Guiltily she put such thoughts from her mind, but as she glanced at her brother, the irreverence persisted.
Poor Frankie. He sat dutifully between Papa and Fannie, squirming on his chair, being touched on the knee and reminded of propriety if he slouched or slipped too far forward or perched on the edge of his seat. Frankie was too young to be here. Why burden him with this depressing memory? Tomorrow's funeral would be enough. He slouched, toyed with a button on his suit for two full minutes, and sighed, slumping back. Fannie touched his knee again and he straightened obediently. Emily caught his eye, mimed a kiss, and felt better.
Her gaze moved on to Papa. Each time she'd looked at him today a knot of tears had formed in her throat and she'd wanted to lunge into his arms and pour out her apologies and tell him about her last talk with Mother. Why was it that the one to whom she most needed to offer an olive branch was the one to whom she had scarcely spoken? There had been people around them all day, lending no chance to speak privately. But that was only an excuse, Emily admitted. It was hardest to go to Papa because she loved him most.
She closed her eyes and prayed for strength and made a silent promise to put things right between herself and her father.
She opened her eyes again and watched Tarsy quietly open the door to admit another friend of the family. What a surprise Tarsy was turning out to be, loyal to a fault, quietly greeting mourners and taking their coats, thanking them for coming. And Charles was equally as helpful, greeting neighbors as if he were already one of the family, drawing up chairs for the older women who wanted to pause longer and pray, making sure the stoves were kept stoked with coal.
Reverend Vasseler began another mournful incantation. Emily attempted devoutness but when she closed her eyes the oak seemed harder, the smell of the black dye in her dress seemed poisonous, and she kept wishing she had a watch.
Dear Lord, make me properly mournful about my mother's death. Make me consider it the loss it truly is instead of the fortuity that saved me from marrying Charles today.
At the end of the prayer she opened her eyes to find Tom Jeffcoat standing just inside the parlor door dressed in his sheepskin jacket, doffing his Stetson, gazing at her. Within Emily, alarm and glory set up opposing forces. The emotion she'd been unable to dredge up for lamentation swelled abundantly at the sight of him.
You came.
I wanted to come as soon as I heard.
You mustn't look at me that way.
Your wedding is canceled.
My wedding is canceled.
Tarsy came forward to greet Tom, whispering a thank-you on behalf of the family, taking his jacket and hat. They spoke together, low, and Tarsy touched his hand before slipping away. Charles formally escorted him through the candlelit room to the front tier of chairs, where Papa was the only one to rise.
"Edwin, I'm so sorry," Tom offered, squeezing Papa's hand protractedly.
"Thank you, Tom. We all are."
"I feel like an outsider here. I didn't know her well."
"Nonsense, Tom, we're all happy you came. Mrs. Walcott was fond of you."
"Don't worry about your horses tomorrow. I'll see to them if you like."
"Why, thank you, Tom. I appreciate that."
"And my rigs are yours for anyone who needs a ride to the graveyard. I'll have them ready to go."
Edwin squeezed Tom's arm.
Tom moved on to Frankie, extending a hand as he would to an adult. "Frankie, I'm awfully sorry about your ma."
"Me too … sorta."
"If she's in heaven, you know what they say about heaven." Tom leaned near Frankie, daring a brief note of lightness for the boy's benefit. "You got to keep on behaving or she'll know about it."
"Yessir," Frankie replied respectfully.
Tom's eyes softened as he moved on. "Fannie." He took her hand in both of his and kissed her cheek. "My condolences, Fannie. If there's anything I can do—anything—all you have to do is say so."
"Thank you, Tom."
He straightened and moved to the last family member, standing above her for some seconds before speaking. "And Emily," he said somberly, extending his two hands. She placed hers in them and felt the contact warm a path straight to her heart. His eyes, dark with concern and love, fixed upon hers, bringing a momentary suspension of grief, a delight in the memory of kissing him only a short time ago. Her heart swelled, and she felt healed. I needed this so badly, just to see your face, to touch you. The pressure on her knuckles threatened to change their shape. Her mother's admonition came back, granting sanction to the intense feelings she had for him, but Charles and Tarsy looked on so she repressed all outward displays and sat gazing up at him formally.
