman on the cusp of adulthood learning how the world works.

“This, needless to say, was his favorite portrait of us.”

“You prefer the one where you were younger, painted soon after he bought this place.”

“I like this one, too. But there was no way he would ever let me have it. And I couldn’t steal it without him noticing, like the other one. It’s in too prominent a location.”

Rip looked at the portrait. It was life-sized; the frame stretching eight feet tall.

“You can take it now.”

It was not a suggestion, just a simple statement of fact. Sir Winston was no longer here to protest.

Blair smiled, sadly.

“No, I shan’t. This one will stay right here.”

Rip looked up at the pair on the wall and had to agree. So long as the place was called “Brooke Manor,” the portrait belonged here.