The congregation getting to its feet jolted Dahlia back to reality. She followed their movements without thinking. She filed out of the church with the rest of the mourners, stopping mechanically to hug Sir Randal. She had no words for him, nor he any for her.
Dahlia stood meekly as Lady Sweet’s casket was loaded onto the carriage. She allowed her father to help her into their chaise and they joined the procession that made its way to the glen behind the Sweet’s house where her friend would be laid to rest. As her father joined Sir Randal and the other men who would carry her casket from the carriage to the grave, Dahlia joined Colonel Parkinson and the two made their way to a knoll close by that elevated them slightly above the assemblage. The Colonel positioned his bagpipes in preparation for the final song of Lady Sweet’s funeral.
Dahlia watched the proceedings below as if they occurred a hundred miles away. Above, the clouds gathered and the sky darkened. ‘Finally,’ she thought approvingly. ‘The universe acknowledges our loss and reacts.’
James had seen the procession leaving the church and urged his mount to catch up to it at the very rear. He had seen Dahlia walk away with the Colonel, but did not follow her. Instead, he walked up beside Peter and Tom. Both acknowledged him with a nod, and Tom gave his friend a grateful slap on the back. Josephine caught his eye and gave him a wink, then inclined her head in the direction of the hill where Dahlia waited. James looked in that direction and saw Dahlia look up at the sky. He, too, noted the cloud cover was nearly complete. A gentle mist rolled into the valley. Dahlia and the Colonel were momentarily shrouded by a wisp of a low cloud.
As the vicar said prayers, Dahlia tried not to think angry thoughts about God. This day was wrong. The reason for her to be here was wrong. Lady Sweet’s death was wrong. Dahlia saw Sir Randal holding Randy’s hand, both of them standing in front of the rectangular hole in the ground. A movement behind them caught her eye and she saw Edward fidgeting just behind the Sweets. He looked uncomfortable. Beside him, Alyce looked grim. Her eyes were glassy, and Dahlia believed her grief was real. Lady Sweet had tried to make an effort to befriend her. Next to Alyce was William Standford. He did not look grim, or even solemn. He looked…bored. It seemed every time she encountered the man, she disliked him more. She supposed he had to be here, for appearance’s sake, even though he had never really been good friends with the woman that was so dear to Dahlia’s heart.
Dahlia turned away from the Standfords, not willing to see anyone that was not genuinely distraught by the day’s events. She wanted everyone and everything to mirror her own emotions. She noted again the low cloud cover and the miniature wisps of mists floating across the glen like ghosts. She shuddered at the thought. She heard Colonel Parkinson position his pipes and saw the casket, covered with white roses, being readied to be lowered into the ground. She looked at Colonel Parkinson, and he nodded back at her. He started the slow, mournful introduction to Amazing Grace, as Dahlia waited for her cue to begin.
James heard the bagpipes resonate throughout the glen. The low clouds trapped the sounds close to the ground. When Dahlia began to sing, her voice seemed to flow down from the knoll and wrap around the mourners as if she were singing from right next to him. The voice was as perfect as ever, but in it he heard her pain and his heart ached. She was so young to have lost both her mother and her closest friend. She had, from the start, impressed him as being wise beyond her years, but he also knew that intellect did not always keep lockstep with emotions in terms of maturity. When he lost his father, he knew – as the oldest son – that he was expected to be the man of the family. He immediately took on as much responsibility as possible, helping his mother with his siblings and with repairs around the house, but at night, he had still cried into his pillow for weeks after his father’s death. He had assumed an outward mask that the world perceived as a very solemn, hardworking young man when inside, he yearned to be a carefree boy once again with his father to guide him on life’s journey. On this reflection, James considered that perhaps that is why he behaved so raucously in London. Once there, his only duty was to do well in his classes and his uncle would pay his way. Of his allowance, he sent a portion to his mother on a regular basis. He took off the mask he had worn for years and started to have the reckless fun that had been cut short with his father’s passing. As he learned that there was little he could do to actually please his uncle, he stopped trying. He tested the boundaries of his uncle’s limits, and from there on he had lived at the edge of this defined territory.
