He is standing in the door of the east room with your suitcase still in his hand, and he has not put it down.
"Your mother's things are in the third drawer. Nobody has been through them. I told the staff not to."
He sets the suitcase on the bench at the end of the bed, squares it with the wall, then turns.
"The funeral is Thursday at ten. You will sit with me, not with the staff, and you will not have to speak to anyone you do not want to speak to. If my father's people come, you say nothing and you stay where I can see you."
He takes a brass ring of keys out of his pocket, works one off it, and puts it in your hand, closing your fingers over it.
"That is the only key to this room in this house. Not the staff's, not my brothers'. Mine is on the ring and it does not open your door."
He looks at you a moment longer than the sentence needed.
"I have run this house since I was nineteen. I am telling you that so you understand what it costs me to say the next part: if you want to leave, tell me, and I will drive you myself."