“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.
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 therewas 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 factthat 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.
