The Seventh Miss Hatfield (23 page)

In my riding togs, with my boots in my hand so as not to make too much noise, I crept down the stairs and slipped out of the front door. Sitting down upon the steps, I pulled on my boots, then headed to the stables. I decided to ride dear old Bessie this morning. Though I always talked to her when I went to the stables and gave her a treat of some sort, I seldom rode her any more. It felt fitting to take her out this morning, as I had plenty of time to pick the flowers, return, dress for the funeral and then further refine the details of my mission.

She nickered softly as I entered the stables, as though she knew I was there to take her out. ‘Hello, old girl,’ I greeted her softly. ‘Yes, it’s your turn again at last.’ I got her saddled up and we slowly made our way down the lane and out onto the bridle path. Something about the fresh air made the feeling that I’d spent too long in this time fade away a little. It was a lovely morning; I’d seen the flowers about three days previously, so I knew they’d still be in beautiful bloom. Sure enough, as we approached the meadow the sun had completely risen and its light made the beautiful colours of the wild flowers stand out like some celebrated landscape painting. ‘Painting,’ I muttered to myself as I picked myself a bunch. ‘Yes, Miss Hatfield, I’m going to bring you the painting.’ It was as if I could hear her in my head as soon as I’d had the thought about the flowers resembling a painting. I could have sworn I heard her say, ‘Paintings are beautiful, but the one you need to focus on is still in the study.’ I wouldn’t blame her if she thought I’d forgotten – I’d tarried much longer than I’d ever thought possible, and she must have known from personal experience how bad the uneasiness in my stomach was becoming by now.

After giving Bessie a quick rub-down and a gentle thank-you pat on her soft nose, I headed to the house with my posy of flowers. I went to the kitchen, as I could hear servants moving about and talking in respectfully hushed tones. As I pushed open the door, I saw Eloise’s kind face.

‘Good morning, miss,’ she said with a nod, raising her eyebrows at the flowers. ‘How lovely those are. Will you be taking them to Mr Beauford’s service?’

‘Yes, exactly, Eloise,’ I answered. ‘Would you know where I might find some wrapping paper to protect them during the carriage ride into town?’

She nodded and went into the pantry, returning with a large piece of butcher’s paper. Not fancy, but it would do the trick. She took them from me, and I could see she’d done a bit of flower arranging in her day. Her deft fingers arranged them into a more balanced spray than I ever could have managed. She pulled from her apron pocket a pretty bit of blue ribbon, which she tied around the stems, then wrapped them with the paper. She smiled and handed them back to me. It had taken her less than five minutes to turn my humble offering into a thing of true beauty. I was impressed, and told her so.

‘Aw, go on with ye, Miss Rebecca,’ she mumbled, but I could tell she was pleased. ‘Me mum an’ her sister had a little flower shop when I was a girl, and they taught me a thing or two, that’s all.’ She turned back to her food preparation, embarrassed, it appeared, to have disclosed something personal about herself to someone who was ‘above her station’.

‘Well, they taught you well, and you’ve retained the knowledge beautifully,’ I complimented her. ‘Thank you again, Eloise. I know Mr Beauford will see these from heaven,’ I added quickly. I remembered Eliza telling me that she and Eloise had often fervently discussed the Divine and heaven.

‘Thank you, miss,’ she said as she stirred whatever was in the pot on the stove. ‘He was a lovely old gentleman, in his own eccentric way,’ she added, more to herself than to me. As I turned to leave her to her cooking, I saw her quickly wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. My heart went out to her – she’d been with the family for a very long time.

I carefully laid the bouquet of flowers on the marble table in the hallway, just outside the parlour. I fairly flew up the stairs to my room and quickly made myself ready for the funeral, hair pulled back neatly, dress smoothed so that not a wrinkle was in evidence. I’d been enjoying getting myself ready the past few days, and knew what Eliza meant when she said she liked doing things on her own. I knew that Nellie and Hannah often laid her clothes out for her, then told her exactly where she’d find them before she went to bed. ‘Shoes beside the chair at the window, Miss Eliza; petticoat and other undergarments on top of the dresser,’ I’d heard Nellie tell her one day, and then Eliza finished the litany.

‘And dress laid neatly on the trunk at the foot of my bed as usual, I assume?’ She’d sounded amused, but I could tell she’d grown fond of Nellie and Hannah both, just as I had.

