Page 47 of The Heir
“Your Highness, your grace,” he said. “It is a great honor to receive you. If I may present myself? I am Dr. Julius Maton.”
“Thank you, Dr. Maton,” said Mama. “Her Highness wished to deliver her condolences to your mother personally, and to express her gratitude for your father’s excellent care of her and of all our family.”
“Yes, of course. My mother and brothers are in the parlor. If you will step this way?”
They followed him. The theme of pastel walls, marble tiles, and white trim was carried through the ground floor of the house. The black crepe around the banisters and picture frames made midnight slashes across the icy background. Gray outlines on the painted walls showed where mirrors had been removed.
In the parlor heavy drapes had been drawn. The hot, still air was thick with dust and a dragging chemical smell, which Victoria knew meant death itself. Heavy carpets had been laid down to muffle their footsteps. The only light came from the candles at the coffin’s head and foot.
Victoria tried to picture this room filled with light and laughter and the sounds of company, perhaps with tea or music, and found she could not.
Chairs draped in black cloth had been set at an angle so the persons sitting vigil could stand to greet the mourners as they arrived but not block the coffin. As Victoria entered, Mrs. Maton and her two remaining sons rose at once and made their reverences.
The Matons were a pale family. Victoria thought that when they were not in mourning, they must fade away in all these pastel rooms.
As a girl, Mrs. Maton had doubtlessly been the perfect English rose—all pink and white, with golden hair and sparkling sapphire eyes. Now the blush had faded from her cheeks, her sapphire-blue eyes were watery, and the hair under the black cap was turning white as the marble tiles. But there was still a strength about her. Mrs. Maton held herself stubbornly straight, as if she refused to be bowed by her grief.
A grim face, thought Victoria.She is grieving, yes, but there’s something else . . .
“Your Highness, your grace,” Dr. Julius Maton was saying, “may I present my mother, Mrs. Phillipa Ashdowne Maton?”
Mama approached Mrs. Maton and touched her hand.
“Mrs. Maton, I am sincerely sorry for your loss. Your husband was a good man and a dedicated physician. I always felt myself in the very best of hands when he was with me.”
Mrs. Maton lifted her gaze, took a quick glance at Mama. There. Victoria saw a flash in the widow’s eyes. It was not grief. Not in the least.
It was resentment.
And it was gone. The widow dropped her gaze.
“You are most kind, your grace.”
“May I also present my brothers?” said Julius Maton. “Dr. Marcus Maton and Dr. Gerald Maton.”
Ironically, both of his brothers were taller than Julius, who Victoria assumed was the eldest, since he had taken the duty of performing the introductions. All three brothers shared the same round build, pasty skin, faded eyes, and thinning fair hair. Had these men been in a ballroom with five hundred other guests, one would have known instantly they were all from one family.
The middle brother, Marcus, was staring at Mama. There was something hungry in that look, and Victoria did not like it. Mama did not even seem to notice.
By contrast, the youngest brother, Gerald, was watching his own mother. Was he afraid she might commit some impropriety? That, perhaps, she might break down and cry? He had the same round face as his brothers, and his double chin had already begun to form. It was a face made for joviality. But there was nothing jovial about him. Neither was there any sign of grief.
Gerald Maton was quietly, unmistakably furious.
He did not approach his brother or his mother but stayed beside the coffin, as if he thought the ladies from the palace were resurrectionists come to steal his father’s body. Victoria could not help noticing the ribbon attached to Gerald Maton’s watch chain, with the end tucked into his waistcoat pocket. She felt sure there must be a pince-nez attached to that end.
Mama was assuming a sympathetic air. “Your sons will surely be a great consolation to you,” she said to Mrs. Maton.
“Yes, indeed, ma’am. They have ever been my comfort. My husband was often from home, you see, with the medical household.”
“Men have many calls to answer. We can only wait and be patient.”
“Yes, your grace.” There it was again, that flash of resentment. A prickle of cold skittered across Victoria’s skin.
“It was your husband who attended mine during his final illness,” Mama told her. “No one could have been more diligent.”
Gerald Maton did not like this remark. He, of course, said nothing. But the sharp, bright flush on his round cheeks betrayed the intensity of his unspoken feeling.
Mama had fallen silent, which gave Victoria space to speak. She had spent all last night and much of this morning trying to decide how to proceed. She could not count on a moment alone with any member of the family, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t discover anything.
