A recipe of love

Veil of Inheritance

**1872, London.**

Margaret Sinclair stood tall amidst the sea of mourners, the biting cold air swirling around her like an unwelcome embrace. Her dark skin contrasted sharply with the black folds of her heavy mourning dress, the fabric clinging to her frame as if it, too, mourned the loss of her husband. A veil of intricate lace obscured her face, its delicate pattern serving as a barrier between her and the judging eyes of the crowd. Beneath it, her expression remained unreadable, as her gaze followed the steady descent of her husband's coffin into the hearse.

She could feel the weight of the stares from those around her—the whispers barely concealed behind gloved hands, the subtle glances that suggested more than just sympathy. They expected tears, a grand display of grief, yet Margaret stood resolute, her back straight, her hands clasped in front of her. The cold numbed her fingers, but she barely noticed, her mind elsewhere, drifting between the present and the memories of the life she had shared with the man now being laid to rest.

The mourners murmured amongst themselves, their quiet judgment palpable. *Why does she not weep?* some seemed to wonder, their eyes narrowing as they observed her stoic demeanor. It was not that Margaret felt nothing; her sorrow was real, a dull ache lodged deep within her chest. Yet the tears refused to come, as though her body had forgotten how to release the flood of emotions building inside her. She was sad—*deeply* so—but to cry in front of them all felt like a performance, and Margaret was not one to perform for the sake of propriety.

She had learned long ago that grief was a private thing, a burden best carried in silence. The man she had married had been kind, yes, but theirs was not a love match. It had been a practical union, one of convenience and social standing. He had offered her security, wealth, and a name that held sway in London's finest circles, and she had been the dutiful wife. They had shared a life, though not in the romantic sense that poets often wrote about. And now, standing at his funeral, Margaret could not bring herself to summon the dramatic displays of grief that others seemed to expect from her.

As the coffin disappeared into the dark recesses of the hearse, Margaret felt a flicker of something within her—a small, barely perceptible shift. It was not sorrow, not in the way others imagined it, but a sense of finality. The chapter of her life with him had ended, and what lay ahead was as uncertain as the cold, gray sky above.

The procession began to move, slow and measured, the hearse pulled by horses whose hooves echoed softly against the cobblestones. The mourners followed in silence, sleek carriages rolling forward in respectful pace. Margaret remained a few steps behind the closest relatives, her gaze lingering on the disappearing coffin. Her thoughts, though, were not with the man inside it but with the life that now stretched before her—one shaped by his absence rather than his presence.

The cold seeped into her bones as they reached the cemetery, the wind sharper here, biting at her skin. The mourners huddled together, wrapping their coats tighter against the chill, their breath visible in the frigid air. Margaret stood apart, as she always had.

Even in marriage, she had been on The cold seeped into Margaret's bones as they reached the cemetery, the wind sharper now, biting at her skin. The mourners huddled together, wrapping their coats tighter against the chill, their breath visible in the frigid air.

Margaret stood apart, as she always had. Even in marriage, she had been on the periphery, never fully embracing the role society had assigned her, and now, even in grief, she found herself separate.

The vicar's solemn voice filled the air, reading prayers that seemed to drift away with the wind, barely reaching Margaret's ears. She watched, unmoving, as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the waiting grave. Her face remained impassive beneath the veil, though she could feel the weight of eyes upon her. People whispered, their disapproving gazes piercing through the thin fabric, judging her lack of tears, her stoic demeanor in the face of such loss.