My mother’s obstetric doctor is here, talking with my father inhis study. They discuss phrases like “massive maternal hemorrhagic stroke” and“fetal mortality”. Poor Cherub is no more, and Mama is unconscious in her bedupstairs, never to awaken.
A train whistles at Stonehenge station, echoing through thewoods outside, through the forested space between High Street and The Revels.I’ve heard this same, lonely noise every night of my life. It signals the lastdeparture—for the train Kelly’s taking back east. I imagine him settling intohis seat, anticipating the reunion with Alice.
Chest burning, I lean against the hard marble, longing to weep.But I can’t produce a tear. Cordelia opens the library door and comes to myside.
“It’s your mother, miss. She’s in a bad way.”
My mind goes blank during the trip upstairs, until I crossMama’s sitting room, and bump my foot against something hard and heavy. I reachdown and touch a smooth, enamel-covered figure with bulging eyes and flaringnostrils. It’s Mr. Ming, the Chinese dragon doorstop. He’s sat here, keepingwatch over Mama’s boudoir, for as long as I remember. Bigger than a housecat, madeof iron, Mr. Ming was once a playmate of mine. When isolation was overwhelming,I pretended the dragon was a baby and swaddled him in blankets or dressed himup in a hat and one of Mama’s fur stoles for impromptu tea parties.
I haven’t thought of my dragon friend in years, despite hisconstant presence. Funny, what one remembers of childhood… Yet tonight’s notthe time to reminisce about my life, rather it is Mama’s moment of summation.
No one is keeping her company or speaking words of comfort whenI enter her inner chamber. Surely everyone deserves that, at least? Rose waterperfumes the air and the room feels steamy, as though my mother’s body wasrecently washed. I find a footstool, pull it up next to the canopied bed, andsit down. Her small hand fits easily into mine, and I clasp it tight. Sofinely-boned and elegant, even now. Strange that I never thought of Mama aspetite with her commanding, larger-than-life presence.
After taking a deep breath, I sit up straight. I may be dumband blind, but I can do this well. I can be here when Sir Death comes.
My thoughts travel back, revisiting the happy moments Mama andI shared. It is far too short a trip, with little to remember until recently. Shewas a formidable, complex woman who focused on causes rather than her ownchild—a socialite, a philanthropist, a suffragette. And without ever trulyknowing her heart, I have loved and hated her all my life.
Leaning forward, I rest my head on the edge of Mama’s pillow,our hands still entwined. Cordelia enters a few moments later, placing a shawlacross my shoulders. “In case you get cold, miss.”
She sits on the sofa near the fireplace and begins to knit.Click-clack-click.
Still nestled close, I almost hear my mother whisper, Buryme with my baubles, Hester. You know the ones I mean.
Bury me with my baubles. From girlhood, I’ve heard her saythis. In Mama’s mind, a lady doesn’t go anywhere without her favorite trinkets,even if she’s meeting her Maker. It would be disrespectful both to her and theAlmighty.
“I’m taking them with me,” Mama would declare, in that sure wayof hers.
With a safe full of jewelry to choose from, her baubles consistof three pieces. The small ruby pendant my father gave her on the day of mybirth. A silver bangle that once belonged to my grandmother. And Mama’s weddingrings. The necklace and bangle are quite plain when compared with the elaboratewedding set. Regardless of the difference in cost, each of her baubles meantsomething significant to my mother.
I hear the servants downstairs preparing for the passing oftheir mistress before she is even gone. It is quite an undertaking. They sendfor the priest to administer last rites and hang black crepe about the windowsand doors. Mourning armbands are given to the men as a sign of respect andmemento mori, a reminder that all must die. The maids turn the mirrors againstthe walls, for vanity is not proper now. And also because there is thesuperstition that a reflection in a house of mourning brings further death. Iimagine this would make the Reaper smile. He finds such things amusing.
Cook brings me a tear-catcher. I run my fingers over the ornatecrystal vial and wonder what I shall do with it if I can’t cry. Cordelia asks whethershe should cut some of Mama’s hair for a keepsake, but for some reason, I can’tbear the thought of it. I touch one of her long soft waves, pooled on thepillow by her head. It would be a shame to remove even a strand.
Father and the obstetric doctor come and go but neither bothersto stay until the end. Only Cordelia and I remain, and my companion is snoringsoftly when Sir Death makes His entrance. He says nothing to me, but stealsacross the room, that thief of souls, calling my mother from mortality. Hisvoice is hidden by the labored gasps rattling within her throat. She is aliveone moment and then, in the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, she’s gone. Her bodybut a shell upon the bed.
I hold Cook’s tear-catcher in my hand and wait, dry eyed.Nothing happens until Cordelia stirs and stretches. “Is she… ?”
Nodding wearily, I cover my mother with a thin lace shroud.
After another sleepless night, I throw off my covers anddress in a simple day gown. It has one row of buttons on the front that areeasy to fasten but my fingers fumble despite this. I walk downstairs, sanscorset or petticoats, and listen for Cordelia. Instead, I find Simmons Harrow eatingbreakfast in the kitchen. He’s helped himself to a roll—tossing the hot bunfrom one hand to another before dropping it on his plate.
“There you are, miss,” Cordie says, joining me at the kitchendoor. “I brought some clothes down from the attic for the funeral. We should beable to get a
