by Leela Ash
Englebert tapped her gently on the arm and woke her from the reverie. The sermon had finished and it was time to make their way outside to the cemetery and Charles’s final resting place. Walking back down the aisle she noticed a young man seated towards the back of the church. He was a handsome man in his early twenties and as she passed their eyes met briefly. Her face flushed as a feeling of desire rippled through her and she moved quickly passed him-her heart beating quickly. Something stirred deep in her breast, a new feeling, and she struggled with the sudden impact the young man was having on her. Christabel had never seen him before and wondered who the stranger could be, but then tried to push him out of her mind; such thoughts were not fitting at her own husband’s funeral.
The air was chilly as they stepped outside. The clouds had been gathering all morning and the sky was dark and brooding. The hired men, the mutes, and the pall bearers all stood like bit part actors as they waited in a line at a respectful distance away from the family, now gathering around the deep and gaping gash in the earth that was to be Charles Montgomery's final resting place.
The smell of damp earth lingered in the air and Christabel shivered, not from the cold, but at a sudden glimpse of her own mortality. Englebert wrapped a fatherly arm around her and in a strange way it was good to feel a man’s arms, even if it was only Englebert’s. Either way, it would do no good to shake him away and make a fuss; after all, he was the only friend she had in the world, apart from Hannah.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...." The vicar’s voice droned on as the mourners stood with heads bent in mock solemnity. It was time to lower the coffin into the ground and the group stood back as the hired hands stepped forward to undertake their last duty–the promise of beer now foremost in their mind.
Scooping up a pile of loose earth from the mound by the side of the grave, Christabel held it for a second. The soil was cold and clammy in her gloved hand and she threw it quickly into the ground; hitting the wooden coffin lid with a soft thud.
Poor Charles. All of that vitality and energy gone; dust to dust.
The key mourners stepped forward to do the same before moving away. The grave digger, with his dirty hands and rough clothes, was impatiently waiting on the edge of the scene, ready to cover over poor Charles. Resting his hands upon his spade he looked weary; as if he too longed to lie down in that deep, cold sleep.
Walking away Christabel turned to look once more at her husband’s final resting place, fearing that she might forget the spot. A cracked marble crucifix stood to the left and a grey winged angel to the right. Soon, a great headstone would mark the spot; the last testament to his life.
About to move away she spotted a lone figure from the corner of her eye, hovering near to the grave. At first she thought it one of the hired men, but peering more closely realized it was the stranger from the church. Why hadn't the man made himself known to them if he was an acquaintance of Charles, why the need for such mystery?
"Who is that man?" Christabel whispered to Englebert, now firmly cradling her arm. But by the time he had turned to look, the young man had gone.
Back at the house, a hot and cold luncheon had already been prepared and was awaiting them. Christabel would have preferred to go straight up to her room, but it wouldn’t have been acceptable and soon she found herself sat at the table between Englebert and Arthur Chadwick. Edward and Anne sat boldly at the head and foot of the table. They had assumed an air of ownership almost as soon as the last shovels of earth were being piled on top of the body of poor Charles.
The wine was flowing and the lively group in the room resembled more a wedding party than a funeral. Once or twice she felt Englebert’s arm brush against hers, or his leg touch hers for a second before moving away. She couldn't tell which was worse, the surreptitious passes of her old ward or the drunken and obvious fumbling of Arthur Chadwick. The man was already in his cups and she hadn't known a time when he hadn’t been so. His face was red and his mouth slack as he slouched across the table reaching for his wine glass.
"Where is that man Stephens? A man could die of thirst here." Raising the half full glass to his lips he downed the contents in one gulp. "Here man, bring me the bottle." His fingers snapped aggressively towards the young footman. The poor man jumped at the command and brought round the bottle which was unceremoniously snatched out of his hand by the drunken Arthur. The contents slopped around the rim of his glass and onto the crisp white linen of the tablecloth beneath.
