by A. W. Exley
He never even uttered a word. He didn’t have to, as his mere presence was sufficient premonition of terrible events. Dawn mouthed no and fainted. Her body dropped to the floor unaware of the chaos that erupted, for her mind had already fled the hideous news.
2
As Dawn stared straight ahead, she pondered how life never prepared you for tragedy. It gave no warning alarm like the whistle the train blew as it hurtled down the tracks. Disaster simply emerged from the mist of time and ploughed into you, destroying your world.
With each step she trod on the cobbled street, her mind swam to the surface of the laudanum daze that had kept her insensate for the previous week. Today, when her parents would be committed to the ground, she needed to grieve. She would not remain dry-eyed as the two people she loved the most in the entire world were laid to rest.
Dawn had refused to ride beside the funeral director, insisting instead on walking behind the large black carriage. She needed to prolong the moment, to follow her parents as they led the way. Inside the carriage, two polished wooden coffins lay side by side on a sea of midnight velvet. The glass sides exposed the deceased to the curious stares of bystanders as they made their slow way to the cemetery.
Large black plumes on the pitch-black horses’ heads nodded with each slow stride. They made her think of the aquilegia seeds she received on that fateful day. They too would have nodding black heads. Her mother hated the colour, yet Dawn’s final memory of Verity would be the bed of night that clothed her now.
Mr Stevens, a solicitor, walked at her side. Whenever he glanced her way, his face was lined with worry and he murmured soft words of support. He had been her father’s personal friend, and his office shared the same premises at Uxbridge’s Bookkeeping. On hearing of the tragedy, he had leapt into action to organise the funeral and handle her parents’ affairs.
Behind Dawn and Mr Stevens walked the household staff and the men who worked for Mr Uxbridge.
The thick black veil draped from Dawn’s perch hat reduced the world around her to a sombre twilight and shielded her from curious bystanders. Before affixing the hat to her hair, Dawn had added a single raven feather from their watcher.
Her dress was plain black cotton, with a high neck and no adornment. The skirts were heavy with the bustled fabric falling behind, and yet it wasn’t the anchor that slowed her steps. Rather, the fall of skirt in front made each step feel as though she were pushing against a wall. Or was it her reluctance to walk too close to the carriage that made her hesitate with each step?
While the conveyance contained all that remained of her parents, a carriage had also snatched away their lives. On their way home, a wheel had lodged in the railway line at a crossing. A train emerged from the fog and crashed into the carriage, killing her parents instantly.
And now Dawn followed another death carriage. The Whetstone streets were silent as they passed. The only sound the clop of hooves, the tread of feet, and the occasional cough or sniffle from the mourners behind. Conversation from pedestrians going about their lives lowered to a faint murmur and only rose in their wake.
Her world had collapsed and left her nothing to cling to. While never spoken of directly, it had always been acknowledged in their home that her parents would outlive Dawn. Her childhood had been so calamitous that doctors told her parents she would never reach eighteen, a milestone she had passed four years before. While the move to the town house and her quiet work in the garden had brought a dramatic improvement in her condition, no one believed she would ever marry or reach middle age.
Dawn had always hoped that her death would not inconvenience her parents too greatly. Ideally she had planned to lie down in a shady spot among the hostas and not get up again. Perhaps the watching raven would give a discreet caw to alert Mother to her passing. Now she was cast adrift, and her mind could not comprehend how to survive without her mother and father to act as her rudder through life.
The funeral procession trudged along the road and moved through the ornate, wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. More mourners fell in behind Dawn as they neared their destination, but she had no energy to thank them. The lodestone in her life was the two wooden coffins before her.
As they walked, they passed gravestones of granite and marble. Some inscriptions remained crisp, while others were dull or covered in lichen. Who would scrub her parents’ tombstones clean after she died? One tombstone had a griffin – half lion and half eagle – perched on a corner. As Dawn passed, the creature’s eyes rolled to follow her, and a tear-shaped pebble fell down its cheek.
