Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn
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laying a body low, and it can linger for weeks. Then, one morning, quick as you please, it is gone again. I remember how my poor departed Harold used to suffer with it. But my remedy always seemed to put him right. Of course, it put him so right that he went out riding that wild horse that threw him to his death. My poor darling …” She fished under the covers for her handkerchief, which she applied delicately to her nose.
After a moment she blew it ferociously, then brightened. “Still, as the Bible tells us, ‘Man cometh forth like a flower and is cut down.’ It was simply Harold’s time to be cut down.”
I nodded, wondering how on earth we had ventured into such a bizarre conversation. Other people’s aunts talked about knitting and forcing paperwhites. Mine quoted Job. I had little doubt she could recite the entire service for the dead from the Book of Common Prayer if asked.
I cleared my throat to reply, but she was still speaking.
“Just like your Edward, poor thing. Such a lovely boy. So little time together! Practically still on your honeymoon. And then to have him snatched so cruelly! Oh, my dear, how can you bear it?”
The question was rhetorical, and it was one she had been asking me almost daily for the past year. At first I had actually answered it, reminding her that Edward and I had been married for five years and that he had always been in delicate health. But then that only brought on some verses from Lamentations, so I learned to keep quiet. I simply put on a mournful expression and nodded solemnly and waited for her to go on. She always did.
“But at least the funeral was properly done. So many people just rush through them these days—no respect at all. But no one can say that the Marches do not respect death. I was very much gratified to see the efforts taken on poor Edward’s behalf. Such lovely lilies, and the music was so very moving. I can still hear those little choirboy voices …”
She began to hum then, something I had never heard before and decidedly not one of the pieces sung at Edward’s funeral. I was beginning to think that the blackberry cordial was having an effect on her. Or the gin.
“Aunt Ursula, did you receive any other correspondence?” I asked in desperation. “I note that some of the envelopes are bordered in black. I hope there are no fresh bereavements.” Of course I hoped no such thing; I was heartily tired of having the Ghoul settling in my China Room.
Aunt Ursula broke off in mid-verse. “Oh, no, my dear. Those are letters from families still in mourning. Why, dear Cressida’s husband has only been dead for seventeen years. It would not do for her to leave off observing the proper signs of respect, would it?”
I sat, dumbstruck, realizing what she had just said. Aunt Cressida, whose husband had been widely held to be a complete monster, had been widowed for seventeen years and Aunt Ursula still expected her to write on black-bordered writing paper. I should be expected to do the same. And I knew it would not be just the writing paper. It would be the widow’s weeds as well. Unrelieved black clothing, from the outer petticoat to the gloves. Jet and onyx jewelry. Hair bracelets. Veils.
I excused myself and went to lie down on my bed. I had been marking the calendar, waiting for my year of mourning to end. I had actually been looking forward to putting on gray clothes or adding little touches of white to my collars and cuffs. I was counting off the days until I could wear pearls again, and purple. Now, what was the point? With Aunt Ursula in the house, holding me to the same standards of mourning as the queen, what hope was there? I could either wear what I liked and endure her daily sermons on proper feeling, or I could smother myself in black bombazine for the rest of my life. It did not bear thinking of. So I did not think of it. I rose and went to visit Simon, hoping that his gentle smile would be a balm for my ruffled temper.
I crept into his room, uncertain if he was yet asleep.
“I am awake, Julia,” he called. “Come in.”
I ventured into the room. It was dimly lit, warm and cozy, and I could see Simon drowsing in the chaise longue by the window. He was propped against a pair of thick pillows and covered with a soft woolen blanket. It was embroidered at the edge with his crest, a Christmas present from me. It had been difficult to choose something for him, so in the end I had opted for something elegant and practical and comforting. He had always loved beautiful things, and the rich dove-grey colour matched his eyes.
The rest of the room had been furnished with his favorite things, framed sketches of his travels, a portrait of his parents, a little china statue of a dog that he had had for so long its tail had been broken off and glued back at a ridiculous angle, more than once.
He smiled at me and I bent to kiss his cheek.
“Ah, violet. My favorite scent,” he commented.
I felt a little lance of guilt. “I am sorry. I should have sent up a pot of them in March. Never mind. I will have Whittle grow some for you in the hothouse.”
He grinned at me. “Can he do that?”
“Heavens, I don’t know. That is Whittle’s business. If not, I shall buy you some silk ones, French, and douse them in my perfume.”
“Lovely. What have you been about?” he asked as I settled myself on a cushion at his feet.
“Being flayed by the Ghoul,” I informed him with a doleful air. “I have just realized that I am expected to keep to my mourning forever. She’ll never lie down for me putting on colours again. I shall write on black-bordered paper and drape myself in veils until everyone forgets what I look like.”
Simon smiled. “Poor darling. Don’t be too disheartened. I’m sure some helpful March relation will die soon and take her off your hands. Loads of lung complaints going around this spring.”
“One hopes. Not that I wish any ill on any of my relations, of course. But Aunt Ursula has inflicted herself on us for quite long enough. It is someone else’s turn.”
“Lucky for you that I am a Grey and not a March. She won’t return when you are mourning me,” he said, his eyes glinting humorously.
“Oh, Simon, don’t,” I begged. I had been thoughtless, speaking of such things to him. I reached up and took his hand, willing myself not to feel the bones, brittle and sharp beneath the thin, papery skin. I noticed he had moved his gold signet ring from his smallest finger to the ring finger. Still, it twisted loosely and I wondered how much more weight he could lose before he slipped away altogether.
He touched my hair lightly, pushing it back from my face.
“Ah, I did not mean to upset you. But Griggs was here last week, you know. The man is a fool, of course, but he says it cannot be much longer, and I must believe him.”
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