Chapter 14
Dressing seemed to be a task alien to Sarah, as if she’d never before donned hoops, or placed her fingers on the tapes to hold them while Florie tied them around her waist. She dropped her hands when that task was done, obediently raising them again when Florie helped her on with her dress, one of her favorite garments dyed mourning black.
The service would be held in Chavensworth’s chapel, a building on the other side of the estate.
The first Duke of Herridge, the man who’d designed Chavensworth, had insisted on symmetry.
If there was one building on the east side of the estate, then there must be a corresponding building on the west. The stables were balanced by the dairy, and the chapel by a rather patrician-looking barn.
The only exception to his rule was the observatory, planted on a knoll in the middle of a field, no doubt considered an abomination had the designer of Chavensworth seen it.
But he had been dead for hundreds of years before her grandfather had the structure erected.
Florie toiled with her hair for some time as Sarah stared in the mirror at herself. Her eyes were still gray, and her hair as black. But her face had paled, and there was not a spot of color on her cheeks. She looked ill, almost lifeless herself.
The angle of her jaw seemed too sharp, and she wondered if she’d lost weight.
Her hair seemed dull and not as shiny as it normally was.
She’d always taken great pride in her hair—it was something uniquely hers—as none of the other members of her family had black hair.
Her mother’s hair was auburn, with touches of the sun in it.
That was what Sarah had told her when she was a little girl, fascinated with the glints and highlights.
“It’s you who are the sun, dearling,” her mother had said, and swung her up in a huge, warm hug.
Florie held out two veils, one that would only cover her forehead, nose, and mouth.
The other would shield her entire face and reach to the middle of her chest. The seamstress attached to Chavensworth had been diligent in her task.
Sarah selected the longer veil, and Florie helped her affix it to her hair.
“It’s a windy day, Lady Sarah,” she said, explanation for the extra pins she used. “It’s a sunny one, in fact. The world is a bright and beautiful place. Do you think that God gives us such days to counter our sadness?”
She’d never known Florie to be so philosophical.
“Perhaps He does,” she said, unwilling to venture the comment that she had no inkling as to the Almighty’s thought processes.
Florie handed her the wrist-length gloves that would complete her mourning ensemble. Sarah walked to her bedside table and retrieved her Book of Common Prayer.
“I will see you in the chapel,” she said, as if today were another Sunday.
“Do you wish me to accompany you, Lady Sarah?”
The offer was a kind one, and Sarah blessed the fact that the veil obscured her face. She needn’t try to smile in response. “That’s not necessary, Florie. Take your time with your own dressing.”
According to the timetable she’d been given by Douglas, services were not due to begin for another hour. She intended to go to the chapel early, not to inspect arrangements, or to ensure that everything had been done in accordance with propriety. She simply wished time alone with her mother.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Lady Sarah?”
Sarah hesitated before answering. She performed a quick inventory of herself.
There was a pain behind her right eye, but that seemed linked to the tears she’d shed in the last week.
Her lips felt dry and her voice scratchy.
Inside her chest was a new, huge, hollowed-out cave.
How did she handle that? But all she said to Florie was, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. ”
She made her way to the chapel, walking with her head down, intent on the gravel path. Twice, someone passed her, their murmured words barely penetrating the heavy veil. She raised her hand in acknowledgment of their greeting but otherwise paid no attention.
She should have assisted in preparing her mother’s body, rather than Hester supervising the task.
She should have met with the minister herself to arrange for the funeral service.
She should have overseen the refreshments to be served to the funeral guests.
She should have met with the staff in order to give them a day off in honor of the Duchess of Herridge.
From what she’d been told, Douglas had seen to all those duties. Not once had he mentioned anything to her. He’d simply done what needed to be done, seeming to expect no recognition for it.
The chapel entrance faced a small ornamental garden. Instead of continuing down the path, she turned and faced the garden. Someone—Douglas?—had seen to it that the hedges and grass were trimmed.
Only white roses had been planted in the beds here, her mother reasoning that red roses would convey the thought of blood.
Today, lush, blowsy ivory blooms gently swayed in the morning breeze.
She smelled their scent from here, as well as the earthy smell of new mown grass.
For just a moment, Sarah was tempted to remove the veil and turn her face up to the sun, letting its heat warm her.
She didn’t, of course, because it wouldn’t be proper.
Slowly, she turned and continued down the path, nodding to a footman stationed there. He turned and pulled open one of the pair of doors.
She hesitated in the foyer, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the change in light. Since she attended services here every Sunday, there was no hesitation in her step as she walked down the broad main aisle.
Near the altar, at the end of the aisle, sat a catafalque. On it rested the Duchess of Herridge’s coffin, half-draped beneath a length of greenish blue tartan.
At each of the four corners of the catafalque, a footman was stationed with his back to the coffin, each man so still and ramrod stiff he might have been one of the numerous life-size statues in the chapel. Beside each man was a candelabrum nearly as tall, filled with brightly burning candles.
Sarah bent her head back to see the stained-glass window her great-great-grandfather had installed, the scene one of Lazarus walking.
