Mourning Wreaths

For the first time in three days, Finis was alone with Maudeline.

The drawing room was still and quiet. The distant sounds of murmurs and footsteps carried from the hall. Finis stared out of the window into the square, his back to Maudeline.

The Van Dorts had hung a large black wreath on their front door. Finis had noticed yesterday but hadn't mentioned it to them. The funeral carriage, long and black and draped with black bunting, waited just outside.

"This is, without a doubt, the most inconsiderate thing you have ever done, Maudeline."

Finis very rarely called his wife by her given name. Today, under the circumstances, he thought it justified. No reply came.

With difficulty, aided by his diamond-topped walking stick, Finis turned from the window and walked across the room. For a long while he stood, frowning down at his wife, who lay there silent and cold. The sickly sweet smell of the floral arrangements surrounding the casket hit him full force in the nostrils. The scent seemed to be covering up something much more pungent, but he tried to ignore it. He didn't want to think about that.

"Come on, get on with it," he finally grumbled at her, keeping his voice low so that none of those gathered outside the room would hear. "It's been three days."

Maudeline remained silent. Finis tapped his walking stick against the floor. Twice, three times, four times, quickly. It was a habit of his that had always irritated her. When that got no response, he cleared his throat.

"I know you can, I've seen it," he said, recalling the skeletons in the hall. An eyeball falling into his soup. Grandfather Everglot, waving a sherry glass. "Say something."

After nearly seventy years, this couldn't be all there was to it. After most of a lifetime, he was used to her. They had routines, they had ways, he was accustomed to her voice and her moods and her habits. The past three days had been melancholy and off-putting, empty and strange, lonely despite his never being alone once.

"I don't know where you've put the telephone directory," he tried, doing his best to keep his tone annoyed and gruff. Expectant, he looked down at Maudeline, fully prepared for her to take the penny off of one of her eyes, glare at him, and make a remark about how there was no need for a directory as there was no one worth telephoning, and besides, he didn't know how to work the new telephone anyway...

Finis could hear her voice so clearly in his head he was sure for a moment that she had spoken. Only in his mind, though. Maudeline did not shift, did not make a sound. She was simply there, supine in her elaborate casket, arms folded over her chest, a white lily tucked into one hand. This last must have been Victoria's doing, or one of his granddaughters'.

Tentatively Finis reached out a hand. The only thing he did more rarely than call his wife by her first name was touch her. In fact, that night with the dead had been the only other time. He wasn't sure now which of them had started it, which of them had snatched up the other one's hand. As soon as they'd calmed down, of course, they'd let go, and had never spoken of it again. On the few very rare occasions he'd come close to touching her afterward, she'd always moved pointedly away before he could make contact. His wife never did like to be touched.

Finis put his fingertips on hers, and then, before he could think better of it, his palm. Her long, lean fingers, always elegant in life, were motionless. Cold and lifeless. The lifelessness of her, the deadness of her, seemed to leech its way out of her skin into his, turning his whole arm icy cold. It was a cold that seemed to reach all the way up into his chest, grabbing at his heart. Quickly he snatched his hand back, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

"Maudeline," he said, and before he had figured out what he wanted to say next, the drawing room door creaked open behind him. Finis closed his eyes and took a breath. The spell seemed broken.

"Father?" came Victoria's voice. Finis did not turn.

Victoria joined him at the open casket. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and sad, but they were dry. His daughter's presence was warm and solid there next to him, a comfort he'd never admit. When she put her hand lightly on his shoulder, he was too surprised to move away.

"Are you ready to leave now, Father?" she asked, sounding old. He hadn't noticed her voice becoming that of an older woman's, whenever it had occurred.

Slowly he turned to find the men there in the doorway, all in black and already hatted, respectfully waiting for his say-so. He glanced down at Maudeline, taking in her features one last time. She'd not moved. Not a twitch. Not a sound. Not a word. She'd never move nor speak again. One last look, and he closed the casket lid.

Finis stepped aside. His son-in-law, aided by his granddaughters' husbands, moved aside the wreaths and vases. Taking up their positions, they lifted the casket and carried it from the room. With the casket gone, the drawing room, the house, the world, all seemed more empty than he could ever have imagined.

Again, Victoria's gentle hand on his arm. He resisted the impulse to pull away. "We'd best leave for the churchyard, now," she said, her voice soft. Finis nodded, cleared his throat, and tapped his walking stick against the floor, just once.

Leaning on his stick and with his daughter close behind, Finis left the room without a backward glance.

End

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Author's Note:
I've found myself very stuck on my other story, and I was playing around with this as a prompt...and then it evolved. I wanted to explore just a simple scene, without too much backstory-just dropped into the middle of something intimate and sad, a lot left to suggestion. I also really wanted to write from Finis' perspective, as he's a very neglected character-almost as much as Maudeline! Any thoughts or ideas would be very useful, I think this drabble could have other incarnations beyond what I was playing with here.