"Tom," she said quietly, the mere pronunciation of his name easing a deep need to rise into his arms.
"I'm sorry," he whispered fervently, and she understood that he spoke not merely of her mother's death, but of the fact that he could not embrace her as he wished, and that in the days ahead he would force a painful break between herself and Charles, that even her friendship with Tarsy would be threatened. There would be difficult confrontations for both of them. But in that moment as they held hands before Josephine Walcott's coffin, the decision was sealed. As if Josephine's death had been a sign for them, they realized nobody but they could correct the course of their lives, and they would. It was only a matter of waiting for the proper time.
* * *
Throughout the night neighbors stayed in shifts, sitting beside whichever family members remained in the parlor while others broke to rest. But little sleep came to Emily during the one- or two-hour respites. When she closed her eyes she saw Papa, hurt and mournful; or Charles, true and trusting; or Tarsy, noble and supportive; or Tom, offering with his eyes what he dared not speak aloud.
By dawn everyone looked haggard and drawn. The last of the neighbors went home, leaving the family members to tiptoe about the silent rooms and dress for the funeral.
At the funeral itself Emily and Tom remained decorous when they met. They encountered one another at the graveyard, across a snowswept knoll separated by most of the residents of Sheridan. He gave her a slight, formal bow, which she returned, but he remained carefully expressionless when, during the dropping of the symbolic spadeful of dirt, she gave way to weeping and Charles bolstered her with a supportive arm.
Back at the house, where mourners gathered for a repast, they bumped into each other in the dining room archway, he with a plate in his hand, she with a guest's coat in hers.
"Tom," she said simply.
His gaze took in the purple shadows beneath her eyes, but he remained properly formal. "Emily."
"Thank you for lending your carriages for the funeral."
"No thanks are necessary, you know that."
"And for taking care of Papa's stock today."
With a finlike motion of his palm he made the help seem of little consequence.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Terrible. Relieved and feeling guilty about it."
"I know the feeling."
"Tom, I have to go greet people at the door."
"Sure, I understand. Is that someone's coat? I'll take it if you like."
"Oh, thank you. You can put it upstairs on any of the beds."
He took it from her and headed away, but she called, "Tom?"
He turned back to find the doleful expression softened in her eyes. "I love you," she said quietly.
His decorum suffered a near-collapse. His Adam's apple bobbled and his lips dropped open. His eyes widened with a smitten expression as unmistakable as the tinge of pink that painted his cheeks. But he only nodded formally and turned away with the feelings still churning in his blood. As he mounted the stairs with a stranger's coat, he pondered 365 days of mourning and damned every one of them.
* * *
The house had emptied of all but the family. Dusk had fallen and a pale paring of a moon hovered above the southeast horizon. The parlor was back in order, the dining room nea
t, the lanterns lit. Footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the empty house, so nobody moved much. Speaking felt disrespectful so nobody said much. Eating seemed decadent so nobody ate much. The four who had laid their loved one to rest clustered in the kitchen, experiencing a disquieting reluctance to be alone.
Fannie sat in a hard chair, silently reading a book of poems. Frankie sprawled in the rocker, chin to chest, thoughtlessly enlarging a hole in the knee of his everyday pants. Emily spiritlessly shifted a saltshaker back and forth across the tabletop. Edwin stood at the window, staring out with melancholy listlessness. He sighed—a deep, burdened sigh—and reached toward the coat peg for his jacket.
"I think I'll go down to the stable, look in on the horses," he told the others. "I won't be gone long." The door opened and closed, sending a cold puff of winter air into the room.
Emily stared after him.