Dawn squeezed the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache. Impossible. The ornament didn’t cry – it was her laudanum-laced mind conjuring up her mother’s tales and breathing life into them.
At a far corner of the cemetery, the sexton and his helper waited. The horses halted and stood silently while men drew the coffins forth and placed them on the waiting stands, where they hovered over two holes in the damp earth. Next to the gaping maws sat an untouched lot. Mr Uxbridge was a practical man. He had purchased three lots adjacent to one another; one each for him, his wife, and his sickly daughter. The three plots were to be enclosed by a small ornamental railing to segregate and protect the family in their eternal slumber.
Dawn found herself fascinated by the grass on the space next to her mother’s grave. She was supposed to be resting there already, waiting for the day her parents joined her. Events were never supposed to unfold this way. She hadn’t been raised to cope alone, and the enormity of her situation wrought a sob from her throat.
The reverend opened the book in his hands and cleared his throat. Once he had everyone’s attention, he read his sermon, and those assembled uttered the required words in response. People kept casting Dawn sidelong glances, and whispers circulated around her. Murmurs of so tragic followed by she won’t long outlive them reached her ears.
Mr Stevens stood on one side of Dawn and Aggie, their loyal housekeeper, on the other. The former maintained a stiff upper lip, and the latter sobbed into a handkerchief clenched between black-gloved fingers. Finally the last prayer was said for the recently departed, and the reverend closed his book with a faint thud.
The sexton lowered the coffins, first one and then the other, into the waiting earth. At a nod from him, Dawn stepped forward and bent down to scoop up a handful of dirt. She tossed half onto the lid of her father’s coffin, and as tears blurred her vision, she emptied her handful over her mother’s cold body. As she stood at the foot of her mother’s grave, Dawn plucked the raven’s feather from her hat and let it flutter down to the coffin. She prayed the watcher would guard her mother in death as he had in life.
What would she do without them?
How did one survive in the world without loving parents to insulate you and take care of the mundane, like paying grocer’s bills?
The sob welled up in her chest as a cruel hand squeezed her heart. The sexton took up his spade and dug into the waiting mound of dirt. Soft thuds rose from below as earth hit the hard wood.
The regular beat shattered Dawn’s stoic mask. Her knees buckled as sobs racked her body. Mr Stevens and Aggie rushed to her side, each taking an arm, and half dragged, half carried her to a bench seat. She did not care that she made a spectacle of herself. Let them gossip and talk. Those present would probably already be writing notes in their diaries to come back for her sad little funeral in the not-too-distant future.
Tears ran freely down her face as her body convulsed. The housekeeper fossicked in her large purse and produced the bottle of tonic.
“Here love, this will help.” She pulled out the cork and held it up to Dawn’s bloodless lips.
The spectators had their fill of the drama, and sated with gossip, they drifted away through the tombstones and trees. Only the grate and thud of shovels thrust into dirt and emptied over graves broke the silence.
Bit by bit, Dawn’s sobs subsidised as the tonic took effect and smoothed over the sharp barbs inflicted by
the day. Sorrow diminished as the liquid stole the worst of Dawn’s grief and pain and left the numb, sleepy feeling in its place.
“What will I do without them, Aggie?” Dawn whispered to the housekeeper.
“We will manage, as we always have, love,” the older woman replied.
Mr Stevens coughed into his hand. “There are things that must be discussed, Miss Uxbridge, but you have endured quite enough for today. I shall call on you tomorrow.” Then he rose and went in search of a hansom cab to carry Dawn and the housekeeper home.
After the funeral, the next day continued dull and dreary. Watery sunlight tried in vain to penetrate the clouds, and the air was bereft of warmth. Dawn couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm for a walk in her beloved garden, and instead lay on the chaise in the parlour, staring at the grandfather clock. The pendulum swung back and forth. First one way and then the other as the remaining seconds of her life ticked by. If she breathed her last while lying there, would the pendulum still and fall silent?
