The Wrong Gentleman

CHAPTER THREE

"Coward," Margaret half growled, ignoring the stricken look that quickly overcame the undertaker's face as he gawked at her.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs Burton?" he stammered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Coward," she repeated. "A single word that summarizes my husband's entire life. More socially acceptable than 'fool'." She shrugged, and he shrank back. "Although, not as suitable."

"Surely you must be jesting!"

"Do I appear to be in the mood for jokes, Mr. Tapper?" She raised a brow.

"But, Mrs Burton, to have such words written on a dead man's gravestone..."

"What, then, shall be more suitably engraved upon Mr. Burton's gravestone? RIP? And shall I wish peace upon a man who, in life, deprived his family of peace, and has ensured that we shall endure the rest of our days on earth, devoid of peace? A man who, only a few hours after gambling his family's fortune and future away, swallowed a bullet?"

"Mrs Burton—" the undertaker opened his mouth to protest, but Margaret waved him off, in no mood for a futile argument.

"Perhaps I shall find a different undertaker willing to do my bidding," she said, rising to her wobbly feet. She was exhausted from her rage.

And enraged she was! Margaret could barely feel anything but rage after returning home to the news of her husband's suicide. Wesley was a fool for not only committing the crime of suicide, but for putting his family at the risk of forfeiting what was left of their property. Their only saving grace was that the Coroner had ruled, with ample evidence, that the balance of Wesley's mind had been disturbed due to the loss of his fortune. Indeed, Wesley was insane when he killed himself—his judgement clouded by grief and alcohol—but to Margaret, that was no excuse.

How dare he?! How dare he leave her with the responsibility of burying his foul remains? How dare the old fool ruin her life and run from the consequences?!

Where was she to start from? They were doomed; Margaret knew that much. But, she couldn't afford to give in to such depressing thoughts, nor could she give in to the crippling desire to cry over her ruined life. She instead held on to her rage, needing it for strength to execute the Herculean task that was before her; the task of fixing what was left of her family.

"Wait!" Mr. Tapper called, forcing her to pause by the doorway. She was plain worn out from having to endure his boring presence for very long. She already spent the entire day receiving guests and well-wishers. If Mr. Tapper didn't show out the door himself soon, she might be tempted to throw him out on his breeches.

"I shall do as you please," he said reluctantly. She turned to him in time to watch him throw his hands in the air.

"Good." She waved him off.

"But I shall wait until the last minute. Perhaps you shall change your mind."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Show yourself out, Mr. Tapper." She turned from him without another word and made her way up the stairs to her room. The foul smell of Wesley's cologne assaulted the air, plaguing her with memories of him as she perched on the edge of the bed.

Her marriage to Wesley had been one of convenience for the both of them. Having grown up in the tavern, Margaret had been the unfortunate daughter of a pauper. She had enjoyed the company of many men, but none was as ambitious as Wesley, the poor merchant who had happened upon her father's tavern on his way to London. One drunken evening in her bed, and Wesley had stupidly fallen in love. She had grown tired of being nothing but a pawn in her father's hands and a whore of the gentlemen who were only willing to associate with her in the dark, when Wesley proposed marriage to her.