Chapter Text
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The church bells rang across Rutshire beneath a sky the color of old silver. Taggie O'Hara stood on the worn stone steps of St. Augustine's and wished, for perhaps the hundredth time that morning, that none of it were real. Around her, black umbrellas crowded the churchyard. Television executives stood beside farmers and secretaries stood beside aristocrats. Rivals who had spent years tearing one another apart in newspapers and boardrooms now exchanged quiet nods beneath the steady drizzle. Death, Taggie thought numbly, was the only thing capable of making everyone behave.
Her fingers tightened around the damp handkerchief in her hands. Monica was gone. Even now, after the funeral service, after the hymns and flowers and endless condolences, the words felt impossible.
A sharp ache rose unexpectedly in Taggie's chest. Beside her, Rupert shifted slightly closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that the sleeve of his coat brushed hers. The touch was fleeting, almost accidental, yet she felt it immediately. Rupert had always possessed an extraordinary ability to make the smallest gestures feel significant. He never fussed over people publicly, never made a performance of his concern, but somehow he was always there when it mattered. A hand at the small of her back guiding her through a crowded room, a glass of wine appearing when she looked exhausted, a quiet question when everyone else assumed she was fine.
She glanced up at him. His face was grave beneath the grey afternoon sky, the sharp planes of it softened by the muted light. He had shaved that morning, she knew he must have, yet a dark shadow already roughened his jaw. It seemed permanently attached to him, that faint stubble, as though nature had decided Rupert Campbell-Black looked too polished and had provided a flaw out of sheer fairness. Not that it helped. If anything, it only made him more attractive. Taggie immediately felt guilty for noticing. Monica was being buried. Yet her gaze lingered anyway.
He wore a dark wool coat with the collar turned up against the wind. It was much too warm for such a heavy coat, but Rupert had never dressed according to the weather. He dressed according to occasion. Whether he was attending a race meeting, a board meeting, a wedding or a funeral, he always looked exactly right, as though he'd stepped effortlessly into whatever role the day required. The fact that he was probably overheating seemed irrelevant to him.
Taggie found herself wondering whether Cameron had been comforting him. The thought came unexpectedly. Rupert hid his feelings better than most people, but grief unsettled him. She wondered if it was because death was one of the few things he couldn't charm, outwit or overcome through sheer force of personality. Looking at him now, she wished it was her who had been taking care of him today.
A warm gust of wind stirred the trees above them, carrying the scent of rain, damp earth and the faint trace of Rupert's cologne. The smell was familiar enough now that she associated it with comfort. Ridiculous, really. She ought to have been paying attention to the service, yet instead she found herself absurdly aware of the warmth of his shoulder beside hers and the reassuring solidity of his presence.
As though sensing her attention, Rupert turned his head. Their eyes met. The noise of the churchyard seemed to fade. His expression softened almost imperceptibly, concern replacing whatever thoughts had occupied him before. He didn't smile. This wasn't the place for smiles. But she knew that look. Rupert was checking on her.
“Are you ok?” She reached out first.
"I'm fine, darling,” he replied softly.
She wasn't convinced. The strain around his eyes remained. "Y’sure?"
Neither of them seemed particularly interested in maintaining the pretense. "And you? Are you holding up?" Trust Rupert to answer a question with one of his own.
"I don't know." It was the most honest answer she could manage. Something flickered across Rupert's face.
"We'll get through it." His hand brushed hers briefly as he took his hand out of his pocket; perhaps it was just for the touch. She didn’t want to question and look into every moment as evidence; it was driving her crazy searching for meaning in their interactions.
As she looked away she caught sight of beautiful, polished Cameron; Taggie felt a familiar chill all the same. It reminded her painfully of the night she'd arrived at Penscombe soaked to the skin with Rocky’s reins in her cold hands, mud on her boots and rainwater dripping from her hair. Cameron had looked at her much the same way then. Not openly hostile but that would have been easier; simply unwelcome, as though Taggie had wandered somewhere she did not belong. The memory made her stomach tighten. She looked away first but the feeling remained.
