Highgate Rise tp-11 Page 14

  Charlotte did not attempt to explain. She simply smiled with great sweetness, then bent her head in an attitude of prayer-to conceal her smile.

  After several minutes she raised her eyes again, and saw well in front of her the white head of Amos Lindsay, and beside him Stephen Shaw. She could only imagine the turmoil of emotions that must be in him as he saw the agitated figure of Hector Clitheridge flapping about like a wounded crow. His wife was in handsome and serviceable black in the front row, trying to reassure him, alternately smiling and looking appropriately somber. The organ was playing slowly, either because the organist considered it the correct tempo for a funeral or because she could not find the notes. The result was a sense of uncertainty and a loss of rhythm.

  The pews were filling up. Quinton Pascoe passed up the aisle, finding himself a seat as far as possible from John Dalgetty and his wife. Nowhere among the forest of black hats of every shape and decoration could Charlotte see any that looked as if they might belong to Celeste or Angeline Worlingham.

  The organ changed pitch abruptly and the service began. Clitheridge was intensely nervous; his voice cracked into falsetto and back again. Twice he lost his place in what must surely be long-familiar passages and rumbled to regain himself, only making his mistake the more obvious. Charlotte ached for him, and heard Aunt Vespasia beside her sigh with exasperation. Somerset Carlisle buried his face in his hands, but whether he was thinking of Clemency, or the vicar, she did not know.

  Charlotte found her own attention wandering. It was probably the safest thing to do; Clitheridge was unbearable, and the young curate was so full of genuine distress she found it too harrowing to look at him. Instead her eyes roamed upward over and across traceries of stone, plaques of long-dead worthies, and eventually, with a jolt of returning memory, to the Worlingham window with its almost completed picture of the late bishop in the thin disguise of Jeremiah, surrounded by other patriarchs and topped by an angel. She recognized the bishop quite easily. The face was indistinct-the medium enforced it-but the thick curls of white hair, so like an aureole in the glass with the light shining through, was exactly like the portrait in the family hallway and it was unmistakable. It was a remarkably handsome memorial and must have cost a sizable sum. No wonder Josiah Hatch was proud of it.

  At last the formal part of the service was over and with immense relief the final amen was said, and the congregation rose to follow the coffin out into the graveyard, where they all stood huddled in a bitter west wind while the body was interred.

  Charlotte shivered and moved a little closer to Aunt Vespasia, and behind her half a step, to shield her from the gusts, which if the sky had been less clear, would surely have carried snow. She stared across the open grave with Clitheridge standing at the edge, his cassock whipping around his ankles and his face strained with embarrassment and apprehension. A couple of yards away Alfred Lutterworth was planted squarely, ignoring the cold, his face somber in reflection, his thoughts unreadable. Next to him, but several feet away, Stephen Shaw was folded in a mixture of private anger and grief, the emotion so deep in his face only the crudest of strangers would have intruded. Amos Lindsay stood silently at his elbow.

  Josiah Hatch was taking control of the pallbearers. He was a sidesman and used to some responsibility. His expression was grim, but he did his duty meticulously and not a word or a movement was omitted or performed without ceremony. It was done to an exactness that honored the dead and preserved the importance above all of the litany and tradition of the church.

  Clitheridge was obviously relieved to allow someone else to take over, however pedantic. Only the curate seemed less than pleased. His bony features and wide mouth reflected some impatience that appeared to increase his grief.

  Charlotte had been quite correct, there were about fifty people present, most of them men, and quite definitely neither Angeline nor Celeste Worlingham were among them; nor was Flora Lutterworth.

  “Why are the Worlinghams not here?” she whispered to Aunt Vespasia as they turned at last, cold to the bone, and made their way back to the carriages for the short ride to the funeral supper. She had not been specifically invited, but she fully intended to go. They passed Pitt standing near the gate, so discreet as to be almost invisible. He might have been one of the pallbearers or an undertaker’s assistant, except that his gloves were odd, there was a bulge in one pocket of his coat, and his boots were brown. She smiled at him quickly as they passed, and saw an answering warmth in his face, then continued on her way to the carriage.

