Sometimes, you really hate the way the world is.
Ever since birth, your whole life has been mapped out for you. As the eldest daughter of a wealthy man, your entire purpose in life is to marry a man as rich as your father, and carry on his lineage. So far, half of that purpose has been fulfilled, as in your twentieth year you were married off to a man by the name of James Scottington. Your husband runs a successful import and shipping business, though you're unsure of the exact details. Your husband outright refuses to share any details with you, saying that such things would only 'scramble the fragile female brain'. He treats you less like a wife and more like an inconvenience.
In the two years since your wedding, he's done nothing to help you fall in love with him. The first week after your wedding, he'd taken you to bed every night, determined to get you with child as quickly as possible. When that week had ended in the arrival of your menses, he'd been livid, saying that you'd failed him as a wife already. Still, he'd been willing to write the incident off as an unfortunate failure.
As soon as your cycle had ended, he'd all but dragged you into the bedroom to try again. Day in day out he'd tried you get you with child, but to no avail; your menses came yet again.
For an entire year, he'd kept on trying, desperate for an heir. Despite all if his efforts, he failed. He was beyond furious with you. He began to demand a divorce, saying that he wanted to be rid of his 'faulty' wife. However, failure to produce children doesn't count as reasonable grounds for divorce, and so he'd been promptly shoved out of the solicitor's office. He'd taken his frustration out on you, beating you to within an inch of your life. When questioned by your family physician, you'd lied, and told him you took a tumble down the stairs. The physician seemed sceptical, but she wasn't in a position to question you. After all, it's only a criminal matter if the victim is brave enough to press charges.
The next year had been much easier on you. Your husband has all but given hope of conceiving a child with you, and as such only imposes on you for sexual intercourse once a month. He's even kicked you out of the main bedroom, allowing you to take one of the guest rooms as your own. However, he hasn't done that out of kindness. He's done it so that he can bring random women back to the manor and have his way with them in peace. Yep. For at least a year now he's been cheating on you, seemingly with a new woman every week. If you'd married James for love, you'd be heartbroken, but as it is you can't bring yourself to care. He's welcome to whatever woman he likes, so long as he doesn't injure you again. Maybe he'll end up knocking one of them up. Maybe that's his goal. Get one up the spout, then we'll pass it off as our own. After all, he wouldn't want to have an illegitimate child. Or maybe that'll be grounds enough for divorce. Then you'll be shipped off back to your family home, if they'd even be willing to take in a divorcee. You hate to think about all the shame you've brought down upon your family by failing your only real purpose…
You try to bring your thoughts back to your current situation.
Currently, you're wandering the streets of London, looking for a specific shop.
This morning, you'd received a letter from your elder brother Edmund, informing you of a family tragedy.
The letter had read;
Dearest Sister,
It pains me to tell you this via letter, but I fear things here are far too busy to warrant me paying you a visit. Our dearest mother, whom we both adore, sadly lost her ongoing battle with illness on the thirtieth of June, 1888. Her passing was peaceful, as it occurred in her sleep. I myself discovered her body the next morning. I'm sorry you weren't made aware of her deteriorating condition sooner, but I didn't want to impose on you. Yet now, I fear that I must do just that.
Busy as I am, I cannot make any arrangements for her burial. Therefore, I would ask you to act on behalf of our family, and make the arrangements for us. I shall finance the entire affair, so you need not worry about paying for it. You see to it that she gets the best send off possible, and I'll see to it that the relevant parties are suitably compensated for their effort.
I have enclosed within this letter a copy of Mother's body measurements, as I've no doubt The Undertaker shall need them. Speaking of which, I've also enclosed the address of the finest undertaker in all of London. I suggest paying him a visit before you do anything else.
Again, I apologise. This all must come as quite a shock. Still, stiff upper lip, eh? It's what she would have wanted.
All the best,
Edmund
His letter was unexpected, but not entirely surprising. You'd long suspected that your mother didn't have long left. At least now, she might be able to find peace…
You'd taken Edmund's advice, and header straight to the undertaker. He was a horrible man, with greasy hair and a crooked smile. He'd spent the whole of your conversation staring at your cleavage, paying very little attention to your words. As soon as he'd finished talking, he'd agreed to see to your mother all right… on the condition you let him have his way with you! You'd stormed out of there immediately. Honestly, if he's London's best, then you'd hate to see its worst!
You may well end up doing just that at this rate. After your unfortunate episode with London's Finest Creep, you'd taken it upon yourself to visit several shops in town, and ask if anyone knew of another undertaker. Most people seemed totally clueless, all of them wanting to know what was wrong with the very best. You'd tried to play it off as mere curiosity, not wanting to destroy the man's reputation.
You'd all but given up hope of finding another undertaker, until your salvation had come in a form you didn't expect; a small boy, with a mysterious-looking butler. Upon enquiring about an undertaker in a local toy shop, one of the customers (the butler), had tapped you on the shoulder and given you an address. The small boy had explained that although the undertaker he'd suggested is brilliant, he's very… eccentric. Still, the lad had reassured you that this undertaker was trustworthy, and that's good enough a recommendation for you. After all, children tend to be better judges of character than adults. You'd thanked the boy, and set off to find the address he'd given you.
That was half an hour ago, and you're slowly beginning to give up hope. That is, until you spot a slightly crooked sign above a door. The sign reads 'Undertaker'. Well, that's a good sign.
You apprehensively enter the building, hoping that the proprietor is nicer than the last one you visited.
The shop is a little bigger than it appears from the outside, though not by much. The walls are lined with many fine-looking coffins, as well as a few decorative oddments. There's a desk of sorts at the back of the room, behind which sits a peculiar-looking man.
