Page 29

‘Stitched them together?’

‘Their clothes, Dad, not them.’

‘How odd.’ He had shrugged. ‘Once the coffin is hammered shut . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence.

‘No, it matters that they are never parted.’

Her father had departed, shaking his head.

Looking back at mother and child, Fleur was suddenly reminded of a little boy with a serious countenance at odds with his head of summery golden hair. Tom Catchlove had been grieving the death of his mother and new sister and the memory of him came back to her in full detail, trapping her breath and forcing her to pause. How amazing that she was recalling from so many years ago that newly bereaved little boy with his wide eyes of navy and his knowledge of geology.

She felt taken with him all over again. He had remarked that she was brave, but she was nothing of the kind. Fleur had always had the privilege of status, along with the inherent confidence that came from being loved – no, adored – by the Applebys. It was from that status and adoration that she possessed so much self-belief, which only served to fuel a naturally precocious manner. But scrawny Tom, helplessly handsome behind that reticent manner . . . he was the brave one, facing the death of his mother and his sister, as well as a long journey home on his own, and his father far away.

She wished she’d been old enough to care for his mother and sister with the same tenderness as she had as the Savilles. ‘Where are you now, Tom Catchlove?’ Fleur asked the universe quietly as she let go of the dead woman’s hand. She looked again at the sweet face of the newborn, relaxed in her death pose despite how pale and tiny she was. And Fleur thought of Amy, Tom’s little sister, who never took more than a breath or two, it seemed, and had never known she had a brother who loved her. ‘Did you become that wool guesser, Tom?’ she asked the silence with a small smile as she pretended to talk to him.

‘I wish I could see him again, Mrs Saville,’ Fleur remarked to the woman over whom she was now making a final sweep with a careful eye. She reached for a comb to smooth a wayward hair that had escaped. ‘There was something about Tom that appealed to me. I was only eight, but he was ten, so he’d be in his early thirties now. He’s probably married with a brood of his own. I hope he’s happy. When we met he was desperately sad and alone, so I hope he’s got a house full of children and lots of laughter in his life.’

Mrs Saville couldn’t answer but Fleur heard the woman’s voice in her mind all the same. That’s something you need to strive for, my dear. Laughter, company, marriage, children.

‘I don’t want to marry Jimmy Coglin, if that’s what you mean, Mrs Saville?’

No, but you need to change your lonely existence.

‘I was going to speak to my father about moving out, having my own place . . . we’d all be much happier.’

Your father is never going to be happy again, you know that. And you will still be alone.

‘But not lonely. I think too many people presume they mean the same thing. I don’t mind being alone.’

Your mother wanted marriage and children for you.

‘And if the right person comes along, so would I want both of those.’

The right person can’t find you if you don’t make yourself available to be found, Fleur.

It was the baby talking to her now. Alice was her name.

‘And what do you suggest, Alice?’

Well, perhaps if you step out with this Coglin fellow, you may meet other people. How can you know who you wish to spend time with if you keep yourself tucked away in a mortuary?

‘I suppose not,’ Fleur agreed. ‘I don’t want to lead him along, though.’

You’re known for your honesty. Why would he feel led? Mrs Saville offered.

Fleur smiled. Now even the dead wanted to marry her off.

Not marry you off, Mrs Saville corrected. Help you look for happiness.

‘All right. I’ll be more open to gentlemen callers and I’ll agree to the dance with Jimmy . . . but only so I’m being social and meeting others.’

The mother and daughter fell silent in her thoughts as Fleur made a final adjustment to the buttons on Mrs Saville’s gown. Fleur wanted them to sit perfectly straight. She busied herself with a soft piece of lace she’d saved from an old nightdress for just this sort of occasion. It was a small milk-coloured panel of delicate fabric she’d laid behind Alice’s head. Against her mother’s dark gown, the webbed design created a beautiful resting spot.

Satisfied that she could do no more, Fleur rang a bell that she kept nearby. Soon enough a couple of the lads who worked for her father arrived at the mortuary door, rubbing their hands on their trousers.

‘Thanks for coming so fast, boys. Can you help me get Mrs Saville and her daughter into their coffin, please? Mr Saville is coming to farewell them in about one hour.’

‘When’s the burial, Miss?’