Mama has taken to mourning with a passion. I think perhaps she was born to be a widow. The word slips over her head and fits her as neatly and as perfectly as the most costly gown in her wardrobe.
By midday, she has had every mirror in the house covered in black crepe. The pendulum has been removed from the long-case clock in the hall and the time has been stopped at six, the nearest hour to Papa’s passing. She has instructed that every window in the entire household is to be covered. Not a chink of natural light is to penetrate Lions House. She has banished the sunshine until further notice.
I slip through the house unseen. No one has bothered to lock my door. No one seems to remember I exist. Everyone is too busy dealing with the business of death.
The dressmaker comes and Mama orders a selection of modestly cut gowns made in the finest of black silks. She also chooses a dozen black veils of intricate lace and a selection of exquisite mourning jewellery fashioned from the finest quality jet. She sends William to purchase a sheaf of writing paper, edged in thick black, with matching envelopes. I watch through the door as she sits with a straight back at her desk in the parlour, scratching with a pen across one sheet of paper and then another. The notes are sent from the house to all those of any importance in Bridgwater, to inform them of Papa’s death.
Eli will not come out of his room. I have knocked a few times, but all he will say is, ‘Go away, Alice,’ in a weary old man’s voice. I wander down to the kitchens. No one notices me there either. It is all hustle and bustle. Cook is rolling out a rich, yellow slab of pastry on the kitchen table. Some other girl is polishing crystal glasses. And another is drawing hot water from the copper and setting aside clean rags. It is as though nothing terrible has happened at all. The only difference between now and before is that all the servants are wearing black armbands.
It is my fault, I think. He is only dead because of me.
I stand with my back to a wall and watch all the comings and goings. The smell of hot fruit – gooseberries perhaps – drifts towards me. But instead of making my mouth water, the green sweetness makes my stomach lurch. I think I will never eat again.
Sarah scurries into the kitchen. She bobs quickly when she sees me standing there. Then she hurries over to the kitchen fire and fills a bowl with water from the large kettle and picks up a pile of washcloths and clean rags. For the laying out, I think I hear her say to Cook. Missus has asked me to help. She passes by me again on her way out, but now her face is rigid with concentration and she doesn’t acknowledge me again. I follow her through the house and up the stairs. She walks carefully, steadying the bowl of water in her hands. The bundles of cloths are thrust under her armpit. It is only when we reach Papa’s bedchamber that I understand what she is about to do.
‘Are you coming in, miss?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘I can’t,’ I whisper.
She tuts in sympathy then nods at the door. ‘Would you mind opening it for me, miss?’
I do as she asks and she slips past me and into Papa’s chamber. The smells of lavender and burning wax coil out of the room. And another smell too: the warm comfort of Papa’s tobacco. I find that I cannot close the door on it. So I leave it open, but just a snatch, and I stand still and watch.
I see Mama first. She is hovering at the foot of Papa’s bed. Then I see William. He is stripping Papa of his nightgown from under the modest covering of a sheet. He pulls the nightgown over Papa’s head and hands it to Sarah. I watch, with my heart sliding around in my chest, as William then packs freshly laundered rags into Papa’s mouth and deep into his nostrils. I let out a breath. Then Mama ushers Sarah to the bed. She brings with her the bowl of water and bundle of washcloths.
Sarah wets one of the cloths and wrings out the excess water. Then she reaches under the sheet and begins to wash Papa’s body. She washes him from his neck down to his feet and not once does she baulk at her task. She might as well be wiping down a table. I can’t help but wonder what it must be like to touch Papa now. Is he still warm? Or is his body already cold and stiff like the pig carcasses I sometimes see hanging outside the butchers on Friarn Street? I shiver in disgust, but I can’t help feel a pang of envy that Sarah is able to be so close to him.
William brings a set of clothes over to the bed and with Sarah’s help he dresses Papa for the final time. Between them, they put Papa in a white shirt with a high, starched collar and then they bend his arms into a low-cut embroidered vest. They pull a pair of tapered woollen trousers onto Papa’s useless legs and then they button him into a matching frock coat with velvet lapels. Finally, William ties a black cravat softly at Papa’s throat and tucks Papa’s gold pocket watch into his vest.
I swallow hard. Papa looks so handsome now. Except his hair is ruffled from where William and Sarah moved him. I want to go and smooth it back. It is the least I can do for him. I push at the door gently. It whines at the hinges. Mama whips her head around and she fixes me with a glare. I haven’t forgotten about you, she says, without even opening her mouth. Then, as though she has read my mind, she walks to Papa’s side and smoothes his hair flat again.