Paragon Walk (10 page)

“Come on!” Emily said sharply. “There isn’t time to stand there admiring yourself. You must put black over it, or it will hardly be decent. I know lavender is mourning as well, but you look like a duchess about to receive. There’s this black shawl. Don’t fidget! It’s not in the least hot, and it darkens the whole thing. And black gloves, of course. And I’ve found a black hat for you.”

Charlotte did not dare ask where she had “found” it. Perhaps she would be happier not to know. Still, it was church, so it was necessary to wear a hat, apart from the obligations of fashion.

When the hat came it was extravagant, broad brimmed, feathered and veiled. She set it on her head at rather a rakish angle and started Emily giggling.

“Oh, this is awful! Please, Charlotte, do watch what you say. I’m so nervous about it you make me laugh when I don’t mean it at all. Inside I am doing everything I can not to think of that poor girl. I’m occupying my mind with all sorts of other things, even silly things, just to keep the thought of her away.”

Charlotte put her arm around her.

“I know. I know you’re not heartless. We all laugh sometimes when we really want to cry. Tell me, do I look ridiculous in this hat?”

Emily put out both her hands and altered the angle a little. She was already in the soberest black herself.

“No, no, it looks very well. Jessamyn will be furious, because afterward everyone will look at you and wonder who you are. Bring the veil down a little, and then they will have to come closer to see. There, that’s perfect! Don’t fiddle with it!”

The cortege was awe-inspiring in the deadest black: black horses pulling a black hearse, black-crepe-ribboned coachmen and black-plumed harness. The chief mourners followed immediately behind in another black, fluttering carriage, and then the rest of the attendants. Everything moved at the most august walk.

Charlotte sat with Emily, George, and Aunt Vespasia in their carriage and wondered why a people who profess a total belief in resurrection should make a melodrama out of death. It was rather like bad theater. It was a question she frequently had considered, but had never found anyone appropriate to ask. She had hoped one day to meet a bishop, although there seemed little chance of it now. She had mentioned it to Papa once and received a very stiff reply, which silenced her completely but in no way provided an answer—except that Papa obviously did not know either and found the whole matter grossly distasteful.

Now she climbed out of the carriage, taking George’s hand to alight gracefully, without tipping the black hat to an even more rakish angle, then, side by side with Aunt Vespasia, followed Emily and George through the gate of the churchyard and up the path to the door. Inside, the organ was playing the death march, with rather more exuberance than was entirely fitting and with several notes so wrong that even Charlotte winced to hear them. She wondered if the organist were the regular one, or an enthusiastic amateur drafted in ignorance for the occasion.

The service itself was very dull, but mercifully short. Possibly the vicar did not wish to mention the manner of death, in all its worldly reality, in such an unworldly place. It did not belong with stained-glass windows, organ music, and little sniffles into lace handkerchiefs. Death was pain and sickness, and terror of the long, blind, last step. And there had been nothing resigned or dignified in it for Fanny. It was not that Charlotte did not believe in God, or the resurrection; it was the attempt to soothe away the ugly truths with ritual that she hated. All this elaborate, expensive mourning was for the conscience of the living, so that they might feel they had paid due tribute and now could decently forget Fanny and continue with the Season. It had little to do with the girl and whether they had cared for her or not.

Afterward they all went out to the graveyard for the interment. The air was hot and heavy, as if it had already been breathed, and tasted faintly stale. The soil was dry from long weeks without rain, and the gravediggers had had to hack at it to break it. The only damp spot anywhere was under the yew trees, settling lower and lower to the earth, and it smelled old and sour, as if the roots had fed on too many bodies.

“Ridiculous things, funerals,” Aunt Vespasia whispered sharply from beside her. “Greatest fit of self-indulgence in society; it’s worse than Ascot. Everyone seeing who can mourn the most conspicuously. Some women look very well in black and know it, and you’ll see them at all the fashionable funerals, whether they were acquainted with the deceased or not. Maria Clerkenwell was always doing that. Met her first husband at the funeral of his cousin. He was the chief mourner because he inherited the title. Maria had never heard of the dead man before she read it in the society pages and decided to go.”

