5: Interment

Standing numbly beside his mother, the stoic Andrew took little comfort from her through Russell’s public service, heard little of the words spoken on his brother’s behalf. His blank eyes wandered from one face to another in the sea of invited mourners and he felt miserably alone. Familiar strangers, not one of them the kind of friend his brother had been in life. He loathed their ingratiating superficiality, resented their pandering crudeness, expensively cloaked as civilized high society when actually they were barely above savages, kissing each other's cheeks in public and viciously shredding each other in private.

“I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. Those who believe in me shall live, even though they die…”

How am I to do what they ask, brother? Andrew voiced his agonized thoughts to the voiceless nothingness, the dismal gray day another stifling pressure seeping into his already burdened core, dragging him down like a swamped boat. It swallowed up any miniscule solace and left him floundering, bereft, choking on the futility.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God…”

Across his brother’s black-draped coffin, Andrew spied the passive face of a dry-eyed pretty young woman he didn’t recognize and lingered. Her curly blonde hair was tucked fetchingly under a veiled cloche hat like a squashed halo, but the coat and black dress she wore were faded and clearly long out of fashion. His curiosity piqued, he studied her. What about Russell might have brought someone like you?

“I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” 

The blonde’s head bowed slightly and Andrew could see her open a worn leather purse clutched before her. Pulling a folded handkerchief from it, she handed it to the teary-eyed young woman next to her—actually, the only teary-eyed person present— and his heart softened instantly.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

Andrew murmured the words as the minister led, as absent-minded as the others gathered around his brother’s coffin, reciting in bored and droning rote. His keen eyes fixed across the crowd on the two young women, particularly the blonde’s companion, Evelyn Moore.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me… my cup overflows, surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…”

Andrew had been truly surprised to find it was her secreted and eavesdropping in the conservatory and not one of his mother's onerous 'family friends', then stunned to see Evelyn genuinely abashed. In her was a deep compassion, an abiding kindness, and the strength to carry someone else’s pain, even as she bent under the crushing weight of her own, unlike most he met day to day. She’d take what she’d heard to the grave with her, of that he was certain.

That it drew him to her even more did not surprise him in the least.

He’d seen her at the Trust, naturally. Though Andrew took his work seriously—too seriously, according to some— Evelyn Moore quite simply was not the kind of woman one lost in a crowd, even if you weren't looking for her.

It was more than a lovely figure, more than a fine complexion set off with shining thick dark hair. More than her soft voice, cultured in spite of her common upbringing. Innately, she was elegant in a way that women of his own class weren’t. Evelyn was graceful and authentic and all of it shone like the brightest beacon to his people-weary soul through her remarkable silvery gray eyes, mesmerizingly flecked with crystalline blue and darkening to a leaden smoke at the rims, making them as mutable from blue to gray as his were from blue to green. He'd been lost in them in the conservatory, and though they were red-rimmed and wavering with tears, he found himself adrift in them now. 

Absurd as it suddenly seemed, here they were. Together and worlds apart. Again. Despite their lack of familiarity, they both grieved—truly grieved—and it was a more powerful connection than he’d felt to anyone besides his brother. Ever. Andrew couldn’t take his eyes off her, this pale-skinned dark-haired angel in the midst of wretched sinners. Amongst despicable strangers masquerading as friends, she alone glowed, luminous as a star, even in tears.

It brought Andrew an odd peace to have her here.

In the crook of his arm Andrew felt his mother’s hand tighten and she pulled slightly as the funeral attendees dispersed. Most were headed into the house for the repast.

Andrew wasn’t so lucky of course.

Bitter ineffectuality closed around him, dark and spiteful, biting at his pain. Ahead of him, the oblivious and wicked Charlotte walked alone, untouched and looking for all intents as though she was merely taking a pleasant garden stroll.

He hated Charlotte.

If it was humanly possible, he hated her more than he ever had in his life. That she should inflict such incredible pain on his family, year after year, and continue to benefit from it was unbearable.

And yet, bear it he must.

They crossed the dry yellowed lawns, cutting through the winter-dead garden to the conservatory once again. Amidst palm fronds and delicate orchid blooms, mechanically, Andrew took his place beside Charlotte before the minister. With his mother standing behind them to one side and Russell’s children with their nanny to the other, he spoke the required words when prompted, and married the wretched woman.

When it was done, Andrew’s mother cleared the room quietly, leaving him alone with Charlotte. They faced off on opposite sides of it, circling each other like warring lions in hothouse jungle of exotic plants and flowers.

Where once she had been quite the beauty, since he’d last seen her, Charlotte had grown unattractively thin. Her sternum stood out beneath stark collarbones, and the flesh over her wrists was stretched so thin it looked papery and fragile. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her cheekbones stood out sharply beneath haunted eyes.

The candle burnt a both ends, Andrew thought, studying the physical manifestations of the life of willful excess she'd chosen to lead.

“I supposed you’ll be expecting me in your bedroom,” Charlotte spat. “Been waiting a while for that, haven’t you, Andy?”