Light splashed into the chapel interior, transformed to jewel-like colors: ruby, indigo, gold, and emerald.
Bright white sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the south side, freshened the gilt of the altar appointments, and brought summer and life into the chapel.
She moved closer to one of the footmen. “I would like to have some time alone,” she said softly.
The young man lowered his gaze, nodded, and without a word turned and motioned to the other three. In moments, they were gone, their footsteps muffled by care and the thick red carpet of the chapel.
Sarah went to the pipe organ and moved the organist’s bench next to the catafalque.
The carpenters had outdone themselves. The deep mirrorlike ebony glazing of the coffin was beautiful; the handles and appointments were brass, so highly polished that they reflected the light of the candles.
She sat on the bench and removed her veil, placing it beside her. Florie would fuss that she’d dislodged so many pins and no doubt destroyed the arrangement of her hair.
“It’s a beautiful day today, Mother,” she said, her voice sounding rough and unused. An effect of days of weeping?
Sarah removed the glove from her right hand and placed her palm against the casket. The surface was cool. Why had she thought it would be warm?
She’d always been able to talk to her mother.
Why was it so difficult now? Because her mother wasn’t here.
She was forever laughing beneath an old oak tree, or sitting in front of the fire with a tender smile as Sarah shared stories of her first painful season.
She was walking through Chavensworth with Sarah trailing behind her, a journal clutched tightly to her chest. She was a memory, a blink of an eye, a wish.
“I do not know what heaven is like, Mother. I hope that it is what you want it to be. I hope that you’re not in pain, that you’re able to feel happiness.” She hesitated, lowering her head. “I shall miss you for the rest of my life.”
Slowly, she put her glove back on before moving from the catafalque to the altar, kneeling on the padded kneeling bench.
“Dear God,” she said, realizing that this was the first time she’d prayed since her mother had died. She’d not solicited God in any way. Would He fault her for that?
“Dear God,” she began again. “Please bless my mother and keep her safe beside you. I would like to think that she’s an angel. Perhaps if I need her from time to time, You would not mind sparing her.”
She expected only silence in reply, but instead heard the sound of the chapel door opening and closing. Sarah turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered shadow walking toward her.
Douglas stopped at the other side of the catafalque and regarded her with that piercing blue-green gaze of his. His perusal took in the top of her hair to the veil she held clutched in her left hand, then returned to her face. Did he think to check for tears? She had no more tears left.
She stood, took the two steps down from the altar, and slowly approached him, stopping only when her mother’s coffin was between them.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything you’ve done, and all the arrangements you’ve made. Thank you for everything.”
She, more than any other person, knew what was required to keep Chavensworth running smoothly, not to mention arrangements for a funeral of this magnitude.
“Mrs. Williams helped me with the notices,” he said. “I trust that we’ve invited everyone you would have liked to attend.”
She nodded. “My mother kept to herself in the last few years,” she said. “Granted, there were one or two friends she had in the neighborhood, but for the most part, she remained at Chavensworth.”
Her gaze veered away from him and focused on one of the statues mounted in the corner between the windows.
Her great-grandfather had been a great believer in life-size statues.
In addition to furnishing the Greek Garden, he’d peopled the chapel with five of them.
These, unlike the ones in the Greek Garden, were at least garbed, but in robes reminding her of Roman togas.
“I’m glad to see you recovered.”
“I don’t feel recovered,” she said.
“I don’t mean your grieving is over,” he said, walking around her mother’s coffin to stand only a foot or two away.
He reached out and placed his hand on her arm, and she could feel the warmth of his touch through the cloth of her dress.
“But that you’ve begun to grieve. It’s a journey, Sarah, and unfortunately, a solitary one. ”
She nodded.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Have I eaten?” she asked, feeling foolish for repeating the question. The change of subject was so jarring that it took her a moment to realize that no, she hadn’t eaten anything. When she said as much, he shook his head.
“The services are not due to begin right away. Shall we go and find something in the pantry? We needn’t disturb Cook or her helpers, but I’ll wager we can find a plate of scones and some jam.”
He crooked his arm, and she placed her hand on it before realizing she had to replace her veil.
Douglas moved to help her, settling the veil atop her hair and smoothing it down in the back while Sarah fitted it over her shoulders.
“What perfume are you wearing?” he asked, so softly that the sound was barely a whisper.
“A scent made for me here at Chavensworth,” she said. “Mostly lavender with some roses.”
He was very close, so close, in fact, that if she stepped forward just an inch, she would collide with his chest. His arms were raised to reach the back of the veil, and it was almost an embrace. But they’d shared more than one embrace in the last week, hadn’t they?
She’d awakened from sleep to find her head on his shoulder, or her hand pressed flat against his chest. He’d wrapped his arms around her, and held her when she wept. He had always been there, a companion in the midst of misery.
“You held me,” she said. “While I slept, you held me.”
“You needed comfort.”
She nodded, grateful for the veil and its obscuring lace.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Of all things you should thank me for, Sarah, that is not one of them.”
She could feel her cheeks warm.
He crooked his arm again, and she placed her hand on it and allowed him to lead her from the chapel.