Chapter 13 #2
Douglas nodded. “I’ll be at the upper fields tomorrow,” he said.
Beecher put both hands on the table in front of him and pushed himself to a standing position.
“If you would convey my best wishes to Lady Sarah, sir. It is difficult to lose a parent, especially in Lady Sarah’s case. She and her mother were devoted. There are arrangements pending?”
“Yes,” Douglas said, but nothing further. He would let Mrs. Williams be his confidante.
He left Beecher then and found his way through the labyrinth of Chavensworth’s back stairs.
Twice, he asked directions, only to find that Mrs. Williams was nowhere in sight when reaching first her office, and secondly, the kitchen complex.
He found her finally in the library, supervising the dusting of the volumes he’d admired only two days ago.
She glanced at him, frowned, then approached him. Although she appeared pleasant enough, her soft blue eyes looked capable of spearing a footman or maid in place.
She separated from the others and led him to an alcove evidently dedicated to a Herridge forbear. He wasn’t interested in the words written on the glass-encased scroll mounted beside the bust of an elderly man.
“I need your assistance, Mrs. Williams,” he said, pulling out his notebook. “Lady Sarah is indisposed,” he said, wondering if that was the right description for what Sarah was enduring. “I need to make arrangements for a funeral.”
The world was a gray, amorphous place, with no boundaries, no discernible markers. There were no doors, or windows, or stairs, or clouds, or stars. There was no heaven or hell. There was no sky or grass. The world, her world, was simply there, shrouded in a fog that Sarah was in no hurry to banish.
Please, let the fog last forever.
She roused to take care of her body’s needs, to wash her face and hands, but then fatigue claimed her, forcing her to stumble back to the bed and rest. If six hours passed, that was all well and good—it was six hours she did not have to endure awake.
She knew it was nighttime only because she felt the mattress sag with the weight of her husband.
She didn’t even care that they shared a bed, or that he sometimes pulled her close so that she could feel his warmth.
More than once she awoke in the middle of the night with her cheek pressed against his bare chest, wondering at the thudding sound, only to realize it was his heart beating in sleep.
Part of her was shocked that she was so close to an obviously naked man, but she silenced that concern by rolling over, clutching her pillow, and willing herself back to sleep.
The days passed smoothly, one into the other.
If she kept her eyes shut, she eventually fell asleep again.
She roused to eat when her stomach hurt, diligently focused upon her plate long enough to still the hunger pangs before returning to bed again.
People asked her questions, and she just waved them away, or if that gesture became too much, she simply ignored them.
More than once her skin was dampened with a cold washrag, the soap itching when it was not removed quickly enough. She didn’t want to be bathed, but a sound of protest only resulted in a brush covered in tooth powder being forced between her teeth.
Every night, Douglas came and removed her from the bed, placing her on his lap as he sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the window.
He covered her with a blanket if she began to shiver.
He held long conversations with himself, sometimes speaking of his diamonds and the formula he had discovered, in India, of all places.
When she sat on his lap, she always rested her head against his shoulder, her lips so close to his throat that if she leaned forward slightly, she could have kissed his neck.
One part of her, perhaps more lucid and logical, slowly began to rouse from her self-induced slumber, and began to notice her actions, shouting at her to pay attention, to cease being involved in her own grief.
The inhabitants of Chavensworth depended on her.
The yearly evaluations must be done. The fields had to be drained.
The stables were to be painted. There were so many other chores that lay in abeyance, waiting for her to wake.
How long had she been asleep? Or, if not asleep, then how long had she retreated to her bed, unable to face the world? Had it been weeks? Days?
How very odd that she didn’t know. How very odd, too, that she was so very tired even now.
“You must come back to the world, Sarah,” Douglas said, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. “As difficult as it will be, you cannot avoid it.” He shifted her in his arms, and her hand tightened on his neck.
“I shall be here to help you. You won’t be alone.”
The hand slackened.
“Shall I tell you of my visit to Africa?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Or would you prefer to hear of China?”
Her breathing was soft and regular, and he suspected she wasn’t asleep at all but listening to him intently.
“I envy you,” he said, realizing it was true. “You remember your mother, and always will. I have only shadowy memories of my parents, adults who figured in my life and then were suddenly gone. I wish my mother could have been as kind as yours. I wish my own memories were as filled with love.”
He decided not to continue in that vein.
“When my parents died, there were no other family members, so perhaps the Almighty brought me Alano, to ensure someone was watching out after me.”
He arranged himself more comfortably in the chair, shifting her weight.
By the way she moved with him, he knew she wasn’t asleep.
He reached up where her hand rested against his neck and encircled her wrist with his fingers.
Slowly, he drew her hand down, linked his fingers with hers, and kept them pressed against his chest.
He hesitated, allowing silence to drape them in a comfortable cocoon. “I think it’s difficult when any parent dies, no matter your age.”
“She shouldn’t have died,” came a hoarse response.
He glanced down at her. Sarah’s eyes were determinedly closed.
She’d taken too much on herself—the running of Chavensworth, the well-being of its servants, her mother’s health. Everyone around her cheerfully allowed her to assume all the responsibility, to the extent that they could not manage their own affairs without her approval.
He’d overseen the cleaning of the sluices, inspecting the painting of the stables, adjudicating a young girl’s tearful confession of theft and the resultant punishment, in addition to solving a dispute between an upper maid and a scullery girl, approving the overage of the orchard harvest to market, settling a dozen or so monthly bills to tradesmen, approving the quarterly rotation of the silver into storage, and overseeing the funeral of the Duchess of Herridge.
That had just been the first day.
When had her mother relinquished the care of Chavensworth to Sarah? And when had Sarah begun to bear the responsibility for too much?
Instead of thinking Sarah superhuman, let the housekeeper assume more of her own authority, the land steward make decisions of his own, and others in positions of authority be responsible for the tasks under their command. Only if they could not manage would he allow them to seek out Sarah.
Those in positions of power would earn them, or they would no longer have them. He’d already made that point clear to the staff, and so far, there had been no hints of rebellion.
He hadn’t continued to work on his diamonds. Nor had he uncrated the rest of his supplies. His only accomplishment in the last three days had been to send two of Chavensworth’s stableboys to begin to dig out the foundations for the furnace.
“Nothing I said or did made any difference,” Sarah said.
He felt like he was treading barefoot on broken glass.
“Just because the people at Chavensworth believe you responsible for everything does not mean you’ve the power of God as well, Sarah.”
She stiffened in his arms.
“When it has been long enough, when enough time has passed, you’ll begin to realize that you did everything you could.
You’ll think of your mother and, instead of pain, your memories will warm you.
Until then, you can only walk through the days.
But you must do that. You cannot escape the pain of your grief. ”
She put her hand flat on his shirt above his heart.
“The funeral is being held tomorrow, Sarah. I’ve delayed it as long as I can.”
“My father?” Her fingers fluttered against his chest.
“I’ve sent word to him. I’ve not heard anything in response.”
She sighed deeply.
“You need to attend, Sarah.”
She nodded, moving her head against his shoulder.
“I will,” she said, her voice so soft it was little more than a breath. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Five days,” he said. Five very long and worrisome days.