As the Southern Wind Moves On

Chapter 7---Sir Harrington's Funeral

The drive from the villa to the Harrington Manor took an hour, during which I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Ariana Whitmore's unborn child and Maxwell Harrington's final glance weighed heavily on me, a burden I could barely bear.

My chest ached, and as soon as the car stopped at the ancestral gate, a wave of nausea hit me. I rushed out and crouched beside the flowerbed, retching violently, though nothing came up.

"Well, well," a sharp voice pierced the air. "Only a few days as the Harrington family's lady, and already so fragile? A short ride leaves you heaving like this."

I didn't need to turn around. Mr. Edmund Harrington had two sons: the elder, Cedric Harrington, had died in a car crash years ago with his wife, leaving behind their only son, Maxwell. The younger was Chandler Harrington.

The woman at the gate, sneering, was Chandler's wife—Jocasta Harrington, my second aunt. In a wealthy family, grudges ran deep, and I had long grown accustomed to such hostility.

Swallowing the bile in my throat, I turned to her and said calmly, "Good afternoon, Susan."

Jocasta had never accepted me. Perhaps it was my humble origins, yet I had earned grandfather's favor. Or perhaps it was because he had entrusted the entire Harrington family to Maxwell, leaving her with nothing—so she took her bitterness out on me.

She shot me a cold look. Seeing no one else in the car, she snapped, "So the Harrington family's eldest son won't even attend the patriarch's funeral?"

Many guests had arrived, and Maxwell's absence was indeed improper. I offered a faint smile. "He's delayed by urgent matters. He'll come—just later."

"Hmph." Jocasta scoffed. "This is the man Grandfather trusted? Nothing more than an empty reputation."

Among so many guests, she wouldn't dare embarrass me openly, though her disdain was clear.

We entered together. In the main hall, grandfather's memorial tablet stood at the center. His body had been cremated; the urn rested behind the tablet. White funeral blossoms filled the space. Before the altar, incense burned steadily, offerings laid out in solemn tribute.

Guests arrived in waves. Mr. Edmund Harrington was revered, and the mourners were all of high standing. Chandler and Jocasta hosted inside and out. I remained by the memorial, assisting quietly.

"Miss Elara," Susan Adams, holding a lacquered sandalwood box, spoke softly beside me.

"Yes, Susan?" The Harrington household was vast, yet sparsely populated. Grandfather had cherished solitude, so only Susan had cared for him.

She placed the box in my hands, her eyes filled with sorrow. "This was left for you by the late master. Keep it safe."

After a pause, she whispered, "He knew Mr. Marston might compel you to divorce after his passing. If you wish to stay, give this box to him. Once he sees its contents, he'll hesitate—perhaps even reconsider."

I stared at the box—square, dark, locked with a small clasp. "Where's the key?" I asked.

"The key is already with Mr. Marston," she replied. She studied me. "You've grown so thin. Take care of yourself. The late master always hoped you and Mr. Marston would have a son—a child to carry on the Harrington name. Now that he's gone, don't let the family line end here."

At the word "child," I froze. I managed a weak smile and said nothing.

After the rites, the urn would be taken to the cemetery. By the time we arrived, it was already afternoon—yet Maxwell had not appeared.

The burial concluded. Still, Maxwell was nowhere to be seen. Chandler, arm in arm with Jocasta, looked at me and said, "Elara, the dead cannot return. Go home and speak with Maxwell. Don't let anger toward the late master linger. He owed Maxwell nothing in this life."