Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [83]
“Are you feeling better, ma’am?” Mabel asked, looking up from her needle. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you,” the old lady said, closing the door behind her. She sat down in the other chair. Mabel resumed stitching. It was growing dusk outside and the lamps were lit. The gaslight caught in the silver needle, making it look like a flash of light itself, weaving in and out of the cloth, in the thimble. Mabel was getting old too. Her knuckles were swollen, rheumatic. She did not walk as easily as she used to either. As always, the cloth she sewed was black. The old lady had worn black ever since Edmund died. Like the Queen, she was conspicuous in her mourning. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. Grief was an acceptable emotion, very appropriate. Everyone understood and sympathized. It was so much better than guilt, although to onlookers it could appear the same. She could weep, retreat to privacy, or ask for anything, which was freely granted. She was the center of attention and no questions were asked.
She very easily fell into the habit of being “bereaved.” There never seemed a suitable time to come out of black, and then it was too late. People assumed she was devastated by Edmund’s death. It became impossible to do anything but agree. She told people what she wanted them to believe, which in time she tried to believe herself. It was better that way.
Now Samuel Ellison had turned up out of God knew where, and everything was crashing in ruins.
Mabel was threading black beads onto her needle, stitching them on the bosom of the new dress. Why in damnation should Mariah wear black for the rest of her life for Edmund’s sake? He must be laughing in whatever hell he had gone to. It had never suited her, and did so even less now that she was old and sallow-skinned. And to put rouge on her face would make her look like a painted corpse. A painted corpse! That was how she felt, dead inside but still hurting, and ridiculous.
She wanted to tell Mabel to throw it away, make something of another color—maybe purple; that was half mourning. But lavender would not suit her either, in fact it would look even worse.
She was afraid to change. Everyone would ask why, and she did not want to mention Edmund at all, let alone offer any explanations. So she sat in silence, idle-fingered. Her head ached.
She did not go down to dinner. She dreaded listening to Caroline wittering on about Samuel Ellison, and far worse, she might talk about Edmund, ask questions, bring back memories. Of course, what Caroline recalled of him was the face everyone knew, the one the old lady herself had perpetuated deliberately. She could talk about his kindness, his charm, his ability to tell a story and bring it to life. She could recall Christmas, when they walked together through the snow to church on Christmas Eve, how he sang the old songs with such a rich voice.
Her throat ached. Tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. If only it could all have been like that!
Who was wrong? Was it she? Was she the one who was different, out of step, cold, stuck in some childish fantasy of the world, a woman who had grown old but had never grown up?
Then that was how it would be. She could not change now.
But this was unendurable. She would rather be dead.
Mabel came to her room and removed the dinner tray, the food half eaten. She said nothing. But then she could not. She had served the old lady for twenty years. They knew all kinds of intimate things about each other, physical things, habits, footsteps, a cough, the texture of skin and hair. And yet at heart they were also strangers. The old lady had never asked what Mabel thought or hoped for in life, what kept her awake at night, and Mabel