Secretly Charlotte admired her enterprise; it was something Emily might have done. She stared across the open grave past the pallbearers, red-faced and glistening with sweat, to Jessamyn Nash standing erect and pale at the far side. The man closest to her was less then handsome, but there was something pleasing in his face, a readiness to smile.

“Is that her husband?” Charlotte asked softly.

Vespasia followed her eye.

“Diggory,” she agreed. “Bit of a rake, but always was the best of the Nashes. Not that that is granting him much.”

From what Charlotte had heard of Afton and seen of Fulbert, she could not disagree. She continued to stare, trusting to her veil to disguise the fact. Really, veils were of very practical convenience. She had never tried one before, but she must remember it for the future. Diggory and Jessamyn were standing a little apart; he made no effort to touch her or support her. In fact his attention seemed to be turned rather toward Afton’s wife Phoebe, who looked perfectly awful. Her hair seemed to have slipped to one side and her hat to the other, and although she made one or two feeble gestures to readjust it, each time she made it worse. Like everyone else, she was in black, but on her it seemed dusty, the black of the sweep, rather than the glossy, raven’s-wing black of Jessamyn’s gown. Afton stood to attention by her side, his face expressionless. Whatever he felt, it was beneath his dignity to display it here.

The vicar held up his hand for attention. The faint whisperings stopped. He intoned the familiar words. Charlotte wondered why they intoned. It always sounded so much less sincere than to speak in a normal voice. She had never heard people who were really emotionally moved speak in such a fashion. They were too much consumed in the content to take such pains with the manner. Surely God was the last person to be swayed by dressing up and affecting airs.

She looked up through her veil and wondered if anyone else was thinking the same things, or were they all properly impressed? Jessamyn had her head down; she was stiff, pale and beautiful as a lily, a little rigid, but very appropriate. Phoebe was weeping. Selena Montague was becomingly pale, although to judge from her lips she had not altogether left nature unaided, and her eyes were as bright as fever. She was standing beside the most singularly elegant man Charlotte had ever seen. He was tall and slender, but there was a litheness to him as if his body were hard, far from the foppish, rather feminine grace of so many fashionable people. He was bareheaded, as were all the other men, and his black hair was thick and smooth. She could see when he turned how perfectly it grew in the nape of his neck. She did not need to ask Vespasia who he was. With a little tingle of excitement she knew—that was the beautiful Frenchman—the one Selena and Jessamyn were fighting over!

She could not tell who was winning at the moment, but he was standing next to Selena. Or perhaps she was standing next to him? But it was Jessamyn who was the center of attention. At least half the heads in the congregation were turned toward her. The Frenchman was one of the few who was looking at the coffin as it was lowered clumsily into the open grave. Two men with shovels stood respectfully back, accustomed enough to such rituals to fall into the right attitude without conscious thought.

One of the few others who seemed to be genuinely caught in the turmoil of some emotion was a man on the same side of the grave as Charlotte and Vespasia. She only noticed him at first because of the angle of his shoulders, which had a tightness to them, as if all his muscles were clenched inside. Without thinking, she moved a little forward to catch sight of his face, should he turn when the earth was thrown in.

The vicar’s sing-song voice went through the old words about earth to earth and dust to dust. The man swiveled to watch the hard clay rattle on the lid, and Charlotte saw his profile and then his full features. It was a strong face with skin marred by smallpox and at the moment was in the grip of some deep and twisting pain. Was it for Fanny? Or for death in general? Or was it even grief for the living, because he knew or guessed something of the “whited sepulchers” Fulbert had spoken of? Or was it fear?

Charlotte stepped back and touched Vespasia’s arm.

“Who is he?”

“Hallam Cayley,” Vespasia replied. “Widower. His wife was one of the Cardews. She died about two years ago. Pretty woman, lot of money, but not much sense.”

“Oh.” So that explained his tight body and the confusion of pain in his face. Perhaps she herself was staring around at all these people, occupying her mind with questions to keep it from the memory of other funerals, personal ones that hurt too much to bear recalling?

The ceremony was over. Slowly, with extreme decorum, they all turned as if on a single pivot and began the walk back to the road and the carriages. They would meet at Paragon Walk again at Afton Nash’s for the obligatory baked meats. Then the ritual could be considered accomplished.