James wondered how the tragedy of Lady Sweet’s death would affect Dahlia. He stared at her, wondering if she had seen him in the crowd. He had not had time to write her of his coming. She looked very slight next to the Colonel’s imposing figure. She ended the song, but her voice seemed to linger on moments longer, buoyed by the mist. The vicar completed the ceremony, and slowly, one by one, the crowd turned and left. James watched as Peter took hold of Sir Randal’s arm and gently, but firmly, urged him away from the grave of his wife and back to the waiting carriages.
Dahlia and the Colonel started to walk down the knoll to rejoin their families at the carriages. Dahlia noted that the bagpipes made no sound as the Colonel folded them up, smiling inwardly at this expertise. She remembered her brothers trying to play them when they were younger. Every movement they made with the pipes had elicited some unintended whine as if the instrument were insulted that such a novice should handle them. A short laugh escaped her at the memory of seeing her brothers try to handle the multiple wooden pipes as she poked at the bag to add to the cacophony and confusion. The moment she heard herself laugh out loud, Dahlia’s brow furrowed as she wondered how she could think of anything so mundane – and amusing – at such a time as this. Her greatest friend in the world, her confidant and surrogate mother, had just been laid to rest and here she was thinking of unruly bagpipes and childhood diversions. She looked up at the Colonel quickly. He had heard her laugh, too.
“I,” she started, feeling the need to explain herself. “Your expertise handling the pipes made me think back years to when my brothers tried to play them. They were so inept, as if the pipes had a mind of their own and willfully disobeyed them. Forgive me, Colonel. I’m not sure why that should come to mind at such a time as this.” Her face colored with embarrassment.
The Colonel did not reproach her. He merely nodded, putting his arm around her shoulder. “It is the mind’s defense against despair, child. The human brain can only handle so much at a time. It always struck me as odd how soldiers can lose their companions in battle in the morning, and joke about anything at all in the evening around the campfires. I came to think of this process like a lake, that rises with the spring rains. The banks can only handle so much before the water must find an outlet. If the torrential rains persist, it finds an outlet and forms a stream to find a balance again within its banks. The stream may form a small pond where you can visit it and appreciate its tranquility at a later time, or it may dissipate into the land altogether. Regardless, to try and keep all the water in the lake during such a storm is futile. We cannot hope to achieve success in such an endeavor any more than we can hope to focus on pain and regret without reprieve. We would drown in our own sorrow.”
Dahlia considered her neighbor’s words carefully. She also considered how she and her brothers had often thought of the Colonel as a bit of a buffoon, with his snorty laugh and juvenile jokes. They had never really considered the trials he had endured to achieve the rank of Colonel, and she now thought she understood his need to revert to childish antics to elicit their laughter to accompany his. He understood, as they had not, the need to laugh as often as possible to keep the mind’s fiends at bay. The impetus for the laughter was irrelevant – a sophomoric prank was equal to the wittiest pun if it diverted one’s thoughts. She understood this now, and recast the memory of her brothers and their handling of the pipes like a slippery, noisy octopus as a life buoy that she could cling to, at least momentarily, as she battled the sto
rmy waters in the middle of the lake the Colonel described.
Dahlia tucked her hand in the crook of the Colonel’s arm. “Thank you, Colonel.” He smiled down at her, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
The dispersing crowd was devoid of the usual chatter and jovial farewells. Only a steady, low note of a bassoon in Dahlia’s mind accompanied the shuffling of feet, clanking of harnesses, and swish of black taffeta as the ladies were ushered into the carriages. Every time a carriage door was shut, it sounded like the thud of the lid of a coffin – succinct and final. Colonel Parkinson’s arm was no longer entwined with her own. She noted he was helping Mrs. Parkinson into their chaise and wondered at what point they had separated. For a moment she felt completely alone. Black-clad figures swirled around her without touching her, enveloping her in a morbid vortex. She turned in the opposite direction as the revolving mass of blackness, hoping to get her bearings. Someone must be waiting for her – her father, one of her brothers, Lady Sweet…terror welled inside of her as realization dawned that she would never again encounter Lady Sweet’s face in a crowd. She felt lost, cold, and alone – and slightly nauseous. Dahlia’s breath became short and she felt the panic of the lapping waters of the lake of sorrow reaching up her neck and threatening to pull her down into their depths.