Fannie raised her eyes from the page. "Why don't you go with him?" she suggested.
The salt shaker tipped over as Emily thrust herself from her chair, grabbed a jacket, and ran into the crisp dusk, calling, "Papa, wait!"
Edwin turned, surprised, and watched her jog down the snowy path toward him. Reaching him, she came up short, closing her throat button, then stuffing her hands into her pockets. "I'll walk with you," she offered quietly. The moment lengthened while they studied each other uncertainly.
"All right," he answered, turning toward town as she joined him. They walked without touching, Edwin studying the horizon, Emily watching her feet. They had mourned together, had hugged and held and consoled one another. But the subject of Fannie remained unsettled between them. How difficult it was to unravel a lifetime's snarls.
At last Emily took Edwin's arm and pressed close against it. Silently, he glanced down at her while they continued walking. Edwin drew a deep, ragged sigh. "Should have a nice clear day tomorrow," he predicted in a conspicuously gruff voice.
"Yes…" She looked up, too. "Cold but clear."
Tomorrow's weather was the last thing on their minds. They walked on with arms linked as it used to be.
In time she took the plunge. "Papa?"
"Yes?"
"I think I've grown up a fair bit through all this."
"Yes, I imagine you have. Sometimes growing up can hurt a lot, can't it?"
"Yes, it can."
Any tears that slipped from Edwin's and Emily's eyes did so without the other seeing. They moved on in silence for some time before Edwin remarked as if in summation, "I did love your mother, you know. And I suppose she loved me, too, in her own way. But we had trouble feeling close to one another."
"I know. She told me."
"I assumed she had, that day you came downstairs and offered to help Fanny get supper on the table."
"Yes, that was the day."
"What else did your mother tell you?"
"Everything. About you and Fannie, and how you loved her before you married Mother. And how angry you got when Mother wanted to bring Fannie here."
Emily paused before finishing more quietly, "And that I must accept Fannie when you marry her."
Edwin covered Emily's hand on his elbow, and squeezed it with his wide, gloved hand. He fixed his attention on the street ahead while asking, "Would you mind?"
Their gazes met. They stopped walking. "Not at all. I love her, too."
"And would you mind if an old man gives you a hug right here in the middle of Loucks Street?"
"Oh, Papa…" They moved as one against each other, Emily seizing his sturdy neck and pressing her cheek against his graying beard. "I love you so much."
Smiling, he crushed her in a powerful hug and kissed her temple. "I love you, too, honey." They rocked from side to side until the brunt of their emotions had passed, then Edwin suggested, "Now what do you say we go poke around that livery barn? There's nothing that makes us feel better than the smell of horses and the feel of hay under our feet."
Renewed, they walked on, arm in arm, through the gathering night.
* * *
During the days that followed, the Walcott home took on a sense of disburdening so quick and facile it sometimes left the family members feeling guilty for not missing Josephine more. They wore black armbands but felt less aggrieved than during the months of her suffering. They hung the black crape wreath on the door but within the house contentment settled. Emily and Fannie penned appreciation notes to all who had sat vigil or brought foods, but the delivery of the notes seemed to signal the end of repining.
The house became tranquil as it had never been during its two years as a hospice. Daytime, it thrived under a routine relieved of the strains imposed by one ailing. At night it was blessedly silent without her coughing, allowing everyone the bliss of uninterrupted sleep. Mealtimes became especially pleasant, with the entire household gathered around the kitchen table, sharing tidbits about their days and exchanging bits of town gossip. Evenings held a sense of leisure with all of them clustered in the kitchen for popcorn, or in the parlor for Parcheesi. Sometimes Fannie would play the piano, and Frankie would lie on the floor, leaning on one elbow, and Emily would hum, and Edwin would doze with his head dropped back against his chair.
Charles was conspicuously absent during this time, for, after the funeral, the first time he had suggested coming over in the evening Emily had used as an excuse the responses she and Fannie had to write. The second time he suggested it she told him she needed some time alone with her family, and that when she was ready to spend more time with him she'd let him know.
