Elaine
They were a quiet bunch at breakfast the following morning. Elaine’s father had joined them for the first time since arriving home from London. Aunt Rose had not. Too tired, Uncle Charles had informed them.
Yesterday’s trip to Tintagel had been too much. Aunt Rose worked very hard at pretending she was as strong as anyone. In truth, her frail body could not tolerate so much exertion.
Elaine could not help but feel partially responsible for her aunt’s condition; she’d wandered off and prolonged the outing. But if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have found her brother’s remains. And if she hadn’t found his remains, perhaps her father wouldn’t be sitting here with them to break his fast—his first real step at reconciliation.
Uncle Charles filled a plate with more food than her aunt would eat in a week.
“We have servants for that,” her mother said. “There’s no need for you to carry trays of food about the house.”
“I’m happy to do it. How else will she know I still love her?” He turned his head and gave her father a nod. Uncle Charles poured a cup of tea and set it on the tray. “I shall be upstairs if I am needed.”
“Do give my sister our best,” her mother said.
He tipped his head and departed, carefully balancing the tray in his arms.
Elaine went back to her breakfast. Poor Aunt Rose. Her constitution was so weak. Every infection, no matter how insignificant to one of stout health, caused a great deal of suffering in her aunt.
“Harriet.” Her father’s voice cut into the stillness of the breakfast room like shattering glass. “I will be going to the vicar this morning to make arrangements for the interment of John. Perhaps you would care to join me?”
Elaine’s buttered bread hung halfway to her mouth. The recovery of John’s body must have affected him more than he let on to be speaking so suddenly to her mother like this, after so many weeks of silence.
Her mother stared at her father for a few moments, then seemed to come to herself, scooping a spoonful of preserves and scraping it with great force across her bread. The bread tore from the pressure, but that did not stop her mother from spreading.
Elaine was one person too many in this room. She put down her food and wiped her mouth. “Excuse me.” She scooted away from the table and made a dash for the door. Once through, she closed it softly but couldn’t bring herself to leave.
She leaned in, pressing her ear to the frame.
Her mother spoke first. “I don’t think—”
“I insist.” Her father’s words were soft but firm.
No one said more. Leastways not in the minute she stood waiting.
This was progress. An olive branch, contrived though it may be.
To her knowledge, no other attempt had been made by either parent to bridge the gap of silence. They were stuck with each other so long as they both shall live. Wouldn’t the years to come be more bearable if they could find at least enough ground for civility?
She pushed off the wall without making a sound and started toward the back door, carefully avoiding the kitchen and store room, where the bones of her brother still lay. A handful of daffodils would be just the thing to brighten her aunt’s room.
Elaine gathered up her cutting shears and a basket and stepped out into the garden. She took a deep breath. The fresh air always cleared her mind. She made her way through the rows of hedges and shrubs, taking her time filling her basket until the sound of scuffling came from the other side of the hawthorns. A badger, most likely.
She set her basket down and climbed a few steps up on the stile. Crouched behind a large bracken sat two lads, one with white hair and the other with red.
“Willy White-Top and Sandy Will.”
They looked up at her, rabbit-eyed.
“What are you doing in my hedges?”
The two lads scurried to their feet. They each elbowed the other, trying to push their friend forward. At last, Willy White-Top spoke up. “We want ta see the bones.”
For a moment, Elaine could not speak. As if her brother’s remains were some sort of warped entertainment. Her fright must have shown on her face, for the boys backed away.
As appalling as the idea was, it would give her a chance to get them in the house and fed a proper meal. She could have Cook pack up some extras to take home to their families. Surely whatever parents or siblings they had would be as starved as them.
“Did you bring your ball?” she asked.
Willy White-Top wedged it out of his pocket.
“Good. Maybe you’ll have a go with the bat after. Yes?”
Their eyes lit up. For all their troubles, they were still just children wanting to play. She wished these boys were the only waifs with nothing to live on, but she was not that naive. The workhouses were full of families—mothers with no husband to provide any kind of sustenance to her children. She would do what she could for these little ones.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll show you the bones.”
They seemed more relieved than anything. Perhaps they were also hoping for some food since the last time they were here, Lord Chiverton scared them off before they’d had a chance to play with the bat or take a bite to eat.
They climbed over the stile, which was really just a few stones protruding out of the hedge wall. She started off toward the house, the two boys following dutifully behind her.
After about twenty paces, she stopped. “La, I forgot my flowers.”
She turned back, but Sandy Will was already running for them. “I’ll get ’em.” He returned moments later. “’Ere ye go, mum.”
“Thank you.” She took the basket from him. “I’m such a ninny sometimes. You should have seen me in London. My mother was constantly reminding me of what I had forgot.”
“You been ta London, mum?” Willy White-Top asked.
“I have.”
“What’s it like?”
“London?”
The boys nodded.
“It is busy, busy, busy. Morning visits. Parties and concerts at night. Balls. Barely a moment to one’s self. No peace and quiet at all.”
The Williams looked at her, heads askew. Concerts and balls were likely not what young boys were interested in.
She could do better. “The streets are crowded with people and horses. You can’t cross the road without a carriage wheel threatening your foot or a horse puffing its wet breath down your neck.” This had them staring wide-eyed, so she went on. “Vendors selling every sort of thing. Spices from the East Indies. Swords of the Saracen. Piemen who’ll toss a penny for a pie. Regiments in uniform marching here and there, ready to fight the French. And the theater. Stories of adventure, mystery, and murder all played out on a grand stage.”