The man appears to be wearing all black, with the exception of a long grey sash across his torso. He has a hat perched atop his head, and his eyes are covered up by his long, silver fringe. You wonder how he can see what he's writing with his hair all in his eyes like that.
You see his mouth curve up into a smile as his head moves up to face you, acknowledging your presence. 'Good afternoon, Miss. After one of me coffins, are you? Take a seat, and we'll talk about it.' He gestures to a bench just in front of his desk. You take a seat, trying to act as demurely as possible, all the while trying to hide your nerves. After your meeting with the other undertaker, you're concerned he'll try to do something similar…
Still, he's really your only other option at this point. You should at least give him a chance. 'Thank you, Mr…?' knowing his name might put you at ease a bit.
He smiles again. 'Just call me The Undertaker, me dear, everyone else does. Would you like a cuppa? I'm going to have to ask you a few delicate questions, and I find nothing puts people at ease more than a cuppa!' Well, he seems a lot nicer than the last man so far, at least. Still, best to keep your guard up. This could all be an act for all you know.
'No thank you, Mr Undertaker. At this point, I'm still looking into several other possibilities. I was just curious what kind of prices you charge, and I wanted to examine the quality of your work, too. No need for an extended conversation.' That may sound cold, but hopefully your professionalism will get him to take you seriously, and deter him from acting inappropriately.
His smile falters a bit. 'I see, Miss. A word of advice if I may? Avoid the undertaker in the high street. I know he has a formidable reputation, but the man himself is less than reputable. I've seen many pretty young ladies such as yourself leave his shop in tears. Something to do with the way he expects women to pay him? He's a disgrace to the profession, if you ask me. We undertakers take pride in our work, and part of our jobs is to comfort the relatives of the deceased, not take advantage of them. If you don't find my work to your liking, I'll be more than willing to direct you to a competitor, so long as you don't go to him.' Oh, so the other undertaker has a reputation for treating women like he treated you? You wonder if your brother knows that…
You sigh heavily. 'I've already met him. Regrettably, I might add. He's just as unsavoury as you've heard, I assure you.' Your body convulses violently as you recall your interaction with the man.
Undertaker lets out a chuckle at your response. 'I see. Well, I can promise you I won't do anything of the sort. Total professionalism, that's what you get with me. Okay, maybe not total professionalism, but I won't try to take advantage of you. I might just try to make you laugh though, so watch out for that!' You can't help but smile. 'Ah, so she smiles, eh? A ray of sunshine in these dark times. I do so love to see a pretty smile. In fact, keep giving me smiles like that, and I'll make you a coffin for no money at all!' Is he serious? He'd really just give you one for nothing? He really must be after something!
Your smile fades slightly. 'That's okay, Mr Undertaker. My brother is the one paying for the funeral, not I. I'm really just here to deal with the specifics. Speaking of which, do you think you could make me a coffin with these measurements?' You hand him the paper with your mother's measurements.
Undertaker peruses them with great intent, before tilting his head up to face you again. 'That won't be a problem, but I thought you were looking at your options?' Oh, yeah. You did say that, didn't you? He must have made you forget that somehow…
You shrug. Not the most appropriate action for a lady, but one that fits the situation. 'So I did. I guess you won me over somehow.' The air seems to grow tense for a moment, as if there's something lingering in the air around you. You write it off as nerves, but it feels like something more. Like something you do not wish to think of…
Undertaker seems to notice it too, as his voice is a little different when he speaks again. 'I guess I did. It'll take a few days to create the bulk of the coffin, then we can discus an interior. What wood would you like it to be made from. Oh, and who am I burying? You didn't actually specify.' You didn't? That was a foolish oversight.
Time to rectify that, then. 'My mother. You're burying my mother. As for the wood, use the best that you have. I want her to have the best I can give her. If you write me out an invoice after the funeral, I give you my word that you'll be paid for your work. I'll see if I can arrange to give you a deposit when I next visit. Is that okay?' You really hope so. It seems as if you've actually found yourself a decent undertaker. You'd hate for your slightly unorthodox payment suggestion to ruin things.
Your words earn you a sympathetic smile. 'Don't start worrying about the Queen's Coins now, me dear. You've just lost your mum, after all. I'm sure you'll give me what I'm owed in due course. You seem an honest woman, and that's good enough for me. Let's just focus on giving your mum a good send off for now then, eh?' You're now certain you've made the right decision. You also want to find the little boy from before and buy him a chocolate bar. He couldn't have made a better recommendation!
You give Undertaker another huge smile. 'Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your kindness. Now, I do so hate to be rude, but I fear I must leave now. My husband is probably wondering where I am by now.' That's a lie. He probably doesn't care. You could stay out all night if you wanted to, and all he'd ask was if you'd done anything to give him grounds to divorce you. It's a very tempting thought…
Undertaker blushes slightly. 'Pardon me, my lady. I had no idea you were a married woman. May I take a name for my records before you leave?' You happily tell him your name. 'Ah, so it's Mrs Scottington. Hang on, you're not James Scottington's wife, are you?' You nod. 'Oh, dear. I'm sorry to hear that. No offence.' His blush gets even louder.
You can't stop the laugh that escapes your lips. 'That's okay, I'm sorry too. I'll see you in a few days, then?' You stand up, and make to leave, looking back at him for an answer when you reach the door.
He rushes over to you so he can open the door for you, almost stumbling over his robes as he does. 'I do hop so, me dear. Anyone with a laugh as beautiful as yours is welcome here anytime.' Now it's your turn to blush. No one has ever called to beautiful before…
You leave the shop before you can answer, saving yourself from giving him an embarrassing reply.
As you make your way home, your heart feels a tiny bit lighter than it did this morning. You're looking forward to speaking with the Undertaker again.
For purely professional reasons, of course.
