CHAPTER FOUR
A river of black crepe swayed before Leona’s tired eyes. Soft chatter and clove-scented lilies heightened the somber air of the Van Wyn’s front parlor, where Leona occupied a hard-backed chair against the wall.
The closed curtains blocked the autumn light, the gas lights turned low.
Her heavy eyelids drooped, but with a start of guilt, she popped them open again—only to see, after a furtive glance at her, two expensively dressed women put their heads together, murmuring.
Leona frowned, wondering if and why she’d become the topic of their conversation.
The appearance of a familiar figure in the doorway of the parlor brought her to her feet with a sigh of relief.
“Mrs. Gladney.”
“Mrs. Creighton.”
Francine Creighton embraced her, silk whispering against silk as the older woman drew Leona close.
Mrs. Creighton appeared out of breath, her deep bosom heaving beneath a beaded black lace shawl.
The crisp air had left her cheeks cool to the touch, and Leona almost pulled back from her with a shudder.
When the woman released her, Leona asked, “Are you well, Mrs. Creighton?”
“Dear girl, I am soon to follow Daphne, if God wills it,” Mrs. Creighton said, apparently feeling the touch of her own impending decline.
“Mama!” The man behind her, almost hidden by her bulk, chastised her in a loud whisper. “Don’t speak of it.”
Considering the covered mirrors, the stopped clock, and the corpse in the room, death would be a difficult topic to avoid this afternoon.
“My youngest son, Emmett,” Mrs. Creighton said, turning to the well-dressed man beside her wearing a black crepe armband. “This is Mrs. Gilbert Gladney, of the Ohio Gladney’s, and her grandfather is the poet William Harrison Earl of Boston.”
Emmett bowed and took her gloved hand with the slightest grimace.
His mother had greeted Leona as a friend, but she was an outsider among these Knickerbocker families of Brooklyn.
The culture of old money often made Gilbert grind his teeth, though the introductions within Daphne’s circle were invaluable to his business.
“Mr. Gilbert Gladney is a land developer,” Mrs. Creighton said.
Leona glanced at the empty doorway again, enduring a flash of worry. And is very late.
“Indeed.” Emmett’s attention slid to the other people in the parlor, his expression stiff with boredom. Apparently seeing a more interesting acquaintance, he left them alone again.
An awkward silence grew between Mrs. Creighton and Leona. Mrs. Creighton’s faded blue eyes were red-rimmed, and she appeared lost.
“I did not think....” Her gaze drifted to the place where her friend lay in a bed of pale blue satin, surrounded by a profusion of flowers and candles.
Small clusters of people lingered before it as they paid their respects.
Mrs. Creighton cleared her throat. “I didn’t think it would happen so soon. ”
Fresh tears welled up in Leona’s eyes. She wiped them away with her handkerchief before they spilled down her cheeks. The ache in her chest returned, breaking through the icy numbness that had taken hold of her when Gil had delivered his bad news.
She breathed deep. “No, nor did I.”
Mrs. Creighton gripped her shoulder. “You were a good friend to her. She always spoke well of you.”
She started at the older woman’s vehemence and glanced over at the ever-shrinking coterie of elderly Brooklynites gathered by the sofa, servants and family members hovering nearby.
Though swathed in black, each of her friends wore a yellow rose, as did Mrs. Creighton, a favorite of Daphne Van Wyn’s.
“Here, I should have thought.” Mrs. Creighton removed the blossom from her bodice and pinned it with deft fingers to Leona’s. Sharp eyes followed the woman’s movements, and a wave of whispers rose and rushed around them.
The creeping dread surfaced. Leona hadn’t imagined those hooded glances aimed her way when she passed by. The alarm now crying through her made her want to run, but she forced herself to follow Mrs. Creighton as she joined Daphne’s friends.
The aged men and women swathed in black shared the large sofa. The elderly bachelors, Raleigh Williams and Eldon Gray, side by side. Daphne’s cousins, Mrs. Eliza Rackham, and Mrs. Lois Debran, arms around each other, eyes red.
Leona’s gaze flew to the coffin and its contents, the dear, familiar face in eternal repose. The modern process of embalming to prepare the dead for the return trip home during the war had banished the smell of death in family parlors. Only the scents of lilies, roses, and beeswax filled the room.
Don’t think about the war, it will only make you morbid.
Her cousin Ada’s advice, but neither five nor five hundred years could wipe the images from Leona’s mind, nor heal the sear on her soul.
The war brought her both happiness and grief.
