though the dowager duchess seemed to believe that george dupont had chosen to die on the evening of the grand opening of her sponsored operatic performance in one last attempt to display his disregard for their attempts to join in the new york season ( on orders of his astor friend, edith assumed, as the woman seemed to pride herself on the control she had over high society ), it seemed crucial that the family show their respects at both the church service and the brunch, to remind everyone that there was no bad blood between the families, regardless of what had been written about them in the newspapers. it was strange to break bread with the family of the deceased when she would hear the vicious whispers that her mother stirred in one corner, holding court and planning her next step as though they were not at a somber event in the man's own home.
hiding a frown behind the porcelain rim of her teacup, edith strayed towards a painting of the man, hung ostentatiously at the dining area. it now served as some sort of shrine, candles and flowers left at the table that rested beneath the frame. setting her cup down, she reached out to rub a petal between her fingers, staring up at the painting even as someone approached. ❝ ... did you know him well or are you just here to maintain an appearance ? ❞ without airs, her voice was soft, cutting through the distant chatter. ❝ it seems to me that there is more of the latter than the former amongst the guests. ❞