As a young child, everyone had tiptoed around her. She recollected one period when she spent months confined to bed. Even standing upright had made her heart plunge and her vision turn black. Other children might have found escape in books and tales of adventure, but Dawn turned to nature. She read of fantastic gardens and wild jungles around the world. She learned of plants that would grow in one place but not another. She studied the unique lengths a plant could reach to defend itself or simply to show off.
Famous landscape designers through the decades revealed their master plans in the heavy books her father sourced for her. To Dawn, Capability Brown and his masterful manipulation of nature was more breathtaking than a broad-chested hero in a romance novel.
A knock sounded on the front door and drew Dawn away from her melancholy walk through memories. A moment later, Sarah cracked open the parlour door.
“Mr Stevens to see you, miss,” she said and then retreated.
The solicitor carried his overcoat and his bowler hat. He dropped the coat over the back of a chair, but his fingers played with the brim of the hat. “Miss Uxbridge. I hope you are somewhat recovered from the sad events of yesterday.”
Dawn swung her feet to the ground and gestured to her father’s favourite armchair.
“I have been deprived of my parents, my only companions in this world. It is not a matter of recovering, but of simply enduring until my time also arrives to embrace death.”
His eyes widened and his moustache waved up and down. “Quite.”
He dropped his hat to the side table and perched on the edge of the chair. “I do not wish to add to your distress.” He leaned toward her. “But there are things that must be discussed.”
Dawn waved a hand at him. “I am sure one of Father’s clerks can run the bookkeeping business for now. I fail to see that anything can be of any great urgency.”
The solicitor coughed and fidgeted in the chair. “Unfortunately that is not the case. You find yourself cast in somewhat dire circumstances. Your father had a substantial debt, and the creditor is demanding payment.”
“No,” she whispered. The blood drained from Dawn’s head and left her dizzy. She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. Her father was an accountant who built his business on keeping accurate ledgers. How could he possibly have any noteworthy creditors, let alone a large one? Were quills and ledgers so expensive? “No, that is quite impossible. Father was renowned for the reliability of his service. How on earth could he have accrued debts?”
Mr Stevens shifted in the chair and laced his fingers to keep his hands still. “Your father was a most devoted husband and father, and he was always looking for ways to make your life easier. To that end, he leveraged the house to invest in a rather high-risk venture. It is my understanding that on the fatal day, he was called to an urgent meeting of the investors to hear that the venture had failed and all the funds were forfeit. Your father had lost the house.”
Dawn slumped back on the chaise. Her mouth made the shape of no, but the single syllable couldn’t force itself out of her dry throat. Tragedies continued to mount up at her feet.
The house was only bricks and mortar, and one roof was much like another. But the loss of the house meant the loss of the garden. When they had moved in twelve years before, the backyard had been barren. As she planned, planted, and nurtured, so too had Dawn’s health improved and then stabilised. Now her life’s work would be snatched away from her. Would a new owner appreciate the calm, green sanctuary she had created, or would it all be ripped out for brightly coloured geraniums and frivolous pansies?
“You are a pretty young woman. Is there perhaps a suitor who could be persuaded to bring forward his case? Marriage would ease your pain and transition you into a new life,” Mr Stevens said.
Dawn emitted a high-pitched laugh and then covered her mouth before she started a bout of hysterics. “I have lived a quiet life with only short forays beyond these walls. I never entered society because my parents did not think it…worthwhile. There is no suitor, not even a close acquaintance upon whom I could impose myself. I have no one and now, nothing.”
His eyebrows raised and a small smile emerged under his moustache. “Well, not quite nothing. While your situation is dire, you will not be destitute and cast into the street. There will be a small sum left once the house is sold and the debt settled. Enough perhaps for you to take a modest cottage in the country. However, you will need to find some occupation to supplement your means.”
