Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [68]
Grace pondered on this, then spent ten minutes or so quietly worrying about Lily before the Unwins returned to the room, the widow trailing disconsolately behind.
‘If you don’t wish to use the train, then having a mere two horses for the leading carriage looks rather paltry,’ Mrs Unwin was saying as they entered. ‘It seems to signify – if I may be so bold – a certain indifference on the part of the relatives left on earth.’
There came a murmur of protest from the widow.
‘Last year, someone widowed in your very road chose to have four noble beasts to pull her husband’s coffin to paradise, and they made the procession look quite magnificent with their feathery plumes and flowing manes, did they not, Mr Unwin?’
‘They did! For they stood as symbols of the great love the woman bore her husband.’
‘Oh dear, then. If you really think so . . .’ the widow said.
Mrs Unwin turned towards Grace. ‘And while we are on the subject of the funeral cortège,’ she said, ‘have you thought about mutes?’
Grace breathed in gently and stood, her fingertips touching, as still as a waxwork.
‘I had not,’ said the widow. ‘I hadn’t realised such things would be needed.’
‘Mutes are very much in demand at society funerals,’ Mrs Unwin said. ‘They can come with hooded cloaks, or appear as Grace is now: with black bonnets and trailing ribbons. “Weepers”, we call the ribbons – they symbolise the tears shed.’
‘I see,’ the widow said, staring balefully at Grace. ‘But I’d not really –’
‘They usually come in pairs,’ Mr Unwin went on smoothly, ‘and spaced each side of a front door can look very tragic. I think you’ll agree that Grace here has a most profoundly heart-rending face.’
The widow sighed heavily and sniffed into a black-edged handkerchief, but agreed to two mutes. Grace waited to be dismissed, for she had more work to do on the hair brooch and she wanted to finish it before the daylight went. The widow was escorted to the front door, and Rose had only just closed it behind her when there was a sudden heavy knocking.
The door was opened again and Rose began a polite greeting, but this was cut short by Sylvester Unwin barging into the hall and heading straight for the red room.
‘Got it, George!’ he said, holding aloft a manila envelope. ‘What we’ve been waiting for!’
Grace went hot, then cold. It was the certificate. It had to be.
She was dismissed in an instant, but instead of returning to the small sewing room, stayed close by in the narrow corridor which joined the public front of the house to the workrooms at the back.
‘Good forgery?’ she heard George Unwin ask.
‘The best. Those men have cut their teeth on printing banknotes!’ said his cousin.
There came the sound of an envelope being opened and Grace, her heart pounding, imagined a paper being unfolded.
‘Looks sweet to me,’ she heard George Unwin say after a few moments.
‘Though what it should look like is anyone’s guess,’ said his wife.
There was a short silence when Grace presumed they were all reading the document.
‘When are you going to take it?’ his cousin asked.
‘Close of business tonight,’ George Unwin replied.
Mrs Unwin gave a little titter of delight. ‘It shouldn’t look too pristine, mind,’ she said. ‘Remember it’s supposed to be some years old. Crease it; rub some soot from the fire on it.’
‘Wise words!’ George Unwin said jovially. ‘That’s wives for you.’
There was another short silence, as if the document were being returned to the envelope, and then George Unwin suggested drinks all round in the back parlour. Mrs Unwin said she would leave that to the men – she had her girls to supervise – and quick as a flash Grace darted down the corridor and around the corner.
She went straight to the small sewing room, hung up her bonnet and cloak and picked up her embroidery. It was, perhaps, lucky that