"Steady man." Edward had stopped his conversation, glaring at the spillage. "Damned good claret that. Too good to waste."
Ignoring the rebuke, Arthur rose uneasily to his feet, the full glass now swaying precariously in his hand as he gestured across and over the table. "I would just like to raise a toast to the dearly departed Charles." Raising his glass, he drained half the contents before refilling it and turning his lurid gaze to Christabel. "And to the beautiful widow." He bowed low in acknowledgment and as he did, lost his balance and fell into her lap, the wine spilling across the both of them. The man was clearly enjoying the situation and buried his head deep into the folds of her mourning dress. Christabel felt the same dull ache between her thighs. It was ridiculous that the touch of the lecherous Arthur Chadwick should arouse her, but she missed Charles' touch so much.
"My god man, can you not behave yourself better than this? Do you have any decorum?"
Arthur grasped at Christabel's clothing in an attempt to stand. Moving from his seat, Edward stormed across the room and pulled the disorderly man to his feet by the collar of his jacket. "Pull yourself together man. This is no way to behave at a funeral party or in any other polite society. Your behavior belongs to the barracks and I suggest that is where you return posthaste!"
Arthur smiled as he stood and brushed down his jacket, wiping the spills of wine with a rather crumpled and dirty handkerchief. "Do you know, you can be rather pompous at times Edward. Perhaps we should drink to that-to Charles’ mysterious death and your good fortune." Bowing low he reached for the bottle on the table.
"What do you mean, sir?" Edward's eyes were stormy.
"All I mean is that Charles death will make you a wealthy man."
"I think you have drunk enough, sir and I ask you to leave my house immediately."
"Your house! Well, what about poor Christabel here? Surely all this still belongs to her, at least until the will is read out tomorrow. I suppose even you can wait that long, Edward?"
Edward glared at the man, his eyes almost popping from their sockets. His mouth opened and for a moment all that could be heard was a strange gurgling sound as he tried to compose himself. "How dare you, sir. This is not the time, and definitely not the place to air your grievances. Stephens, Mr. Chadwick is leaving. If you would be so kind as to escort him to the front door."
Raising his hands in submission, Arthur staggered perilously towards the door. "At least my conscience is clean Edward. There may be wine stains on my clothes but there is no blood on my hands. I feel sorry for Lady Christabel-a lamb to the slaughter-take care madam, that you too do not meet such an unfortunate end as your husband.” With a final bow and a smile to his audience, he left.
The room fell quiet in a shocked silence and all eyes fell on to Edward.
"The man is a drunken fool. Take no notice of his ramblings. He seems rather upset about something and I think it is not that he is particularly saddened by the actual loss of my dear brother, but more accurately the loss of his benefactor. I have my doubts about Mr. Chadwick and I think he had been playing poor Charles for a fool. The bank notified me on the day that Charles died that a large amount of money was to be sent to an anonymous benefactor. Apparently, this was not the first request of its kind. They contacted me on hearing of his sudden death to ask if they should still pay the amount. I stopped the payment on the pretex
t of freezing the account until the will has been read. Arthur approached me last night and asked for a loan of money. I refused of course. No doubt the money was to cover gambling debts-I hear these things on the grapevine. Last night I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but after today’s display I have no hesitation in wondering who the anonymous receiver of the money was. My brother may have been a pushover with his wealth; but I am afraid he will find short shrift with me. Now Stephens, refill the glasses and we will say no more on the subject today."
Christabel listened, her face white with fear. Arthur was a gambler and a drunkard, that she already knew, but his words had caused her concern. The facts surrounding Charles accident and sudden demise on his business trip had bothered her, but with the funeral preparations she’d had little time to brood upon them. Something in his words had stirred her heart, had rung true, and yet she could hardly believe that her husband’s death was caused by anything untoward. It was an unfortunate accident that was all.
