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 filteredthrough 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 hopethat 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?”