‘Yes, miss,’ Nellie said with a curtsey. She always curt- sied to Eliza, out of habit, mostly, but also I think because she knew Eliza would hear the curtsey even if she couldn’t see it. Nellie did her best to treat everyone with the proper respect.

I glanced at the mantle clock in my room. Ten minutes to nine – right on time. As I walked the short distance to Eliza’s door, I felt a strange sense of calm, almost as though Mr Beauford was there observing me somehow; the feeling was not so much happiness as peace. For his sake, I hoped he’d found his Ruth, waiting to welcome him into the ‘Great Beyond’, whatever that meant. I wished him no ill. He’d lived a long life deprived of the woman he adored, and I knew I would soon move on myself, leaving my own love behind for ever. Living a solitary existence without the partner you longed for creates a loneliness like no other, I heard his voice say in my head. It sounded much stronger than I’d ever heard it, and I felt he’d already become younger, somehow, in his new existence. I was glad for him, wherever he was.

I tapped on Eliza’s door. ‘Eliza? I’m a bit early – are you ready?’ I slowly pushed the door open so as not to startle her, but she was already determinedly headed towards me, dressed flawlessly, her hair pinned up beautifully.

‘Do I look all right, Rebecca?’ she asked with concern. ‘Hannah did my hair for me, but I dressed myself.’

‘You look perfect,’ I assured her.

‘I really wish Mother and Father could have come for the funeral,’ she said. ‘But Father broke his leg in a hunting accident recently and Mother just couldn’t bear to leave him alone and travel without him.’

‘You and Christine are here, and that’s what counts,’ I said. ‘Let’s go downstairs, since you’re ready, and find our carriage.’ As an afterthought, I added, ‘Have you talked to Christine this morning?’

She smiled the quirky smile that often appeared on her face when discussing her sister. ‘No, and that’s completely fine with me.’ She picked up her walking stick with one hand and squeezed my arm with her other, trusting me to guide her down the stairs. ‘I much prefer your company,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, somehow I’ve gathered that,’ I whispered back, and we exchanged a very quiet little giggle. I asked her to wait a moment while I collected my flowers and settled them in one crooked elbow, then took her arm once again.

Once we were outside, Wilchester came up to me and gestured sombrely towards the second carriage in a line of four standing ready to take passengers to the local town. Christine was sitting alone in the front coach, looking beautiful despite her pouting expression. I nodded at her, but as I expected, she ignored me. She was in her own little world. Poor Henley, I thought to myself.

We were seated in our carriage and waiting for our driver when Eliza echoed my last thought aloud. ‘Poor Henley,’ she said, and sighed. ‘All alone in the world now. That is—’ she leaned towards me ‘—except for good friends like you.’

‘And like you, too,’ I rejoined. I looked around, but there was still no sign of Henley.

So this is what turn-of-the-century funeral processions were like, I found myself thinking. Very different from the few Cynthia had witnessed, where a motorcycle rider led the procession, blocking traffic as the line of cars drove along the street. At least Mr Beauford merited four carriages’ worth of people. Glancing around, I imagined most of them were business associates rather than close friends. The old fellow hadn’t been particularly sociable, from what I’d observed and Henley had told me.

The lead driver slapped the reins gently to get his two horses going, and we were off. Still no Henley, and I began to worry about his well-being. His state of mind had been so disjointed the last time I’d seen him; yet somehow I felt he was all right, and would undoubtedly join us at the church. Perhaps he’ll prefer to ride Jasper and be alone with his thoughts, I mused.

Once we got to town, I unwrapped my flowers while the others disembarked from the carriages and entered the simple church. As Eliza and I walked side by side down the aisle towards the altar, I saw Mr Beauford’s mahogany casket at the very front of the church. The casket was closed. I thought this might be at Henley’s request, but couldn’t know for sure. I helped Eliza settle in the second pew, then quietly excused myself and took my spray of flowers to lay them with several other bouquets already on the chancel steps. As I set them down, I gazed upwards, hoping Mr Beauford could somehow see and hear me, and silently told him, ‘These are from Henley. I’m simply the messenger.’