She looked away before he could catch the tears threatening again. Across the churchyard, Tony and Archie stood surrounded by mourners. Tony looked twenty years older than he had a month ago. His dark suit hung loosely from his frame. His eyes appeared hollow, as though grief had scooped something essential out of him and left only the shell behind. People approached him one after another. A handshake. A hug. A murmured condolence. Taggie watched him accept each one with exhausted politeness.
Declan shrugged rain from his coat. "God," he muttered. "I'd forgotten how many people Monica knew." His expression softened immediately as he looked over at Taggie. Grief sat awkwardly on him. He was a man who preferred action to helplessness, solutions to sorrow, yet there was nothing to be done today. "Oh, Tag."
“Daddy,” she muttered as her emotions overcame her. It could have been Caitlin. The realization stole her breath.
Without another word, he pulled her into a hug. Taggie buried her face briefly against his shoulder and let herself cry. The familiar smell of his aftershave and damp wool brought an unexpected rush of comfort. For a moment she felt like a child again, certain that her father could fix anything simply because he was there. As she stood there, listening to the murmur of voices around them and the distant rustle of umbrellas in the wind, a thought struck her with sudden force.
Then she heard Rupert's voice; it was low enough that he clearly hadn't intended her to hear. "Is she all right?"
Declan glanced over her head toward Rupert. "We’re fine." Protective as ever.
By the time she looked up again, she felt considerably more composed, not better, just composed. Then she noticed Tony making his way across the churchyard.
People stepped aside as he passed. Several stopped him to offer condolences, touching his arm briefly before allowing him to continue. He thanked each of them with quiet courtesy, but there was a weariness about him that hadn't been there before. Grief seemed to have settled heavily across his shoulders.
Taggie watched Tony approach through the crowd, stopping every few steps as someone intercepted him with a handshake, a hug, or another quiet expression of sympathy. He accepted them all with remarkable composure. If he was exhausted—and surely he must have been—he gave little sign of it. Yet there was something diminished about him. Grief seemed to have drained the color from the world around him, leaving him moving through it by force of habit rather than intention.
When he reached their small group, his gaze settled briefly on Maud. For a moment, Taggie thought he might speak. There had always been history there, complicated and unfinished. Instead, he merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. Maud returned the gesture with equal formality, her expression unreadable. Neither spoke.
The silence felt heavier than any conversation could have. Tony's attention shifted to Declan. Without hesitation, Declan stepped forward and took his hand firmly. "I'm terribly sorry, Tony." The words were simple, but there was a genuine feeling behind them. Declan's hand remained clasped around Tony's for a moment longer than etiquette required before he released it and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "If there's anything we can do, anything at all, you only have to ask."
Something flickered across Tony's face then. Gratitude perhaps. Or simply relief at being treated as a grieving husband rather than a rival. "Thank you." The words emerged quietly. For a moment neither man spoke. The years of competition between Corinium and Venturer seemed suddenly insignificant standing outside a church after a funeral. Then Tony looked at Taggie. His expression softened almost immediately. "Taggie."
She stepped forward as he hugged her. “I'm so sorry."
The words felt inadequate the moment she said them. Everything felt inadequate today. Tony's eyes rested on her face for a second longer than expected. "Monica was very fond of you."
The statement caught her off guard; fresh tears threatened instantly. "She w-was always n-n…nice to me."
Tony swallowed. For a moment she thought he might say more, but instead he merely nodded and looked away. It was only when his gaze shifted again that Taggie felt the atmosphere change. Tony was looking at Rupert. Nothing changed visibly in his expression. At least not at first. To anyone standing nearby, it would have looked like a perfectly ordinary exchange between two men meeting at a funeral. Yet Taggie felt something shift all the same.