  “I daresay the bishop did not consider it suitable,” Aunt Vespasia replied. “Many people don’t. Quite idiotic, of course. Women are every bit as strong as men in coping with tragedy and the more distressing weaknesses of the flesh. In fact in many cases stronger-they have to be, or none of us would have more than one child, and certainly never care for the sick!”

  “But the bishop is dead,” Charlotte pointed out. “And has been for ten years.”

  “My dear, the bishop will never be dead as far as his daughters are concerned. They lived under his roof for over forty years of their lives, and obeyed every rule of conduct he set out for them. And I gather he had very precise opinions about everything. They are not likely to break the habit now, least of all in a time of bereavement when one most wishes to cling to the familiar.”

  “Oh-” Charlotte had not thought of that, but now some recollection returned to her of other families where it had been considered too much strain on delicate sensibilities. Fits of the vapors detracted rather seriously from the proper solemnity due to the dead. “Is that why Flora Lutterworth isn’t here either?” That seemed dubious to her, but not impossible. Alfred Lutterworth apparently had great ambitions towards gentility, and all that might seem well-bred.

  “I imagine so,” Vespasia replied with the ghost of a smile. They were at the carriages. Caroline and Grandmama were somewhere behind them. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and saw Caroline talking to Josiah Hatch with intense concentration, and Grandmama was staring at Charlotte with a look like thunder.

  “Are you waiting?” Vespasia asked, her silver eyebrows raised.

  “Certainly not!” Charlotte waved her arm imperiously and Emily’s coachman moved his horses forward. “They have their own equipage.” It gave her a childish satisfaction to say it aloud. “I shall follow you. I assume the Misses Worlingham will be up to the occasion of the funeral supper?”

  “Of course.” Now Vespasia’s smile was undisguised. “That is the social event-this was merely the necessary preamble.” And she accepted her footman’s hand and mounted the step into her carriage, after handing to the crossing sweeper, a child of no more than ten or eleven years, a halfpenny, for which he thanked her loudly, and pushed his broom through another pile of manure. The door was closed behind her and a moment later it drew away.

  Charlotte did the same, and was still behind her when they alighted outside the imposing and now familiar Worlingham house, all its blinds drawn and black crepe fluttering from the door. The roadway was liberally spread with straw to silence the horses’ hooves, out of respect for the dead, and the wheels made barely a sound as the coachman drove away to wait.

  Inside everything had been prepared to the last detail. The huge dining room was festooned with black crepe till it looked as if some enormous spider had been followed by a chimney fire and an extremely clumsy sweep. White lilies, which must have cost enough to feed an ordinary family for a week, were arranged with some artistry on the table, and in a porcelain vase on the jardiniere. The table itself was set with a magnificent array of baked meats, sandwiches, fruits and confectionary, bottles of wine in baskets, suitably dusty from the cellar and carrying labels to satisfy even the most discriminating connoisseur. Some of the Port was very old indeed. The bishop must have laid it down in his prime, and forgotten it.

  Celeste and Angeline stood side by side, both dressed in black bombazine. Celeste’s was stitched with jet beads and had a fall of velvet over
the front and caught up in the bustle. It was a fraction tight at the bosom. Angeline’s was draped over the shoulders with heavy black lace fastened with a jet pin set with tiny pearls, a very traditional mourning brooch. The lace was also echoed across the stomach and under the bombazine bustle; only the most discriminating would know it was last year’s arrangement of folds. And it was even tighter around the bosom. Charlotte guessed they had performed the same service at Theophilus’s funeral, and perhaps at the bishop’s as well. A clever dressmaker could do a great deal, and from observation it seemed, like many wealthy people, the Worlingham sisters liked their economies.