He meant she would have to work. Dawn’s fingers curled into the back of the chaise to keep her upright. There were few avenues open to women in her situation. Governess and companion were the main ones, followed by work as a seamstress labouring long hours in the dark with only a feeble light. She might find employment as a shop girl or work in one of the new factories, but that wasn’t far above going into service.
No one would hire a governess with delicate health. Her charges would run riot, and she would never be able to keep up with games or the required exercise. Even companions were expected to be robust individuals who carried parcels and scurried about at the beck and call of their patron. Factory work was out of the question; she simply wasn’t sturdy enough. That left finding work as a seamstress for long hours and little pay. It might have to suffice. A cottage would not be so terrible, particularly if it came with a garden, no matter how small.
“When am I to be made homeless? How many grains remain in this hourglass?” How many times would the pendulum swing before it became immobile? Her arm dropped from the back of the chaise and sat limp in her lap as she stared at the black cotton of her mourning gown. How much easier if death claimed her. She was prepared, so why did he not visit?
“You have approximately six weeks. A buyer has already come forward for the house and has agreed to give you sufficient time to find other accommodation. Nevertheless, most of the furniture and effects will need to be auctioned to provide you with as much of a nest egg as possible.” With his bad news delivered, Mr Stevens rose and retrieved his hat and overcoat.
Dawn waved her hand around the room. “Take it all. With the house sold, what use have I for the furniture and carpets?”
“I will of course finalise the estate and lodge the residual in an account for you until you know what direction your new adventure will take.” He smiled, as though that should console her for the loss of family, home, and everything of importance to her.
Dawn stood on unsteady feet and drew a shallow breath. The solicitor was not to blame for her situation, and it would do no good to fall at his feet. “Thank you for your care, Mr Stevens. I could not have carried this burden without you.”
He patted her shoulder. “I am sure something will present itself. Mr Uxbridge always said you were a clever young woman.”
3
Dawn retired to her room and threw herself on her bed. Or rather, not her room and no longer her bed. They now belonged to some mysterious stranger and she was a lodger, dependant
on his goodwill. She had six weeks to find a new home and occupation. Six weeks for death to knock on the door and deliver her to the cold earth next to her parents.
Could she simply will her erratic heart to give up its attempts to keep her body ambulatory? Trying to do anything about her circumstances seemed so pointless. She would die soon anyway. She imagined she would wither and shrivel up like an autumn leaf once parted from her beloved garden. Why bother scouring the papers looking for a cottage and an occupation when she would never live out any employment trial period?
With a plan in mind, Dawn set about achieving it by doing nothing except wallow in her grief. Her heart morphed into a frantic moth, beating against glass to reach a flame within. Each time an attack tightened her chest and stole her breath, she hoped it was the final one to end her misery.
Yet oddly, some teeny part of her didn’t want to die. A whispered voice in the back of her head drove her to find the tonic and gulp a spoonful down. Something forced her to calm her heart before it succumbed to its inherent weakness, and to walk the few paces to stand in the garden and draw strength from the enveloping foliage. Then in the morning after the attack had passed, she chided herself for not having the mental fortitude to let her feeble organ expire and solve all her problems.
As one day turned into another, she began to suspect that waiting to die might not be the best solution to her impending eviction. She might actually have to consider another option. A week after the fateful visit from Mr Stevens and nearly two weeks since her parents failed to return home, another odd thing happened.
One morning, as Dawn drew open the curtains and gazed out in the street, she didn’t see a world she had rarely walked through. Instead, she saw a beckoning opportunity.
After a quiet breakfast, she took a book and sat in her favourite spot in the garden, under the leafy shade of the spreading elm. The tree was a ridiculous indulgence given the diminutive size of the garden, but Dawn didn’t care. They had both been weak-looking saplings when she planted it twelve years ago during her first week in the house. As the elm grew taller and stronger, so did Dawn. In the years yet to come, its limbs would touch either side of the brick walls, and the neighbours would probably demand it be trimmed. But that decision would no longer be hers.
