He is silent, at the funeral.
The tears are all dry. He wept for hours, when he learned what had happened, and now there are no more tears.
The sorrow is there, but in the background. Now there is rage, and determination, and icy cold. His fists clench hard enough to press crescent wounds into the flesh of his palms, and his teeth creak with the force of his clenched jaw.
When the coffin is lowered into the earth, when the dirt is piled above her, heavy and suffocating, they crowd around him to offer condolence almost as much as they do around her parents. It takes the considerable force of his will not to scream, in pain or rage or despair, nor to stride over to Mrs. Crawford and assault her.
He excuse himself with the hiss that is all he can manage without releasing the scream from his throat, and stalks the miles back to his own house on foot.
He opens the door with more force than strictly necessary, frightening one of the servants. He cannot, quite, find it in himself to be sorry.
He stalks upstairs.
"Mother. Where are the notes?"