  Celeste greeted them with deep solemnity, as if she had been a duchess receiving callers, standing stiff-backed, inclining her head a fraction and repeating everyone’s names as though they were of significant importance. Angeline kept a lace-edged handkerchief in her hand and dabbed at her cheek occasionally, echoing the last two words of everything Celeste said.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” Celeste moved her hand an inch in recognition of a relative stranger of no discernible rank.

  “Mrs. Pitt,” Angeline repeated, smiling uncertainly.

  “Gracious of you to come to express your condolences.”

  “Gracious.” Angeline chose the first word this time.

  “Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould.” Celeste was startled, and for once the fact that she was a bishop’s daughter seemed unimpressive. “How-how generous of you to come. I am sure our late father would have been quite touched.”

  “Quite touched,” Angeline added eagerly.

  “There would be no reason for him to be,” Vespasia said with a cool smile and very direct stare. “I came entirely on Clemency Shaw’s behalf. She was a very fine woman of both courage and conscience-a rare-enough combination. I am truly grieved that she is gone.”

  Celeste was lost for words. She knew nothing of Clemency to warrant such an extraordinary tribute.

  “Oh!” Angeline gave a little gasp and clutched the handkerchief more tightly, then dabbed at a tear that started down her pink cheek. “Poor Clemency,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

  Vespasia did not linger for any further trivialities that could only be painful, and led the way into the dining room. Somerset Carlisle, immediately behind her, was so used to speaking gently with the inarticulate he had no trouble murmuring something kind but meaningless and following them in.

  There were some thirty people there already. Charlotte recognized several from her own previous brief meetings at the Worlinghams’, others she deduced from Pitt’s description as she had done in the church.

  She looked at the table, pretending to be engrossed in admiring it, as Caroline and Grandmama came in. Grandmama was scowling and waving her stick in front of her to the considerable peril of anyone within range. She did not particularly want Charlotte with her, but she was furious at being left behind. It lacked the respect due to her.

  It was a gracious room, very large, with fine windows all ornately curtained, a dark marble fireplace, an oak sideboard and serving table and a dresser with a Crown Derby tea service set out for display, all reds, blues and golds.

  The main table was exquisitely appointed, crystal with a coat of arms engraved on the side of each goblet, silver polished till it reflected every facet of the chandelier, also monogrammed with an ornate Gothic W, and linen embroidered in white with both crest and monogram. The porcelain serving platters were blue-and-gold-rimmed Minton; Charlotte remembered the pattern from the details of such knowledge her mother had taught her, in the days when she attended such functions where information of the sort was required in the would-be bride.

  “They never put all this out for her when she was alive,” Shaw said at her elbow. “But then I suppose, God help us, we never had the entire neighborhood in to dine, especially all at once.”

  “It often helps grief to do something with a special effort,” Charlotte answered him quietly. “Perhaps even a trifle to excess. We do not all cope with our losses in the same way.”

  “What a very charitable view,” he said gloomily. “If I had not already met you before, and heard you be most excruciatingly candid, I would suspect you of hypocrisy.”

  “Then you would do me an injustice,” she said quickly. “I meant what I said. If I wished to be critical I could think of several things to comment on, but that is not one of them.”

  “Oh!” His fair eyebrows rose. “What would you choose?” The faintest smile lit his eyes. “If, of course, you wished to be critical.”

  “Should I wish to be, and you are still interested, I shall let you know,” she replied without the slightest rancor. Then remembering that it was his bereavement more than anyone else’s, and not wishing to seem to cut him, even in so small a way, she leaned a little closer and whispered, “Celeste’s gown is a trifle tight, and should have been let out under the arms. The gentleman I take to be Mr. Dalgetty needs a haircut, and Mrs. Hatch has odd gloves, which is probably why she has taken one off and is carrying it.”

  His smile was immediate and filled with warmth.

  “What acute observation! Did you learn it being married to the police, or is it a natural gift?”

  “I think it comes from being a woman,” she replied. “When I was single I had so little to do that observation of other people formed a very large part of the day. It is more entertaining than embroidery and painting bad watercolors.”

