Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [41]
Cold and weary from standing for such a long time, Grace wriggled her feet in her cheap black boots to try and warm them.
‘Aren’t you freezing?’ she asked Jane, still motionless beside her. ‘Don’t you long to be sitting in front of a good coal fire?’
Jane stared ahead.
‘Or placed under a parasol in the sun?’ Grace said recklessly. ‘Or in a boat on a lake, being rowed along, with a picnic basket beside you? Oh, do answer me, do!’
By way of reply, Jane altered her expression very slightly and gave a nod towards the street, where the slow roll of carriage wheels on gravel and the sound of drumbeats heralded the arrival of the funeral procession. Following the feather-bearer and just ahead of the mourners on horseback, Mr George Unwin led the dead man’s riderless stallion, his leather boots reversed in the stirrups to illustrate his demise. This was followed by several empty carriages owned by important families who, being out of London, had sent their landaus as a mark of respect.
As the coffin carriage passed them and went into the church, Grace noticed a neatly folded Union Jack lying on the expensively fringed pall, together with the great man’s feathered tricorne hat, which had been part of his official uniform when he was Lord Mayor of London some years previously. The family had requested that this hat, together with the flag, should be buried with the corpse, but Grace had spent enough time with the undertakers now to know that these would miraculously escape the grave and, come the next grand funeral, rise again and be charged for, as both items were worth a considerable amount.
None of these underhand goings-on surprised her. The Unwins were crooked, but no more or less than any of the card sharps, pawnbrokers, bird duffers or child kidnappers who populated the city of London. So what if they showed the client top-quality mahogany for their coffin but actually used cheap board? Who cared if they used tin nameplates instead of the promised silver? What did it matter if they stripped a corpse naked and took his gold watch instead of burying him, as his nearest and dearest had requested, dressed for an evening on the town? None of it was her concern. She couldn’t afford to worry about rich people who had money enough to spend on fancy funerals. Not if she wanted to keep her job.
Grace kept her eyes down as, following the coffin, the bereaved’s family, friends and acquaintances entered the church. A great number of those who considered themselves important members of society were there, for, since leaving the army, the dead man had been a shining example of a good citizen; maintaining charities, opening homes for unfortunates, even putting himself at risk by going about the London alleyways at night handing out blankets. He’d had a special interest in homeless and fallen women and worked tirelessly to try and reform them, sometimes even taking them into his own home to train them for domestic service.
Grace watched from under lowered lids as, two by two, the mourners went into the church: the ladies who were able to overcome their grief sufficiently to attend the funeral wearing the very latest in Parisian-style mourning gowns (full bishop sleeves, vast wide skirts over boned crinolines, impenetrable black veils falling from head to floor). The men were no less fashionable in their own way, for stockists of mourning wear put it about as certain truth that it was unlucky to keep mourning clothes in the house; they should be purchased afresh with each death. Thus, as George Unwin was fond of saying, the dark clouds of bereavement had silver linings.
It was when nearly all the mourners had entered the church that Grace experienced a strange and unpleasant frisson. Thinking about it after, she couldn’t determine which of her senses had caused the unease; had she sensed a faint aroma, an icy finger down her spine, a sudden dizziness,