AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It had been different in the Crimea. She had seen so much of it, young men in the flower of their lives, broken on the battlefield or rotted by disease. There were too many to hold funerals for, no churches, no music except a few ragged voices singing for courage rather than the glory of sound.
But the dead went into eternity just the same. This pomp and solemnity, the black feathers and ribbons, the elaborate performance of sorrow, was for the living. Did it really make people feel better, or just that they had done their best and were acquitted?
As the service proceeded, Hester looked sideways to watch Callandra, to their left and a row in front, next to the aisle. Hester wondered what thoughts teemed inside her. A widow could not marry again for years, but a widower could remarry almost immediately, and no one thought the worse of him. It was expected his new wife would wear black in mourning for her predecessor, and Hester wondered with a note of hysteria inside her if her wedding nightgown should be black as well.
She must discipline her thoughts. Callandra had said nothing so unseemly. But Hester knew it was in her mind. The very way she spoke Kristian’s name betrayed her.
Had she any idea what kind of a woman lay in the coffin? Could she imagine the beauty, the vitality and the courage she had had when she was alive, according to Fuller Pendreigh-and Kristian himself?
The service was over at last, and the mourners must leave in the proper order. There was a ritual to be observed. Only the men would go to the graveside, a custom she was sometimes grateful for, but today she found it both patronizing and irritating. Women were considered good enough to nurse the sick and dying, to wash them and lay them out, but not strong enough in temperament or spirit to watch the coffin lowered into the earth.
However, she could attend the funeral meal afterwards. It was to be held at Fuller Pendreigh’s home, not Kristian’s. Had he usurped that right? Or had Kristian yielded it willingly? They had been invited because of the help Monk had offered in attempting to solve the crime.
It seemed like an interminable wait between leaving the church and arriving at Pendreigh’s house in Ebury Street for the funeral meal. The guests were assembled in the splendid hall and in the even more beautiful withdrawing room. Hester noticed immediately that Callandra was not among them. Perhaps that was better, even if faintly hurtful. She had not known Elissa, and since she was representing the hospital, her only connection was with Kristian. Courtesy had been amply met, and for her to have been there might suggest a personal relationship. As Hester knew very well, funerals, even more than weddings, were places for rumor to abound and all kinds of speculation to be given birth.
The whole house was hung with crepe. All the servants were in unrelieved black, and their sorrow seemed genuine. Maids had red eyes and looked shocked and tired. Even the footmen, carrying trays of wine and small tidbits for the guests to eat, spoke softly and stood for the most part in silence.
Hester knew no one else present, other than Monk and Kristian, and it was impossible to speak to Kristian except brie
fly. This was Pendreigh’s house, but Kristian was equally involved since he was legally Elissa’s closest relative. He had to be seen to speak to everyone, to make them welcome and thank them for their tributes of time and words, and in many cases flowers as well. But standing in the corner, of choice by herself, she watched.
The people appeared to be largely Pendreigh’s friends. They were grave and polite to Kristian, but it was Pendreigh they knew. When they spoke to him there was emotion in the attitudes of their bodies, their bent heads and solemn expressions. They were his generation, and the cut and fabric of their clothes spoke of great wealth and a certain authority. She even recognized a few of them from photographs in the newspapers. At least two were Members of Parliament.
Did Kristian feel as much a foreigner as she felt for him? Was his reserve a matter of a grief he could barely control, or did he know few of these mourners at his wife’s funeral?
The marked exception to that was the striking figure of Max Niemann. While Monk was speaking to Pendreigh and finding himself introduced to varying other people, Hester managed to move closer to Kristian and still unnoticed by him; she listened to their conversation.
“. . good of you to come,” Kristian said warmly.
“For heaven’s sake, man, did you imagine I would stay away?” Niemann said in amazement. “The past means too much not to have come this short distance. It’s absurd, isn’t it, that after all we’ve seen and done together, that one of us should die in an artist’s studio in London?”
Kristian smiled very slightly, but there was gentleness in it, and no bitterness that Hester could see. “I think she would have preferred something a little. . more dramatic,” he said wryly. Then his voice dropped. “And to some purpose, not the idiotic accident of calling at an artist’s studio at the wrong moment.”
Niemann put his hand on Kristian’s arm with only the barest hesitation, just a flicker across his face that vanished again. “I’m sorry,” he said fervently. “Elissa, of all people, should have gone out in a blaze of glory. There’s so much futility in the world, so many idiotic tragedies that strike from nowhere. All I can think of is the emptiness now that she’s gone.” His voice was thick with emotion, and he did not move his hand from Kristian’s arm, as if in touching him he could share some bond which was precious to him.
“Another day. . later. . we must talk about the past,” Kristian responded. “It’s been far too long. Present crises press and I’ve allowed them to crowd out too much.”
Niemann smiled and shook his head. “Still the same!” He gave Kristian’s arm another swift clasp, then moved on to allow the next person to speak.
A little later Hester was standing a yard or two from Pendreigh. He was a remarkably striking man. Even in repose his face had power in it, a balance of nose and brow. If he were aware of other people looking at him he gave no sign of it, yet even in his present grief he did not neglect his duty as host.
“May I offer you something more, Mrs. Monk?” He had remembered who she was.
“No thank you, Mr. Pendreigh,” she declined. She wanted to say something to draw him into conversation, and yet the tragedy which had brought her there was one which inner decency treated in silence. “You must be very tired of trying to think of courteous things to say to people.” She smiled impulsively. “I imagine you would far rather be alone, and yet custom requires you do all this.” She half gestured to the room full of people all talking, nodding discreetly, murmuring meaningless words no one was really listening to, and drinking Pendreigh’s excellent wine. They all wore black; the only difference was in the cut and the fabric, some denser than others, some softer and more exquisitely cut.
He looked at her for a moment as if he actually saw her. The spell of retreat was broken, and a bottomless pain filled his face. “Actually, I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “I think this has a. . a sort of comfort about it. It’s. . ghastly. . and yet perhaps it’s better than being alone.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have spoken so intrusively. I beg your pardon.”
The formal smile was back again. “You don’t need to, Mrs. Monk. Forgive me, I need to bid Mr. and Mrs. Harbinger good-bye. They seem to be about to leave.” He gave a slight shrug as if he did not know what he wished to say, and with the faintest bow, he left.
Hester turned to look for Kristian, and saw him standing alone by the door into the withdrawing room. His face was set in a blank, inner concentration that isolated him. He looked utterly confused, as if he had lost sight of the duty Pendreigh strove so hard to fulfill.
Then an elderly woman approached him, and he recalled his obligation, forcing himself to smile at her and say something trivial and polite.
Half an hour later, Hester and Monk excused themselves, but all the way home Hester wondered why the reception had been at Elissa’s father’s house and not at her husband’s, which was, after all, where she had lived for the last thirteen years.
“Perhaps Pendreigh was afraid Kristian would not be well enough to carry the occasion himself,” Monk suggested.
