Page 54 of A Sense of Turmoil
The doctor raised a brow, probably wondering how Flora could be so sure since the old lady’s breathing had been so shallow as to be almost non-existent. He listened to her chest and gave a grim nod.
Flora leaned forward and gently kissed the old lady’s brow. ‘Goodbye, my lady,’ she said, so quietly that she doubted whether anyone else in the room heard her above the sobbing. ‘Enjoy your journey.’
She moved aside so that the others could say their farewells, feeling bereft. She was surprised when Luke came up to her and wrapped her in his arms. She had been holding her emotions in check by sheer force of will, but that unexpected gesture of sympathy shattered her self-control. She leaned the side of her face against Luke’s broad shoulder and cried until her throat felt raw. Luke said nothing but she could hear the erratic beating of his heart, and sensed his own pain. In a state of considerable emotional anguish, the feel of Luke’s arms around her made her regret the loss of his friendship almost as much as she mourned the countess’s passing.
Never let me go.
But Flora knew that she had lost any claim she might once have held over his affections. With a huge effort of will, she removed herself from the comfortable pillow of his shoulder, wiped her eyes and regained what measure of control she could.
‘Should we say a prayer?’ Mary asked tremulously.
Flora managed a weak smile. ‘I rather think she would come back and haunt us all if we attempted it. She made me promise that I wouldn’t allow any man of the cloth into her rooms when she was on her death bed. “Like some form of avenging demon squawking over her mortal remains,” were her exact words.’
Luke smiled and nodded. ‘We are all aware of Grandmamma’s views upon religion,’ he said.
‘Sandwell and I need to make her comfortable,’ Flora gently pointed out, after every family member had said their farewells.
The others nodded and left the room.
Flora and Sandwell worked quietly, washing the old lady and laying her out. Luke would arrange for the undertakers to call. The countess had already selected her own coffin, and decreed what she intended to wear for her last journey. Flora smiled through her tears, unsurprised that her choice had been a rainbow of clashing colours.
Flora got though the next few days as though sleepwalking, doing what had to be done, making arrangements. Ottilie and George called to express their condolences to Luke but he only saw them for a few minutes. Flora caught a brief glimpse of Ottilie’s fixed expression as she left the house, clearly displeased by her inability to make herself useful, be more involved, or offer more comfort.
Flora, at Mary and Emma’s insistence, went with them into Swindon to the General Mourning House where they purchased the appropriately respectful attire. Part of Flora wanted to rebel and garb herself in the bright colours that the countess would have preferred to see in her funeral procession, but she knew that the gesture would be considered disrespectful.
At Mary’s insistence Flora took her meals with the rest of the family, but no one appeared to have much of an appetite, and the conversation was desultory, the empty chair at the foot of the table a visible reminder of the one they had lost. Outside, the earl’s standard flew at half-mast from the highest turret, the curtains were kept closed, and the front door, dressed in a black wreath, deterred all callers.
*
Luke felt as though his heart had been ripped from his body. No amount of anticipation could ease the pain of loss, and he knew in his heart of hearts that he was not only mourning his grandmother’s passing. There was a distance between him and Flora that he regretted but hadn’t the first inkling of how to rectify. If he had done the right thing in proposing to Ottilie, he wondered why he felt so wretched.
But he couldn’t afford the luxury of wallowing in self-pity. It wasn’t his way. There were arrangements to be made, letters to write, announcements to be posted, all manner of ways in which he could keep busy and ward off the demons that only now had access to him when he was alone in his bed at night, tortured by indecision and unable to sleep.
Good as his word, Archie appeared on the day before the funeral, and Luke had never been more pleased to see anyone. Archie, he knew, would not allow him to give way to the blue devils.
‘When is the wedding to be?’ Archie asked, ensconced in the library with Luke, the ubiquitous glass of whisky in hand. Luke had informed him by letter of his forthcoming nuptials. Archie’s response had been surprisingly short on both content and congratulations.
‘Nothing’s been decided,’ he replied irritably. ‘Why must everyone keep asking me that?’
Archie studied Luke over the rim of his glass. ‘You’re a damned fool, Luke, and that’s all I’m prepared to say on the matter.’
Luke didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. ‘I cannot abide jealousy,’ he said.
Archie flexed a brow. ‘To whom are you referring?’
‘Flora, of course.’
‘Flora! I doubt that she has a jealous bone in her rather delectable body.’
‘She doesn’t like Ottilie or George.’
‘I can understand why, after the way George behaved at table.’
‘He didn’t do anything. It was her. He told me.’
Archie actually put his glass aside and shook his head. ‘And you took his word over hers?’
‘He’s a gentleman. I have known him most of my life.’