A hand at the base of her spine stopped the spinning and she felt a comforting warmth from the strong fingers. She teetered slightly as the rotating scene around her abruptly halted. Her knees gave way, but she did not fall. As the world came back into focus she found herself in James’ arms. Her father and brothers were all around her, and somewhere close behind her she heard Miss McElroy fussing about getting her home.
James set her down gently in the carriage and sat beside her. Her brothers and Miss McElroy all crammed in with them. Dahlia felt James’ arm still behind her back so she was cradled against him. She vaguely heard something about a horse being yelled to the driver, but her mind was engaged in a debate about whether or not she should be leaning into Mr. Kent or trying to fight gravity and her own preferences by sitting up straight as was proper. She decided to err against decorum and relaxed into the warm strength of James’ body as the carriage rocked back and forth on its way back to Talbot Hall. Somewhere in her brain were fleeting thoughts of multiple chaperones in the carriage and a small voice whispering to her that they could worry about proper protocols. The last thought she remembered was questioning whether that small voice was her own or that of Lady Sweet. It would be that practical sort of advice her friend would have suggested at a time like this.
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The fog cleared Dahlia’s mind, replaced by the dim twilight peering into her room. She sat up slowly in her bed. Realization came quickly. Lady Sweet was gone, and would never return. They had buried her today. Dahlia had given her tribute in the form of her music. She felt drained, as if her performances had wrung all emotion out of her like Glenda’s strong hands twisting all the moisture out of a rag. Colonel Parkinson was not a buffoon, but a very wise man she should talk with more. James was here at Talbot Hall; he had been the one to stop the madness of a world turned upside down. She had needed him, and he had come.
Dahlia heard voices below, even muted laughter. The Talbots had needed Miss McElroy and James to come and make them forget their immediate grief. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for bringing both of them into their lives – before she remembered she was angry at God. However, the anger no longer held any strength, like a powerful, tearing wind that dies down into a gentle breeze. She supposed this was resignation. As much as she hated the inevitability of fate, she could not change it. The death of a loved one, as all-encompassing as such an event was to an individual, did not stop the world from turning. It did not stop one’s own life from continuing on. As Dahlia had experienced earlier that day with Colonel Parkinson on the knoll, it did not stop one from laughing. It did not stop the love she felt for her family and friends any more than the tides would stop to pay tribute to the life of one who had passed on. Thousands of people died every day around the world. Millions of people had died since time immemorial. Yet civilizations continued to thrive and expand. Lovers continued to find each other, children continued to be born, and the cycle of life circled on and on like a runaway train without regard to the passengers getting on and off. The only sense Dahlia could make of it was that death was an inevitable part of life. A flourishing spring, with all its new growth and colors and beauty, always followed winter no matter how harsh the cold.
The week following the news of Lady Sweet’s death had been like a winter so frigid and dark that it numbed the body and the senses and threatened never to end. Dahlia swung her legs over the side of the bed and forced them to carry her to her dressing table. She smoothed her hair, re-pinning the tendrils that had escaped during the course of this dreadful day. Standing up, she smoothed her dress, held her head high, and went downstairs in search of signs of spring.
Chapter 54
Dahlia’s father had not accompanied his children and guests home. Instead, he had stayed with his friend Randal. A number of the county folk had gone back to the Sweets after the funeral. Peter watched his friend during the long afternoon and saw himself, years before, after Penelope’s death. He watched Randal nod, hug, and thank people for their well-meant sentiments while wishing them all miles away. Poor Alyce Standford was going on and on about when she had heard the news and how she had been all alone as William had gone out of town unexpectedly and she didn’t know where. Peter didn’t know if he felt more sorry for her or for Randal. Some people just didn’t know how to react or interact with someone who had just suffered a tragic loss as Randal had. Alyce couldn’t possibly think Randal cared that she was alone, or that her brother had left without informing her of where he went.
