Chapter 8 - The Funeral Without a BodyThree days later, Daniel Wycliffe stood beside an empty casket and accepted sympathy from half the county.
The chapel at Wycliffe Manor overflowed with black lace, pearl buttons, polished boots, and fake sorrow.
Lady Vivian sat in the front pew, dry-eyed, wearing mourning silk that probably cost more than Agnes had earned in ten years.
Daniel played his role beautifully.
When an elderly aunt kissed his cheek, he lowered his eyes.
When neighbors mentioned Clara’s kindness, he pressed his handkerchief to his mouth.
When someone whispered, “And the unborn child too,” he turned away as if the pain was too great to bear.
Only Nora saw his reflection in the window.
He was smiling.
Small.
Private.
Gone in an instant.
But she saw it.
At the back of the chapel, a stranger stood in a plain black veil.
No one noticed her.
No one ever noticed women who dressed like grief.
Clara watched her own funeral from the shadows.
Thomas had forbidden it. Father Matthew had begged her not to go. Mrs. Bell had said no mother three days from childbirth should be standing in the rain outside a house full of murderers.
But Clara had come anyway.
Rose slept safely at the chapel with Mrs. Bell.
Clara had needed to see Daniel’s face.
She had needed to know whether guilt lived there.
It did not.
When the service ended, Vivian approached the casket and placed one white rose on top.
“My poor Clara,” she said loudly enough for everyone to hear. “So fragile. So unsuited to this world.”
Clara’s nails dug into her palms beneath her gloves.
Daniel placed a hand over his mother’s. “She was loved.”
The lie nearly drove Clara from the shadows.
Then something happened.
A commotion near the side door.
Nora entered carrying a bundle.
A burned shawl.
Lady Vivian’s face tightened.
Daniel stepped down from the altar. “What is that?”
Nora’s voice shook but did not break. “It was found near the old gamekeeper’s cabin.”
Whispers spread.
Daniel snatched the shawl.
It was Agnes’s.
Burned at the edges.
Bloodstained.
But wrapped inside it was something Clara had not known Agnes carried.
A silver button from Daniel’s coat.
Cut loose.
Nora said, “Agnes must have torn it off before the fire.”
Daniel’s grief mask slipped.
Just for one second.
But the room saw.
A magistrate in the front pew frowned.
Lady Vivian rose. “This is not the time for servant gossip.”
Nora faced her. “Then when is the time, my lady? After Mrs. Wycliffe’s money has been transferred?”
The chapel gasped.
Daniel grabbed Nora’s arm. “Enough.”
Clara stepped forward instinctively.
Thomas, hidden beside her, caught her wrist.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
Nora winced but did not lower her gaze. “Agnes said if anything happened to her, someone should look behind Saint Cecilia.”
Vivian went white.
Clara froze.
The nursery wall.
Her mother’s diary.
Daniel released Nora.
Vivian smiled too quickly. “The girl is hysterical.”
But the damage was done.
People were watching now.
Questions had entered the room like smoke.
And smoke, Clara knew, always found cracks.
That night, while Daniel entertained mourners with brandy and soft lies, Clara returned to Wycliffe Manor through the servants’ entrance she had once used only to surprise Agnes in the kitchen.
Nora was waiting.
When she saw Clara, she dropped the candle.
“Ghost of mercy,” she whispered.
Clara caught her hands. “Not a ghost.”
Nora began to cry.
“Is the baby—?”
“Alive.”
Nora covered her mouth.
Clara embraced her quickly. “I need the nursery.”
Nora led her upstairs through back corridors.
Every portrait seemed to watch.
Outside the nursery door, Clara heard voices.
Daniel.
And Vivian.
“…burn it tonight,” Vivian said.
Daniel answered, “What if someone has already found it?”
“Then we burn them too.”
Clara’s blood turned cold.
Nora looked terrified.
Clara stepped into the room before fear could stop her.
Daniel turned.
His face emptied.
Vivian’s candle shook.
For one perfect second, neither of them could speak.
May you like
Then Clara lifted her veil.
“Looking for me?” she asked.
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