Rupert stepped forward first. "I'm very sorry, Tony." The words were simple and sincere. There was no trace of Rupert's usual charm in them, none of the easy confidence he carried everywhere else. For once he sounded exactly what he was—a man offering condolences to someone who had suffered an unimaginable loss.
Tony regarded him for a long moment before replying. "I know." The warmth he had shown Declan moments earlier was absent. The difference was subtle enough that Taggie wondered if she had imagined it. Then Tony added quietly, "I wish it hadn't been you."
Rupert frowned slightly. The remark had clearly caught him off guard. "I wish I didn’t have to-"
"I was thinking how strange life is. You've always been lucky.” Tony’s words landed quietly. "I don't mean money. Or horses. I mean life. You lose things. You make mistakes but somehow..." He gave a helpless little laugh. "Somehow you always seem to land on your feet."
For the first time, Rupert looked genuinely uncomfortable. "Tony."
"No."
For a moment Tony looked away, his gaze drifting toward the church doors. The wind stirred the flowers surrounding the entrance. When he finally spoke again, his voice remained calm. "When you came to the house. I knew before you'd opened your mouth."
Rupert's expression softened immediately. "I can’t imagine-”
“As soon as I saw you standing there, I knew something was wrong." His eyes returned to Rupert's face. A hostility sat beneath the surface, buried beneath years of manners and self-control. "I remember thinking how strange it was." A faint smile appeared. "Of all people. You always seem to land on your feet, don’t you?" Exhaustion showed through the cracks in Tony's composure now. For the first time since he'd approached them, he looked less like the formidable head of Corinium and more like a man who hadn't slept properly in weeks. "How different people's lives turn out."
Something in his tone made Taggie wish he would stop but not because he was being cruel. Because he sounded wounded. Not by Monica's death alone, but by something older. Something that had been sitting inside him for years, growing quietly in the dark.
Rupert seemed to hear it too. "You've no idea how sorry I am, Tony."
"That's the thing so often you're sorry. I've spent half my life watching you be sorry. But you always seem to survive things, Rupert." The words emerged thoughtfully, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle. "You make mistakes. God knows you've made enough of them." Another faint smile. "But somehow you always come through the other side. You lose people, you lose marriages, you lose jobs, horses, money..." He shrugged slightly.
"Then six months later there you are again."
Taggie reached out to Rupert, her hand on his shoulder. He reached up and petted her wrist in acknowledgement. Rupert's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Tony-”
"I don't think you've ever really suffered." Tony looked at Taggie’s touch on Rupert’s shoulder. The realization seemed to reach him a moment later. His shoulders sagged. The bitterness drained from his face, leaving only exhaustion behind. A flicker of regret crossed his features. "I shouldn't have said that." He shook his head. "She loved you all," he said quietly.
A faint shadow crossed Tony's face. Nearby, Taggie dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Tony looked at her and softened visibly. "Oh and Taggie."
Rupert narrowed his stare. “What about Taggie?” Cameron bristled.
"Monica adored your cooking,” Tony added with a smile. "Truly."
Taggie laughed sadly through her tears. "She always asked for seconds which made m-me v-very pr…pro…happy."
"And I asked for thirds, usually." The memory produced the faintest smile between them. The first genuine smile Tony had managed all day. Then he glanced toward Declan. "Actually, there was something I wanted to ask of Taggie and I suppose you."
Declan looked surprised. "What is it?"
Tony hesitated as though uncertain whether the timing was appropriate. "If it isn't too soon...Corinium has a sponsors' reception next Friday. This was arranged months ago. Monica was helping organize it." His voice faltered briefly. "I can't bear the thought of cancelling everything she worked on. I was wondering..." Tony looked at Taggie. "Would you consider catering it?"
Taggie blinked. "Oh."
"You don't have to answer now."
"Of course I would." The reply came immediately.
Rupert wasn't surprised. Taggie couldn't have refused anyone of kindness if her life depended on it.