“He didn’t come back until the next day,” Alyce droned on. “And Edward had gone into Cirencester again. I’ve no idea what business he has there but it kept him there the whole day!”
Peter had finally interceded on behalf of his friend, moving Alyce gently on to the buffet. Then, he continued to watch his friend go through the motions of the event automatically, like the engineered movements of the ever increasing numbers of machines cropping up in the world. He knew he would likewise watch as rage replaced the shock and grief. This would come later – in a few days or weeks or even hours. The number of times Randal’s glass was filled by anyone who noticed it was empty – first by wine, then by whiskey – rose in inverse proportion to the number of guests remaining in the parlor. By the time it was just the two of them, Peter wondered if his friend would simply collapse in a drunken stupor. Such mercy was not to be his. Peter saw slivers of the anger starting to emerge. First came the questions: why did the carriage overturn? Why didn’t he go with his wife on this trip? Why didn’t the driver take the turn slower? How was he ever going to manage without his sweet Sharon?
Peter had no more answers than anyone had for him when Penelope was found at the bottom of the ravine. At least there appeared to be no mysterious circumstances to Lady Sweet’s death that would plague Randal’s mind for years to come. The fact that the driver had fallen and hit his head on a rock, causing his own death, was an unhappy coincidence that allowed no precise answers to how the accident had happened, but there was nothing sinister about that – only bad luck. Peter thought perhaps it was a better end for the driver than the alternative of living and having Randal beat him senseless as the perceived cause of his wife’s unfortunate demise.
When the grief, exhaustion, and spirit-induced stupor finally put an end to his friend’s unrelenting questioning, Peter helped Randal to bed. He went to the guest room set up for him. He fell asleep as he did most nights, talking softly to Penelope. He started the habit the night of her funeral, as a way of holding on to her. He would often recount the highlights of the day to her as they had done every night before she had died. He would tell her how her children were doing or news from the farm - anything that
came to mind. They had always had an easy way of talking about everything and nothing.
“I know Sharon is with you, Penny. Tell her I’m with Randy and will do my best to get him through this,” he whispered into the dark room. “I also know you’re worried about our Dahlia. She has her Mr. Kent, and Josephine. I know you know about her,” he laughed quietly. “You can’t miss hearing that woman in this world or the next!” He thought Penny would have liked the older singer, despite their obvious differences in their temperaments. He remembered how serene his wife always was: constantly demure in composure, but strong as steel inside. Cool on the surface, but with a fiery passion at the core. He saw this combination in his daughter, too.
“Lord help Mr. Kent when he sees the inner strength in Dahlia,” Peter said aloud. It was one of the attributes he loved best about his wife – until her resolve contradicted his own. He smiled as he remembered the first time Penelope’s métier was exhibited against him. He thought of the young Kent, and was pleased that he had come from London for the funeral to support his daughter. The boy seemed earnest in his attentions to Dalia, but Peter wasn’t quite sure of her feelings for him.
“She’s young yet, Penny. Not sixteen,” he mused. She was not the flirty, inconsistent type of girl he observed in town, but Kent was the only young man in whom she had ever seemed to take an interest. “I know,” Peter smiled, hearing his wife’s arguments in his mind. “You told me you knew I was the one the moment you met me. True you were, too, my dear.”
Feeling at peace as he always was after his imaginary discourse with his wife, Peter wondered whether he should suggest the same practice to Randal. He decided against it. Despite how it had helped him when he first became a widower, he imagined how he would tell Randy that he had talked to his dead wife every night for a decade. “Would not put my mental stability in a good light. I suppose every man must find his own way to cope.” With that last comment to his wife, Peter fell asleep.
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