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Chapter Three
The small boy’swails trailed behind, as darkness and the now familiar thick, whitish mist again encased them. Hot tears rolled from her eyes and she relished the momentary relief it brought. Agatha had not cried in an age, not even when Ambrose died. Panic was the emotion she recalled—the feeling that she might run out of funds. Having taken care of the household for over five years, she realized there was no magic. You simply did not spend what was unnecessary.
The small child had touched a heart she forgot she possessed.Did I just mock myself?she thought sarcastically.
Another bell rang and, when the mist cleared, Agatha saw herself standing beneath a tree, watching a rainy funeral attended by three people and a cat. All stood sheltered under large black umbrellas, with water streaming from the edges. The gray cat was tucked under the arm of one of the men.That’s interesting,she mused.The cat looks just like Pretty.
Thomas turned and smirked at her.
“Why are we here, Thomas? Will we not get wet?” she asked, haughtily.
Her brother’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “No. We are viewing this and are not physically a part of it. You will remain dry.”
She sensed cynicism, and it irritated her. She had asked a perfectly logical question. Agatha squinted and stared. This washerfuneral. Bile rose in her throat as horror overcame her. Was this some kind of joke? Where was her so-called family—her niece and husband, her sister-in-law? Obviously, they had not tried to come.
She turned to her brother standing behind her. “Th-this is my funeral?”
He nodded.
“My...ourfamily... are not here. Where is my man of affairs? I see no one from my household staff is here. Is there no respect for the dead?” The cold reality that no one cared about her washed over her. “I suppose no one will show at the house afterwards,” she said with a gulp, peering at the small group. “That is Bentley. He came?” She could handle mortification. But this seemed more personal, and it stung.
He arched a brow. “All true, sister. They will carry your last testament out as written. It will be read tomorrow. The lawyer refused to allow it to interrupt his Christmas celebrations.” He pointed to a stand of beautiful white roses sitting on top of the coffin.
“That reprobate. He was never helpful,” she said, still complaining. “I willed it all to my…niece,” she finally finished. The irony dawned on her. “Charlotte was the only person I could think of, when he asked. She could not help…” she quieted and thought about things. Had she caused her own loneliness?
“That will surprise them, I am sure,” Thomas muttered under his breath.
“Whoprovided the flowers?” She had been used to her brother’s sarcasm. Nothing changed, it seemed, not even in death.
“Charlotte and her husband provided the flowers, at least the white ones.That’s curious.” Her brother leaned in to get a closer look at the vision. “Ah, I see there are also red ones,” he added. “I believe Charlotte and her husband had planned to come, but the baby became sick, and they felt it best not to make the trip. They will send a card, I am sure,” he finished, with a hint of mockery.
“Oh.” For the first time in her life, Agatha agonized over her misdeed. She had ignored her own brother’s death because it was inconvenient for her to travel. Had she been ill, that would have been understandable, yet it had not been the case. Her vindictive nature kept her away. Remorse enveloped her. “I am so... sorry for not saying goodbye to you, Thomas.”
He cleared his throat. “I never knew the difference,” he said with a shrug. “However, my family did,” he said. His tone was indifferent. “Thisisyour funeral, if you do not change, Agatha.”
“You mean…there is still time? I can change things?” She felt the first glimmer of hope she could recall feeling in a long time.
“You are alive. Therefore, much is possible,” he returned. “Listen.” He pointed her back to the ceremony.
“Let us commit our sister, Agatha Wendt, to her earthly home,” the minister said, looking up impatiently from his book. “Do each of you feel theneed,” he punctuated, “to add a few words?”
“I would like to speak.” Charles stepped forward.
“If you feel inclined,” the vicar huffed and pulled his pocket watch out to check the time.
Charles eyed him with a raised brow and continued. “Lady Wendt was a good woman,” he started slowly. “Much was made of her inability to give, but it was my belief that her generosity, or lack of it,” he glared at the preacher who was looking elsewhere, “was more motivated by fear. I witnessed genuine acts of kindness, and it grieves me to see her gone,” he said croakily.
“How is it he understands me, when I barely do myself?” she mused, still watching.
“As an example of her kindness, we have Pretty, here. Many would have passed a half-frozen, broken cat in the snowy weather,” Charles continued. “Lady Wendt ordered the carriage to stop and rescued the feline.” He nodded towards Pretty, who stood at his feet while he spoke.
“What will happen to my cats?” she turned to Thomas. “I just realized I had not provided for them in my will.”
“You still have time to alter that,” he reminded her. “There is more.”
She listened to her butler talk about her generous nature for five more minutes.What motivated him to notice all of those things?Most servants paid her little heed. He had been a soldier when he applied for the position. He told her his father had not done well with their family finances and he needed to work. That was over five years ago. Bentley never questioned her motives, and she never heard him utter a word against anyone. Rather, he seemed to see the good in all the servants. She sniggered. Perhapsthatwas why there was so much turnover. He believed in giving everyone a chance. Warmth spread through her at the thought.
When Charles finished, he placed a small bouquet of red roses atop her casket before stepping back.