The lads walked with her as she spoke, their eyes turned faraway as her descriptions played out in their minds. She may have overdone it a bit, but what did it matter? If they ever happened to London, they would learn well enough for themselves.
Elaine opened the door to the kitchen, and the boys followed her through into the heat of the baking bread and capon roasting over the fire. In a small alcove set off from the kitchen was the store room with its large oak table covered with a shawl. How small the remains of her brother appeared underneath the embroidered silk. It was hard to believe all that was left in this world of John lay underneath it.
Cook looked up, surprised at Elaine’s sudden appearance—accompanied by two waifish lads.
“Something hearty for the boys, please, Cook. And perhaps something sweet.”
The cook gave Elaine a quick nod, eyeing the Williams. She went to the pantry and started sorting through the foods.
Elaine guided the boys to the shrouded table. Before lifting the cloth, she gave them a stern look. “This is my brother, mind. Do you know what that means?”
Willy White-Top nodded, but Sandy Will shook his head.
“It means that this is more than just bones. It was the son of Mr. Cardinham, master of the house, lord of the manor. My brother and best friend.”
“Be respectful,” Willie White-Top said.
“That’s right.” Elaine lifted the cloth, exposing the stark whiteness of all that was left of John. He had been the brightest part of her life throughout her childhood. It seemed fitting now that his bones shone brighter than anything else in the dim kitchen.
Sandy Will let out a breath of awe. He leaned up against the table, his eyes roving over the remains. Elaine had expected Willy White-Top would be the one to oo and ah over the bones, but he held back, looking on from afar.
Sandy Will lifted his hand, ready to stroke the long white limbs of John’s arm. He stopped and looked up at Elaine. She nodded. Why not. John would not have minded. In fact, he would have been the first to gather up the cricket gear and take the boys out for a game.
Sandy Will let his fingers gently run along the bones. Hard to believe these sticks and knobs were the framework of life. The remains of John’s clothes—his boots, the tatters of his coat, the buttons from his breeches—lay organized in a neat pile beside the bones. Her mother must have done that, or perhaps Mr. Winkleigh.
Willy White-Top moved closer, following his friend’s lead. He too raised a finger and very gently touched the skull.
Elaine turned away. This was not how she wanted to remember her brother—a relic of bone. A sideshow curiosity.
Cook had returned from the pantry and was bundling pasties, cold ham, and currant cakes. Elaine went over to help, adding a few extra cakes to each packet. Cook expertly folded them up, working the napkin into a simple knot to keep it together. With two sons in the mines, she well knew how to tie a supper up for transport.
Elaine returned to the table and covered the bones. “That’s enough of that. Cook’s got something for you.”
Sandy Will had gone white as whey and stared at Elaine as if she was a ghost. Willie White-Top looked down at his bare feet.
“What is it?” Elaine asked.
Sandy Will shook his head. He took a bundle from Cook and gave them both a bow.
Willy White-Top followed suit, then they both disappeared out the kitchen door. Perhaps they weren’t as ready to see the bones as they’d thought. They were only children, after all.
“Don’t you want to use the bat?” she called after them, but they did not look back. It could have been the excitement of food that had overtaken the lure of cricket.
Elaine leaned against the door frame, watching the Williams dash across the lawn and disappear behind the holly tree. At least they would be well fed in their beds tonight. If they had beds. Perhaps tomorrow she’d walk into Camelford to find out whom they belonged to.
She snipped the stems of the daffodils and arranged them into a willow-patterned vase. Not quite as perfect as the flower arrangements she’d seen in London, with all their roses and tulips from the hot houses, but it was bright and cheerful and filled the room with sweet aromas of the living.
The stairs creaked like always as she climbed to Aunt Rose’s room. After Elaine’s quick knock on the door, Uncle Charles’s head appeared.
“Elaine, come in.” He opened the door wider.
Her aunt was lying in bed, her face drained of color, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked paler than ever. Uncle Charles had claimed she was only a little bit under the weather; clearly, he’d underplayed the severity of his wife’s illness.
“I brought you some flowers. Thought it might brighten your room.”
“They’re lovely. Thank you.” Aunt Rose tried to sit up, but Uncle Charles laid a hand on her shoulder to keep her down. Uncle Charles was ever her willing servant—until it came to her health. Then he would not budge.
Elaine sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“I am well enough.” Her voice rasped and squeaked as if it fluttered by. “Just my usual bout. I’m sure it will pass in a few days.”
Elaine’s eyes went to Uncle Charles’s for the real story. He smiled and nodded. “It will pass. It always does.”
She did not believe him for a moment. Something more was going on here.
“I have no choice but to recover quickly,” Aunt Rose said. “I am determined not to miss your wedding.”
That gave her aunt only four days to recuperate. Perhaps she should speak to Lord Chiverton about postponing.
“What are they going to do with John’s remains?” Aunt Rose asked.
“Father and Mother have gone down to the vicar to see about getting him buried in the family tomb.”
“They went together?” Uncle Charles seemed quite pleased by this. “That is something.”
Aunt Rose nodded, but a fit of coughing kept her from speaking. Uncle Charles held a teacup to her mouth, and she took a few sips. It seemed to calm her lungs.
Betsy knocked on the open door. “Excuse me, Miss Cardinham, Mrs. Kemp is here and wishes to speak with you.” Betsy dipped her head. “She’s in the drawing room.”
Elaine leaned over Aunt Rose and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “Get well,” she said.