"Are you all right, my dear?" Englebert was leaning in close to her and she could smell the tang of alcohol on his breath. His hand patted her lap affectionately and she shivered slightly, not able tell whether it was with pleasure or disgust.
"Don't worry about Arthur. He is just a drunken fool and doesn't know what he is saying. You are not alone, not while I am here, I will look after you.” His lips almost brushed her cheek as he whispered close and her heart began to pound. She was all alone and now at the mercy of them all. All she could think about was the dull, sexual ache within her and at every turn, men seemed to be touching her; wanting her. When the will had been read she could find herself without a home and what would happen then?
The room began to spin as she looked down at the table, her food hardly touched. She had hardly eaten a thing all day and suddenly felt faint. A wave of nausea washed over her and she felt her face flush. As she stood to excuse herself, the whole room went black.
Chapter Two
When Christabel awoke, her head was throbbing. For a moment, she wondered where she was. In her dreams she had been back at home, her father still alive. She had a faint recollection of Hannah helping undress and putting her into bed, but beyond that was a blur. The room was dark, it was already nightfall and she had been asleep for several hours. Her dreams had been vividly real and she could have sworn that she had felt Charles's hands upon her; cool fingertips running over her naked skin, slipping into the moist recesses of her sex. But it was only a dream, how could it have been anything else?
She would miss Charles and the feel of his body against hers. Even thinking about him now, on the day of his burial, caused a dull ache between her legs. Charles had been well proportioned and a satisfying lover. On her wedding night she had been shocked by his size; it was the first time she had ever seen a man naked. She had sat hesitantly on the edge of the bed in her virginal white lace nightgown, waiting for him.
Christabel's hand moved automatically to her breast as she cupped her firm flesh beneath the silk of her nightgown, her nipple hard and erect beneath her touch. Closing her eyes, she imagined it was Charles's touch. On that first night he had removed her nightgown in an instant, so eager to be inside her that there were had been no time for pleasantries. His hand had been rough and firm on her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh until she had shouted out in a mixture of both pleasure and pain, then moving to caress her body. Never had she felt so much emotion; it was as if she had lived for the very first time. He had removed his own clothing within seconds and her eyes had widened at the size of his manhood; his great member standing erect and ready for invasion.
Opening her legs, he had pushed his hand up to her thighs; she had been so wet and his touch like electricity upon her flesh. It had hurt at first, but once she had gotten used to the size and fullness of him, it had only been pleasure. How she had ached for him; for that magnificent shaft to enter her. She could almost feel it now as Charles pushed at her entrance; the tiny gap forced open by his girth. There had been pain at first - Charles had not been gentle, his lust had overtaken his actions and he had thrust his member deep within, causing her to cry out. Only when he had buried his full length inside her tight cavern did he pause; his hot flesh throbbing inside her and waiting for release.
Christabel was breathing hard as her hand left her breast and slide down her body onto the mound at the apex of her thighs. "Oh Charles," she whispered, imagining him taking her as she almost climaxed just thinking about him.
A noise outside the bedroom door brought her back to reality. Today was not a day of arousal, it was a day of mourning. Weeks and weeks of wearing black hung heavily before her, but she knew that Charles would have sympathized with her.
Slipping out of the bed, she crossed the shadowy room and over to the window to look outside. It had been raining. The gas lamps had been lit along the crescent and their reflection glistened in the tiny pools and puddles of water that had collected on the pavement below. The carriages had departed and she felt a short stab of relief – the guests had gone home. The memories of the day drifted slowly back. She thought of poor Charles, cold and damp in his grave and Arthur Chadwick’s words returned to her. What if there was more to her husband’s death than she had first assumed; suppose it hadn’t been an accident after all? Edward and Anne had been quick in making themselves feel at home and the two brothers hadn’t seemed particularly close.
What was she thinking? Arthur Chadwick was a drunken fool, and Edward had been right to dismiss him. She hadn’t known about the requests for money and it didn’t sound like something Charles would do, but then what did she know of his affairs, or even of his life before she had met him? He had been a private man and they had talked little of the past.