Charles looked hurt, but complied.
Two weeks went by, and he stayed his distance. Three weeks passed while she felt underhanded and small for not making a clean break with him. But it seemed untimely to do so before she and Tom had the opportunity to cement their own plans. That opportunity had not arisen because he was keeping his formal distance—that distance dictated by the strict rules of Victorian mourning. The situation was stultifying and—in Emily's mind—silly, but shunning those rules was unheard of.
One night, a month after the funeral, the Walcotts were all gathered in the kitchen when Emily glanced up to find Edwin watching Fannie over the top of his newspaper. Fannie was writing a letter, unaware of Edwin's intense regard. She signed her name, laid down the pen, and glanced up. Heat lightning seemed to flash between the two while Emily observed, feeling like a voyeur. Papa's eyes appeared dark with leashed ardor, while Fannie's became polarized in return. For a full ten seconds their feelings were as readable as the signature Fannie had just penned upon the paper.
Fannie recovered first, dropped her flushed gaze, and slipped the letter into an envelope. Giving her attention to waxing it, she inquired, "Would you like me to see after Joey's personal things, Edwin?"
Edwin cleared his throat and raised the newspaper between them once more.
"What had you intended to do with them?"
"Whatever you like. I'm sure there will be keepsakes Emily will want, but the rest we could give to the church. There are always needy people."
"Fine. Give them to the church."
When Fannie turned to discuss the sorting of clothes with Emily, the younger woman found herself absorbed by the impact of what she'd just witnessed. Why, it was no easier for Papa and Fannie to pretend indifference to one another than it would have been for herself and Tom, had he, too, been sitting across the table. Apparently Mama had been right: Papa and Fannie smoldered with an intense attraction for one another, and the only things that kept it dampered was the awesome stringency of propriety.
But as long as they observed the rules of mourning, how could Emily herself hope to forgo them?
Emily was one hundred percent correct about her father. Edwin walked around feeling like a volcano ready to erupt, remaining aloof from Fannie by the sheer dint of will. But he gave himself one consolation—since Josephine's death, he had developed the habit of running home for coffee and a sweet at mid-morning, simply to get a glimpse of Fannie. He never stayed more than ten min
utes, and he never touched her. But he thought about it. And so did she. In the clean, quiet privacy of the house they shared, where she performed all the duties of a wife, save one, they both thought about it.
On the day following their exchange of glances over the newspaper Edwin indulged himself his ten A.M. Fannie-break.
He entered the kitchen to find it empty. On the sideboard a cake cooled—his favorite: brownstone front. He crossed the room and plucked a raisin from it, marring its smooth top, something he wouldn't have dreamed of doing to one of Josie's cakes. He smiled and filched another one, plus a walnut, warm and flavored of cinnamon and cloves from the cake.
Above, he heard sounds from his bedroom and went upstairs to find Fannie kneeling on the floor before the open chifforobe, folding one of Josie's shirtwaists on her lap. He hadn't made any secret of his arrival, clunking up the stairs as noisily as Frankie might. But when he came to a halt in the bedroom doorway, Fannie refrained from acknowledging his presence. She placed the garment aside and began folding another as he circled the foot of the bed and shuffled to a halt behind her, gazing down at her head.
"There's coffee on the back of the stove," she told him, forbidding herself even a backward glance. "And a brownstone front cake."
"I know. I already sampled it. Thank you."
They had never been alone in this room before. Always, Josie had been in it with them. But Josie was gone now.
Edwin dropped a hand to Fannie's pale hair and idly caressed it. For the space of two heartbeats her hands stopped their task, then sensibly continued.
"Am I expected to wait a whole year before making you my wife?"
"I believe so."
"I'll never make it, Fannie."
She drew an unsteady breath and said what had been on her mind for four weeks. "Which is why I feel it would be best if I leave soon."
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