Shockingly, Henley never did make an appearance at Mr Beauford’s funeral, and I heard many mutterings and whisperings about how disrespectful, selfish and ungrateful a son he was. Only I knew the true depth of Henley’s pain, but even so, I’d expected him to show his face, at least for a while. But this was not the case.

The service was pleasant enough, though the eulogy sounded a bit forced. Mr Beauford hadn’t been a regular churchgoer, either here in the country or in the city. But he’d apparently contributed generously, probably at the suggestion of Father Gabriel, in order to make his funeral a good show. I gleaned as much from two plaques I saw hanging on the walls – ‘Courtesy of Mr Charles F. Beauford’ and ‘Charles F. Beauford Memorial Chapel’. No wonder the old boy had wanted his funeral here – he was keen for people to see he’d at least done his best to buy his way into heaven! ‘Good for you,’ I found myself saying to him. I had to give him credit – he’d been as generous as he could be in the only way he knew how, even if these nameplates were what he’d really been investing in.

The cemetery was adjacent to the church so we all walked over to it, the six pall-bearers hefting the elegant coffin, marching slowly in perfect synchronicity. They all looked too young to have been Mr Beauford’s associates, so I assumed that perhaps their services, too, had been prepaid.

Father Gabriel stood tall in front of the congregation and began the final prayer. His youthful features contrasted with his dark, serious eyes, hollowed out with grief. As he spoke, he captivated everyone with his strong voice.

‘We commend to Almighty God our brother Charles Fitzpatrick Beauford, and we commit his body to the ground.’

I wondered if Mr Beauford was watching from some place on high. If he was, did he like how his funeral had turned out, with his chaplain leading it? Or was he sad that so few people had turned up?

‘In the midst of life, we are in death.’

I looked down at the dirt beneath my feet.

‘Earth to earth.’

Christine sniffed audibly and dramatically patted her eyes with her handkerchief as she leaned on anyone she could around her.

‘Ashes to ashes.’

Eliza squeezed my hand in a show of solidarity.

‘Dust to dust.’

I looked at the faces of the people around me who had bothered to turn up for the funeral. Most of them were dry-eyed. To them, Mr Beauford wasn’t a man you cried over, but they were respectful. They’d come to show their regard and admiration for him.

‘The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him, and be gracious unto him, and give him peace. Amen.’

I felt Henley’s absence sharply at that moment. I couldn’t necessarily blame him for not showing up after Mr Beauford’s recent revelations, but I did feel he needed to pay his respects.

‘Amen.’

Once the coffin had been lowered into the ground, Christine made a bit of a spectacle of herself, openly crying as she tossed a few pieces of earth into the grave. I later saw her loudly thanking Father Gabriel between sobs for his prayer. She glanced around as if trying to make sure everyone saw her very public show of thanks.

Eliza, ever at my side during the entire service, said nothing disparaging, but when she heard her sister’s snivels, she cleared her throat as if to send Christine the message: Have some decorum, for goodness’ sake! I could only assume Christine felt she must put on a good show as the future daughter-in-law of the deceased. That whole title sounded odd as it went through my thoughts. How could anyone be the ‘future’ anything of someone who was dead?

I jerked to a ramrod-straight posture as I heard Miss Hatfield’s unmistakable voice say, ‘And how exactly do you explain your own presence in a time where everyone is already dead? Explanations are not always simple.’ I heard her voice so clearly that I turned around quickly to see if she was standing behind me. I blinked to clear my vision, but she wasn’t there and, sadly, neither was Henley. Not even for the burial of the man who’d raised him and provided for him in the best way he knew.

I wondered if I’d be hearing Miss Hatfield’s voice more frequently and more prominently the longer I stayed here, a weird aural accompaniment to the uneasy feeling in my stomach that grew more painful with each passing day. It was quite unsettling. I wondered if she could hear my thoughts, too.

Of course I can’t, you silly girl. She sighed impatiently. Haven’t you heard of something called imagination? I hear most people have it.

I shook my head to try and get her out of there, but her tinkling, sarcastic laugh indicated that wouldn’t work. Oh, this is maddening! I thought, and heard her retort, Well, this is you going mad, isn’t it? How else would you explain my voice in your head?

I looked down to see Eliza gazing up at me with a concerned look on her face. ‘You’re squirming a lot, Rebecca. Are you uncomfortable?’ she asked kindly.