Christabel rubbed at her temples; it was all too confusing to think about it now. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she still hadn’t eaten; a gnawing ache in her abdomen. She was sure to find some leavings in the kitchen. There was no need to wake Hannah; she could fend for herself for once.
Slipping on her robe she lit one of the small lamps by the side of her bed and carried it carefully across the bedroom, onto the landing, and down the great staircase. The house was different at night; quiet and watchful. Everything was silent except for the old grandfather clock that ticked steadily at the foot of the stairs.
Crossing the hall, she opened the door leading down to the lower staircase and kitchen. She paused when she heard the sound of voices. Mrs. Hudson and Stephens were still awake and talking quietly below. It wouldn’t do for the servants to see her in her night attire and she almost closed the door again, but stopped abruptly at the mention Charles’ name.
“I tell you Mrs. Hudson, there is more to Lord Montgomery’s death than meets the eye. I have been in this family for over forty years and have known Charles Montgomery since he was a boy. There was nothing wrong with the man; he was as strong as an ox. There have been some ill goings on Mrs. Hudson, make no mistake, but what can be done?”
There was a pause in the conversation whilst Mrs. Hudson reflected on Stephens’ words. The death of Lord Montgomery had hit her hard and she struggled to keep her emotion at bay. “Surely not Mr. Stephens, it was an accident by all accounts and either way, who would do such a thing?”
“Well that’s the thing Mrs. Hudson, whom indeed?”
The door at the top of the stairs squeaked as Christabel tried to close it. She had heard enough and wanted to retreat back upstairs to her bedroom.
“Who’s there?” The voices below stopped, pausing to listen at the sudden sound. Christabel wanted to turn back and run for the safety of her room, but Stephens would be at the top of the stairs before she had fled across the hallway. Despite his age, he was quite agile and how would she explain running away like that? There was only one thing to do, she would just have to bluff her way through the situation.
Opening the door wide, she walked carefully down the steps. The pair stood up as Christabel entered
the kitchen. The fire had been lit and the room was cozy; a bottle of Charles’ favorite brandy stood half empty on the scrubbed kitchen table, along with two glasses filled part way with the amber liquid. Christabel looked away and pretended not to notice. After all, it had been a long day.
“Sorry to disturb you both. I was looking for something to eat; some cold leavings from today’s meal perhaps?” Mrs. Hudson nodded without speaking and walked to the pantry to fetch her mistress a plate of food.
“I’ll bring up a tray to your room, madam. Will that be all?” She was being dismissed by Stephens and knew it. This wasn’t her territory and it was clear that they didn’t like her invading their space and wanted rid of her as soon as possible.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late.”
Stephens held the door back open for her. “I would advise you madam to return up to your room or you will catch your death of cold dressed only in your night wear. I will bring the tray up shortly.”
Christabel pulled the dressing gown tightly around her. It was difficult to be dignified dressed in her nightgown and rob. She suddenly felt like a child. There was a silence as she headed back up the stairs. They would wait until she was out of sight before they started talking again. Christabel felt weary. Now she had no doubt something terrible had happened to Charles, but what?
The late meal that was eventually brought up to her room consisted of little more than cold meat and bread, but she dared not argue or ask for anything else. The pair were too formidable and she, in turn, too afraid to speak up. Suddenly the night had turned menacing around her and the shadows that lurked in the room were now dark and evil. The once quiet house seemed noisy, as if every creak and groan of the house was bemoaning the fate of Charles Montgomery.
She slept very little, and when she did her dreams were dark and full of images of the grave. Charles appeared to her at the foot of the bed, his face somber and racked in pain. Opening his mouth as if to speak to her, a maggot crawled from between his lips, followed by another, and yet another, until his whole face was crawling with the white bugs. Waking with a start she sat up in terror, her heart thumping hard within her chest.