Thank you, I sign.
I sit next to Sim while Cordie fetches me a piece of toast.Sipping a cup of chamomile tea, I listen to the staff talk, but Sim’senthusiastic chewing overrides the surrounding voices.
Too old for the orphan’s school, he is now employed as myfather’s financial clerk and lives in the attic. Father wanted someone with aneat hand and a head for figures post haste. So I had Cordelia gossip with Cookabout an educated lad who could be hired on the cheap. Cook then told thebutler who in turn passed the news on to his master. Father couldn’t resist. Heloves a bargain, especially when it comes to his employees. I’m relieved thatSim isn’t wasting away at the mill, or the button factory, or the mines.
Solving his problem was easy. Everything else in my life isnot.
Surrounded by hothouse lilies, my mother sleeps in the formalparlor, waiting for her friends to pay their last respects. I’m not required atthat gathering, my father told me yesterday. Therefore, Willard is driving Cordeliaand me into town. Perhaps we’ll find something special to add to Mama’s funeralattire—new gloves or a fine set of combs. It isn’t necessary, but I know shewould like them anyway.
Cordie is my rock during this undertaking. At each shop, shespeaks to me gently and with great patience. “That’s a lovely ribbon, miss, butmaybe this one would serve better.” Or … “An embroidered shawl is too much,don’t you think?” I can barely form a coherent thought, and everything Cordie saysis right. We return home after a few hours, and I shut myself in my room.Pulling the heavy curtains around my bed, I lie down on the feather mattress.In the past, I could always call out to Tom, and he would be there to help. Butthe fellow over at the hospital is not my Tom. He’s the polar opposite.What Old Tom once loved, New Tom hates.
Curse the spawn of Archimendax forever.
The next twenty-four hours pass slowly. I don’t know how tobehave in a house of mourning. My frequent exchanges with Sir Death neverprepared me for this. On a superficial level, perhaps, but not deep enough totruly affect the heart. Father doesn’t handle the situation well either.Between receiving visitors and making plans with the mortician, he drinkscopious amounts of alcohol. After supper, Cordelia and I retire early. Itwouldn’t do to look haggard in the morning. The Stonehenge elite don’t toleratewomen who show real emotion in public, even at funerals. It simply isn’t done.Thankfully, there are no rules to govern the sleep of those who grieve. And Ido grieve for Mama. She was the closest thing I had to a parent.
Next morning, I bathe in the copper tub, and then Cordeliahelps me dress. I wear an itchy crepe gown, taken from the steamer trunks inthe attic and hastily fitted to my proportions. The crepe distracts me fromdwelling on the upcoming funeral, but not for long. Within the hour, Cordiemeets me on the landing and hands me the velvet pouch containing Mama’sjewelry. I undo my drawstring purse and slip it inside.
“Ready, Miss Hester?”
The heavy, mink cloak that I wear makes my shoulders ache, butI straighten my back and ignore it. Cordelia and I walk down the mainstaircase, across the foyer, and through the front door. She puts her hand on myarm and describes the inky swags that hang from the carriage, the horses intheir black feathers, looking like rich old ladies wearing hats. We climb intothe vehicle where my father silently waits. He’s quiet as the grave as wetravel into town.
The funeral director takes my cloak and accidentally touchesthe back of my neck with his fingernail. A vision forms behind my eyes where aman closes and locks the door to a sleeping chamber. He removes a dead woman’svaluables and then seals the casket. “The dead don’t need gold,” he says. “Ido.” I see this scenario repeated with a different corpse each time—the lastone is my mother. Is it true? Our funeral director is a thief?
Well, he won’t rob the dead today. I’ll make certain of it.
I am expelled from the vision and thrown back to the present.Cordelia and I stand beside Mama’s coffin in a viewing room, Cordie weepingsoftly.
Need privacy, I sign to her. Leave. Close door.
She hesitates a moment. “Are you sure, miss?”
Yes. Go, please.
After a few seconds, I hear the door shut and turn back to thecasket. Forgive me, Mama. For not honoring your wishes. I reach down andtouch the glove covering her hand, trace the wedding set beneath it. Her bodyfeels so strange and cold, but I force myself to pull the glove off. A fewtugs, and the rings slide from my mother’s finger and land with a plop in mypalm. I tuck them into the jewelry pouch within my purse, and replace Mama’sglove. Not long after, Cordelia knocks tentatively and opens the door.
“Shall we start with the necklace?” she asks, putting her handon my back. “Mistress Grayson will look grand indeed.”
I shake my head firmly. Changed mind, I reply. Nojewels.
“What? But I thought—”
Don’t argue. Let’s go.
Regretting my sharpness, I follow Cordie into the chapel. Thesmell of incense mixed with burning tallow hangs about the room like adowager’s robe. We wait in the section of the chapel reserved for thedeceased’s family and Father joins us seconds before the program begins. We sitthrough a poetry reading, an address by the minister, a violin solo, and anelegant eulogy, but I am moved by nothing until we reach the final hymn.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me…
Breaking my own rule, I remove my glasses in public, andwipe my eyes. But I can’t keep up with the moisture they manufacture. Where isthat damned tear-catcher now? I could fill it to the brim with liquid misery.
But I sense that Fate isn’t done with me yet. These tears couldbe just the beginning of what she has in store.
20
Facilis descensus Averno.
The road to hell is smooth—Virgil
Afterthe entombment at the mausoleum, Father shuts himself in his study with abottle of scotch and remains