  “I thought women spent their time gossiping and doing good works,” he whispered back, the humor still in his eyes, not masking the pain but contrasting with it so he seemed alive and intensely vulnerable.

  “We do,” she assured him. “But you have to have something to gossip about, if it is to be any fun at all. And doing good work is deadly, because one does it with such an air of condescension it is more to justify oneself than to benefit anyone else. I should have to be very desperate indeed before a visit from a society lady bringing me ajar of honey would do more than make me want to spit at her-which of course I could not afford to do at all.” She was exaggerating, but his smile was ample reward, and she was perfectly sure he knew the truth was both homelier and kinder, at least much of the time.

  Before he could reply their attention was drawn to Celeste a few feet away from them, still playing the duchess. Alfred Lutterworth was standing in front of her with Flora by his side, and Celeste had just cut them dead, meeting their eyes and then moving on as if they were servants and not to be spoken to. The color flared up Lutterworth’s cheeks and Flora looked for a moment as if she would weep.

  “Damn her!” Shaw said savagely under his breath, then added a simile from the farmyard that was extremely unkind, and unfair to the animal in question. Without excusing himself to Charlotte he walked forward, treading on a thin woman’s dress and ignoring her.

  “Good afternoon, Lutterworth,” he said loudly. “Good of you to come. I appreciate it. Good afternoon, Miss Lutterworth. Thank you for being here-not the sort of thing one would choose, except in friendship.”

  Flora smiled uncertainly, then saw the candor in his eyes and regained her composure.

  “We would hardly do less, Dr. Shaw. We feel for you very much.”

  Shaw indicated Charlotte. “Do you know Mrs. Pitt?” He introduced them and they all made formal acknowledgment of each other. The tension evaporated, but Celeste, who could not have failed to hear the exchange, as must everyone else in their half of the room, was stiff-faced and tight-lipped. Shaw ignored her and continued a loud, inconsequential conversation, drawing in Charlotte as an ally, willingly or not.

  Ten minutes later both the group and the conversation had changed. Caroline and Grandmama had joined them, and Charlotte was listening to an extremely handsome woman in her middle forties with shining hair piled most fashionably high, magnificent dark eyes, and a black hat which would have been daring two years ago. Her face was beginning to lose the bloom of youth, but there was still enough beauty to cause several people to look at her more than
once, albeit a type of beauty more characteristic of hotter climates than the restrained English rose-especially those bred in the genteel gardens of Highgate. She had been introduced as Maude Dalgetty, and Charlotte liked her more the longer she spoke. She seemed a woman too contented within herself to bear any malice towards others, and there were none of the small barbs of callousness or idleness in her comments.

  Charlotte was surprised when Josiah Hatch joined them, and it was immediately apparent from the softening of his grim expression that he held her in considerable esteem. He looked at Charlotte with little interest and even that was prepared to be critical. He already suspected she had come either out of curiosity, which he considered intolerable, or because she was a friend of Shaw’s of whom he would be bound to disapprove. However, when he turned to Maude Dalgetty the angle of his body eased, even the rigidity of his collar seemed less constricting.

  “Mrs. Dalgetty, I’m so pleased you were able to come.” He sought for something else to add, perhaps more personal, and failed to find it.

  “Of course, Mr. Hatch.” She smiled at him and he unbent even more, finding a very small smile himself. “I was very fond of Clemency; I think she was one of the best women I knew.”

  Hatch paled again, the blood leaving his cheeks. “Indeed,” he said huskily, then cleared his throat with a rasping breath. “There was very much in her to praise-a virtuous woman, neither immodest nor unmindful of all her duties, and yet with good humor at all times. It is a great tragedy her life-was-” His face hardened again and he shot a glance across the table to where Shaw’s fair head could be seen bending a little to listen to a stout woman wearing a tiny hat. “Was in so many ways wasted. She could have had so much more.” He left it hanging in the air, ambiguous as to whether he was referring to Shaw or Clemency’s longevity.