“I see you remarked the Frenchman,” Vespasia observed under her breath.

Charlotte considered feigning innocence, and decided it would not work.

“Next to Selena?”

“Naturally.”

They walked, or rather processed, down the narrow path, through the gateway, and out onto the footpath. Afton, as the eldest brother, embarked into his carriage first, then Jessamyn, with Diggory a few moments behind her. He had been talking to George, and Jessamyn was obliged to wait for him. Charlotte saw the flicker of irritation pass across her face. Fulbert had come in a separate carriage for the occasion and had offered a ride to the Misses Horbury, dressed in ornate and antique black. It took them several moments to seat themselves satisfactorily.

George and Emily were next, and Charlotte found herself moving before she was really ready to leave. She looked across at Emily. Emily caught her eye and smiled wearily in return. Charlotte was happy to see that she had slipped her hand into George’s and he was holding it protectively.

The funeral breakfast was very splendid, as she had expected it to be. There was nothing ostentatious—one did not draw attention to a death that had come about in such an appalling manner—but there was enough to feed half of Society on the great table, and Charlotte thought at a quick estimation that every man, woman, and child on her own street could have lived on it for a month, with care.

People split into little groups, whispering together, no one wishing to be the first to begin.

“Why do we always eat after funerals?” Charlotte asked, unconsciously frowning. “I’ve never felt less like it.”

“Convention,” George replied, looking at her. He had the finest eyes she had ever seen. “It’s the only sort of hospitality everyone understands. Anyway, what else could one do? We can’t simply stand here, and we can hardly dance!”

Charlotte suppressed a desire to giggle. It was as formal and ridiculous as an old-fashioned dance.

She glanced around the room. He was right; everyone was a little awkward, and eating eased the tension. It would be vulgar to show emotion, at least for men. Women were expected to be frail, though weeping was frowned upon, because it was embarrassing and no one knew what to do about it. But one could always faint; that was quite acceptable and gave one the perfect excuse to retire. Eating was an occupation that covered the hiatus between obvious mourning and the time when one could decently go and leave the whole matter of death behind.

Emily put out her hand to claim Charlotte’s attention. She turned, to find herself facing a woman in extremely expensive black with a rather heavyset man beside her. “May I present my sister, Mrs. Pitt? Lord and Lady Dilbridge.”

Charlotte responded with the usual courtesies.

“Such a dreadful affair,” Grace Dilbridge said with a sigh. “And such a shock! One would never have expected it of the Nashes.”

“Surely one cannot expect such a thing of anyone,” Charlotte rejoined, “except the most wretched and desperate of people.” She was thinking of the slums and rookeries Pitt had spoken of, but even he had told her little of the real horror. She had only guessed, as much from the hollow look of his face and his long silences as from anything he had said.

“I always thought poor Fanny such an innocent child,” Frederick Dilbridge went on, as if in answer to her. “Poor Jessamyn. All this is going to be very hard for her.”

“And for Algernon,” Grace added, looking out of the corner of her eye to where Algernon Burnon was turning away a baked pie and helping himself to another glass of port from the footman. “Poor boy. Thank God he was not yet married to her.”

Charlotte could not entirely see the relevance.

“He must be very grieved,” she said slowly. “I cannot imagine a worse way to lose one’s fiancée.”

“Better than a wife,” Grace insisted. “At least he is now free—after a decent interval, of course—to find himself someone more suitable.”

“And the Nashes had no other daughter,” Frederick also took a glass as the footman hovered. “That’s something to be thankful for.”

“Thankful?” Charlotte could hardly believe it.

“Of course,” Grace looked at her with raised eyebrows. “You must be aware, Mrs. Pitt, how hard it is to get one’s daughters married well as it is. To have a scandal such as this in the family would make it well nigh impossible! I should not wish any son of mine to marry a girl whose sister was—well—” She coughed delicately and glared at Charlotte for obliging her to put into words something so crass. “All I can say is, I am vastly relieved my son is already married. A daughter of the Marchioness of Weybridge, a delightful girl. Do you know the Weybridges?”