Trying to reconcile them so often tore her heart to pieces.
Daphne’s friendship helped to put her back together, but no chance now to heal the breaches, as they had torn anew.
“Mother. Come away, now, please.”
Leona glanced over at the elderly friends again. Mrs. Rackham was peering up at her son and daughter-in-law, but the man was staring at Leona.
“No,” Mrs. Rackham said, her defiance garnering attention from those standing nearby.
“I want you to come with me and—” He tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away.
“I know what you want,” Mrs. Rackham snapped.
“Please, don’t make a scene, Mother,” the woman whispered. She glanced at Leona, then her husband. Back to Leona, her eyes holding an appeal.
Leona took a few steps closer. “Mrs. Rackham,” she said in a conciliatory way, hoping to urge her to comply.
“Mrs. Gladney,” the elderly woman answered in a warmer tone.
If Leona could predict who might be next to pass on of the friends, it would be this lady. She was the eldest of them, prone to confusion, forgetfulness, and childish outbursts.
“They don’t want me to go to Daphne’s funeral,” she complained.
“They only want what’s best for you,” Leona assured her. “Perhaps if you had a rest first?” She turned to the woman she had assumed was a daughter-in-law. “There’s a comfortable divan in the library.”
The woman appeared grateful, though nervous, as her glance slid again to her husband.
“I fear it’s all too much for you, Mother,” her son said, his tone contrite.
Mrs. Debran took her hand. Mrs. Rackham raised her narrow chin to her hovering relations.
“I’m staying here, and I will attend Daphne’s funeral.
You may leave if you like. My friends and Mrs. Gladney will look after me.
” Mrs. Rackham passed Leona a significant glance, which she could not interpret .
“Perhaps a lie down would do you good, Mrs. Rackham?” Leona urged gently. She glanced at Mrs. Debran and nodded encouragement.
“I would like a rest, also,” Mrs. Debran volunteered. “You and I shall go with her, Susan.” This to Mrs. Rackham’s daughter-in-law, who stepped forward to help Mrs. Rackham rise from the sofa. Her complaints subsided. She appeared more than willing to have a lie down now.
Leona looked around the room again, thinking of Audrey Larkin, Daphne’s nurse. Who also wasn’t here, but this didn’t surprise her, as she was only employed by the family. Leona glanced around the crowded room, wishing again for her husband and the comfort he could give her.
Another man, tall, imposing, and familiar appeared, looming beside Mrs. Rackham’s son.
Daphne’s grandson, Benedict Van Wyn. The golden-haired young man gazed at her with barefaced malevolence, blue eyes hard and mean.
Mourners glanced over at them, whispering.
Leona returned his stare, stricken by his expression, but instinct forbade her to back down.
His wife, Geneva, glared at Leona with angry eyes and pinched face.
The emotion there utterly transformed her unusually beautiful face into a mask of suspicion.
The whispers stopped, followed by a dreadful silence.
“The undertaker has arrived, Benedict,” Mrs. Creighton murmured. She fluttered a hand toward the entrance of the parlor, the other on his arm to turn him away from Leona.
She felt no relief from his basilisk stare. What inner darkness curdled the expression on the handsome face of Daphne’s grandson?
The servants moved among the crowd, giving directions to the church. The still room hummed with sudden activity as the relatives, friends, and their attendants moved about the room collecting hats, coats, gloves, and canes before the funeral mass and burial.
Leona’s heavy heart told her it was time to say a last goodbye to Daphne. She wanted a moment alone before joining the short procession to Plymouth Church and approached the casket.
Daphne appeared now as she never had in life—frowning, waxen, still.
The flowers burst with color in an obscene parody and mocked the shell a vivid personality once inhabited.
She wiped at her tears, listening in vain for Daphne’s voice, willing her chest to rise.
Foolish thoughts. She covered her eyes with her gloved hands to conjure from memory the living face of her friend.
As if Leona’s own heart had stopped, soul fled, her world shadowed again with suffocating night.
“Leona,” Gil whispered from behind her and took her elbow, turning her from the casket. “Leona, look at me. They want to take her. Come, step away.”
He brushed his large hands over hers, and she clasped them, her body flooding with relief that he’d finally arrived.
“You’re upset. I’ll take you home.”
Home, where she wanted to be, burrowed under blankets with her little flask, cocooned against her grief. “Not yet.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I want to stay,” she whispered. “Please stay with me.”
Gil nodded, patting her hands. “As we had planned. If you’re sure.”