Of all the skills he had picked up throughout his years serving under the British flag, none were proving so useful right now as his ability to look solemn and collected through pious droning. As Lord Valdemar lurched away from the lectern, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a particular sermon in Rhodesia that had ended in the priest crumpling into a heatstroke-induced swoon, still jibbering about hellfire. The countless services that he endured and been forced to sit through come rain or shine or ruin may not have done much to enhance his eternal soul but they had more than prepared him for this. After all, how many aristocratic social mores came down to simply affecting the correct degree and type of aloofness?

And yet he kept his eyes firmly down, not daring a glance towards Lady Valdemar. Even after two years, he was a stranger in this house; it was only a matter of time until she grew tired of his presence. That much was inevitable. Keeping his distance, for now at least, seemed the best course of action.

Perhaps that was why, once the service had wound down and his fellow ‘worshippers’- he had spotted his niece’s servant dozing off too- began to scatter, he didn’t linger too long in the pews. Small talk could be exchanged away from the judging eyes of plaster martyrs- and the lady of the manor herself.