“You don’t know what that means to me.” Tony's shoulders sagged slightly, as though a burden had lifted. "Thank you." Then he looked back at Declan. "I hope there are no objections from Venturer."
Declan shook his head. "Good Lord, no." He squeezed Tony's shoulder. "Whatever exists between our companies, it doesn't belong here."
For the first time all afternoon, genuine warmth touched Tony's expression. "I appreciate that."
Standing beside Taggie, Rupert watched the exchange carefully. Declan watched Tony disappear into the crowd before turning to Taggie. "That was a lovely thing you just did."
"What?"
"Agreeing to help him." He kissed her forehead. "He won't forget it."
A blush rose to her cheeks. "Oh, it's only some meals."
Declan laughed. "It never is with you. My selfless girl."
Taggie smiled despite herself. The expression softened the sadness lingering around her eyes.
Declan glanced toward the church hall. "I'd better find Caitlin." Immediately the smile faded. Poor Caitlin; her sister had barely spoken all day. Declan's expression softened. "She shouldn't be alone." With that, he disappeared toward the reception, leaving Rupert and Cameron standing beside Taggie beneath the grey afternoon sky.
For a few moments none of them spoke. The rain had eased to a fine mist. Rupert studied Taggie quietly. Taggie found herself strangely unsettled by Tony. Nothing Tony had said had been openly violent or threatening, yet she disliked the exchange all the same. There had been something beneath the words that she couldn't quite grasp, something that had left Rupert looking quietly hurt and Tony no less unhappy. She tried to dismiss the feeling as grief and exhaustion, but the discomfort lingered stubbornly, like a stone in her shoe. Before she could inquire...
Cameron broke the silence first. "What was that about?" The question was directed entirely at Rupert. Taggie glanced between them jealous of a conversation she wanted to have with him. The question should have belonged to Cameron. Cameron was the one who would drive home with him, sit across from him at dinner, hear the things he didn't say in front of other people. Yet a small, painful part of her wished it had been her asking. The thought arrived with such clarity that it startled her. For months she had been quietly building little dreams around Rupert without meaning to—ordinary, impossible dreams filled with shared conversations, familiar routines, and the sort of easy closeness that belonged to other people. Standing in the churchyard, watching Cameron wait for an answer that wasn't hers to hear, Taggie felt the first uncomfortable suspicion that perhaps that was all they would ever be: dreams.
"It's nothing."
Cameron frowned. "It didn't sound like nothing."
Rupert's mouth tightened briefly. Then the expression vanished. "He's just grieving."
Rupert forced himself to stop staring. A task easier said than done. "Angel, are you sure you're comfortable with this?"
Taggie blinked. "The c-catering?"
"Yes."
She glanced toward the church, toward Tony. Toward the life Monica had left behind. Then she nodded. "I think so."
Rupert watched her carefully. "You don't have to do it."
"I know."
"If it's too much—"
"It isn't." Her voice softened. "It won’t be."
Of course that was her answer. Rupert nearly smiled. Everyone else saw a powerful executive but Taggie saw a man who'd lost his wife and somehow that made him worry even more. Because Taggie's heart had always been far too generous for her own good.
"Tag." She looked up at him and for a second Rupert forgot what he was about to say. He cleared his throat. "You'll tell me if you change your mind?"
A smile touched her lips. "I promise."
"Good."
The answer came more sharply than intended and Taggie's smile widened slightly.
"Rupert." Cameron folded her gloves carefully.
“Hm?” He replied as he admired Taggie.
"We should go. I’m uncomfortable and I don't believe we're helping anyone by lingering,” Cameron cleared her throat. “We’ve paid enough of our respects to someone who didn’t respect me.” The words were innocuous enough. “Are you listening?”
Rupert looked at her properly for the first time in several minutes. “Yes, yes of course.” He hesitated but turned. As they walked away, he glanced back once. Taggie remained standing alone beneath the grey sky. Rupert suddenly seemed reluctant to leave her there, but he did.