Bristling at the loathsome nickname, Andrew crossed his arms over his broad chest and his piercing eyes blazed with hatred. “Not at all. I’ll die before I consummate a marriage with you. In fact, you can take your leave now for all I care. I’ll even pay you. Two-thousand dollars each month into your private account for the rest of your days.”

Sneering, Charlotte eyed him distrustfully, impugning him yet again. “What do you get out of it?”

“Rid of you,” Andrew bit out without hesitation. “You are never to return.”

“And my children?”

“Russell’s children will be raised with every luxury in their family home as they always have and at no expense to you.” Andrew glared, the cold chill of his voice expanding like another presence into the space between them. “Go back to the rock you crawled out from under, Charlotte. Go now before I change my mind.”

Across from him, Charlotte stood stock still. Andrew could see the selfish calculation in her vicious eyes, knew she was turning over his generous offer, searching for personal downsides. Though it chaffed miserably, he also knew there weren’t any. He knew well how to negotiate a deal—how to get exactly what he wanted by offering enough of what his opposition wanted. Charlotte would take payment for her unburdened freedom, of that much he was dead certain.

“Very well then,” Charlotte agreed abruptly, as expected, then added snidely, “Good-bye, husband.”

Andrew’s tucked hands clenched to fists beneath his crossed arms, but he said nothing. He watched as she left through the conservatory door, his heart pounding both with rage and the sudden anxiety that she'd possibly reconsider. His keen eyes followed her leisurely progress all the way to the line of cabs along the circular drive awaiting return fares to the city.

Choosing one, Charlotte climbed into the rear seat and as the cab disappeared from view, vanishing beyond the gates, Andrew exhaled sharply, deflating, the last of his fortitude exhausted.

You’ve survived. You’ve done what was demanded and she’s gone, he reminded himself, wishing again for snifter of brandy. Beyond the tall windows, a few stray beams of sunlight poked through the gloom, drawing his attention outside again.

A few other guests were drifting among the parked cabs. 'Mourners' leaving already, he thought bitterly, reaching for his cigarettes again and disgusted at the superficiality of their concern.

Among them, Andrew spied the curly haired blonde with lovely Evelyn and his heart lurched, immediately forgiving. Still she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, led by her friend's comforting arm about her slim shoulders along the line of cabs.

Away from him.

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought.

Andrew rushed to the conservatory door. Hurrying across the winter slumbering garden, he broke into a smooth lope, cutting across the yellowed lawns toward the pair. “Excuse me!” he called as he drew closer, but, unhearing, the women continued along the circular drive. Lengthening his stride, Andrew called again. “Miss Moore! Please, wait!”

The pair was climbing into the back of the cab as Andrew reached it. Without thinking, he placed his hand over Evelyn's on the metal doorframe. Panting, he smiled when she turned to him with her teary red-rimmed eyes, startled at his touch. Then, he felt the force of her gaze, at once gently comforting and achingly bereft, deep inside his chest.

Despite the cold, her ungloved hand was warm beneath his, and though his touch was inappropriate, she didn’t withdraw. “Mr. James,” she acknowledged softly, , ‘I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

Andrew stared at her, the soft waves of her dark hair, the loveliness of her face. And those eyes. Even without the rest of her considerable graces, her eyes alone made her spectacularly beautiful. “Thank you, miss,” Andrew replied sincerely, glancing down where his hand rested over hers. Her touch alone was a sovreign gift to his aching heart.

At the edge of her sleeve, dark bruises from where he’d arrested her fall were fading to an ugly yellow-green and the abrasions along the back of her slender hand had healed to soft pink new flesh. Shyly, Evelyn withdrew her hand from beneath his and Andrew’s sharp eyes followed the long shadows of her lashes as they fell over her flushed cheeks, enthralled. Could she genuinely be so modest, a pure and perfect diamond amid the ever-present and abrasive rough?

Waiting until Evelyn had tucked herself into the cab, Andrew closed the door beside her, snatching one last look at her face, then opened the door opposite the driver. From his pocket, he pulled a small handful of cash. “For the return fare,” he said, offering it to the driver. “Give any excess to Miss Moore.”

**

Inside the house, Andrew’s mother watched as Charlotte James took her leave.

She was ever so happy to be rid of the miserable woman—and proud that Andrew made such short work of it. Though God knew what the monster stole from the house this time.

Starting back into the repast, she froze when movement in her peripheral vision drew her attention to the window again. “Oh dear,” she whispered, laying a manicured hand on the windowsill.

She watched attentively as Andrew stopped a pair of young women leaving in a cab. The elderly Mrs. James gave an offended gasp when her son rested his hand over the hand of a particularly lovely dark-haired woman in an outdated faded funeral dress and a black cloche hat from last season, clearly beneath his station.

Huffing, she crossed her arms over her breast, a gesture she’d passed on to Andrew. “Well, that didn’t take long,” she said flatly, disappointed and resenting how quickly he’d taken her up on enjoying whatever sport he wished as long as he married Charlotte.

Still, not typical for him though. He’s more the obsessive working type.

I’d best find out who she is.