Sedfugitinterea, fugitinreparabiletempus (while, the irreplaceable time escapes) ~Virgil
Prologue
March 1943
"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul. He guides me in the path of righteousness for His name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, They comfort me…"
Lettie walked, head bowed, her coal colored Mary Jane's coming into view, and then disappearing behind her, with each reluctant step. She followed the soles in front of her, the fleecy footprints left behind in the snow like a map to a place she didn't want to go. Shoulder to shoulder and toe to heel with the other mourners, Lettie allowed their momentum to move her forward. The cemetery seemed particularly muted that morning as the procession made its way down the narrow path. Perhaps it was the still falling snow that buffered all of the usual noise, or maybe it was the prescient instinct of nature, respectfully quiet in the face of their human suffering. Either way, the lack of sound from the natural world magnified each crunching footfall, every sniffle and shaky breath.
The mausoleum hovered at the edge of Lettie's vision, the large stone dome creeping into view over the tops of everyone's heads. In front of her, Sybbie's head swiveled to the right. Lettie mimicked her older cousin, turning in time to see their family's burial plot. She knew which memorial Sybbie sought out.
Behind them, men and women of the village watched from a safe distance. The men held their hats in their hands, the women wore their Sunday finery. They had lined the street before the funeral mass, cramming into the church to stand in the back. They'd come out on this winter's day to pay their respects, Aunt Edith had said. Mama retorted that they were there to gawk.
If it hadn't been for Amelia, whose gloved hand held tight to her own, and who had jerked her back as she'd kept walking, Lettie would have stumbled straight into Marigold. The head of the congregation had come to a full stop. The pallbearers; Papa, Uncle Tom and Uncle Bertie, George, Charlie and Jonathan, sons and grandsons of the deceased, held tight to the brass rails encircling the delicately carved casket they carried. Their faces were strained by the same grief Lettie felt, rather than by the heft of their burden. Lettie screwed her eyes shut as she thought of Granny, frail and depleted, cushioned and encased by the satin pillows. Granny had been dying for years, it seemed, sometimes quicker and sometimes slower, but it had been happening despite all of their interventions for a long time. Lettie was too young to be comforted by the end of Granny's suffering. She wanted her back.
"Heavenly Father, we thank you for your grace and your goodness, for your message of hope, for this woman's life and how it was spent, for all of the lives she touched. We pray that we might all aspire to live as well as your daughter Cora did. We thank you that she is now safe in your presence. Give courage and faith to those who are bereaved, to her husband, her daughters and sons-in-laws, her grandchildren, her mother and friends, that they may have strength to meet the days ahead in the comfort of a reasonable and holy hope, in the joyful expectation of eternal life with those they love."
Donk stood right behind the coffin, so close he could reach out and stroke his hand across it's lacquered wood, but his arms stayed stiffly by his side. His back rigid, he had made his way through the cemetery purposefully alone, rebuffing the presence of his daughters. Mama and Aunt Edith had skulked away, keeping a step behind him during the short walk to the mausoleum. Lettie's mind filled in the space beside him with Granny's graceful figure. She wondered if her grandfather had been imagining the same.
"Come, Lettie," Amelia whispered into her ear.
Lettie shook her head forcefully. Her breathing grew rapid. The door had creaked open and the dank, earthy air plugged up inside rushed to scratch at her cheek, like the fingers of Death itself. She'd had nightmares about the place; for the last two nights, after George had explained in a hushed voice how the ground was too frozen for a proper burial. Granny would have to stay in the vault until Spring. In Lettie's dreams, the mausoleum was full, floor to ceiling, with the winter's dead.
Her Granny's room at Downton was pale blue, with golden flowers climbing the walls, in the perpetual prime of their bloom. It was always sunny and warm, defying both weather and season, and Lettie had often dozed like a drunken cat at the foot of Granny's downy bed, while Granny read to her or told her stories of her mother and aunts. To think they would leave her now, in this dark and decrepit place, made her ill and Lettie wrapped a protective arm around her middle, nausea making her mouth water. She looked around frantically, calculating if she could make it behind one of the tombstones to privately retch.
"Come now, darling," her sister-in-law cooed, and Lettie obeyed, her insides going numb. She didn't want to cause a scene, as much as she didn't want to go in.
Amelia led her behind the others as they formed a half-moon around the casket. Cousin Isobel gripped Great Granny Violet by the elbow as the centenarian shuffled by with the aid of her walker. Her usual austerity withered, Granny Violet looked uncharacteristically small and brittle, shakily lowering herself into a chair, her back curved by loss, her head trembling uncontrollably from palsy. The ancient woman sighed, a phlegmatic, sad sound before touching a lace cloth to the corner of her eye. Violet's symptoms of grief were Lettie's unraveling, as it became clear how irrevocably their world had been altered. It should be you, the thought flashed through Lettie's mind too quickly to brush it away mid sentiment, and she gasped, startled by her own cruelty. She felt betrayed and twisted, by time, by God, by circumstance, even somehow by Granny. If old Violet could figure out how to stay alive for a century, why couldn't have Granny?
"It will be alright." It took Amelia's whispered words for Lettie to realize she was crying.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister, here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself. Amen"
The smell of frankincense warred with the smell of earth as the Reverend lit a candle. He waved his hand in the sign of the cross over Granny's casket, blessed himself, placed a hand on Donk's shoulders and then wordlessly slipped away. There was a low murmur as friends and acquaintances peeled away from them, until finally it was just them, the family. No one spoke or moved, and it reminded Lettie of that last night, when Granny was struggling so terribly, and Dr Reed had instructed them to prepare. They had circled her then, closing around her as they did now, until she'd taken her last breath.
And as they had that night, they waited for Donk, for his cue or command as to what they should do now.
Her grandfather stood motionless by the head of Granny's casket. His eyes pointed down, he seemed to be far off, as he had sometimes been since that night, every so often shaking himself out of his fugue to insist on some antiquated detail. They all remained silent, even Granny Violet, until George discreetly cleared his throat. The noise sent Mama to Donk's side. She whispered something to him, but Lettie's grandfather ignored her and plucked the white rose from his lapel. Bringing the fragile petals to his lips, he then placed the flower on Granny's coffin, one last kiss between. It was too much for Lettie and she turned to Amelia, curling into her warm side, biting the inside of her cheek.
The wind howled outside, battering against the room's window, the glass trembling under its strength. She could see the snow beyond the pane, buckets of white confetti swirling around in the moonlight. Lettie curled her legs up tighter, chin touching the knobby points of her knees, and she hugged her calves until they hurt. Lettie tossed on her bed, trying to find sleep, or at least exhaustion, but neither came. Instead, her heart beat frantically, a nervous energy quivering under her skin, not unlike the wild storm beyond her window. Needing to be free of the growing claustrophobia of her room and the memories that nighttime prodded to life, Lettie jumped from her bed and tugged on her dressing gown.
Entering the gallery, she had expected...something. An alarm, a banshee's wail, a tear in the fabric of normality, something other than the quiet that permeated the upper hallway. Each shuttered door closed off a room that was occupied by someone that had just lost Granny too, and yet, there was no muffled keening, no agitated stirring. It was as if today had been like every other, and that feeling had Lettie growing more anxious and desperate. They were all forgetting her already. If only she could run to Granny's room, Granny would gather her into her arms. Somehow she always knew how to make the black holes of Lettie's despair disappear.
Lettie slipped down the stairs, each step, no matter how carefully placed, elicited an annoyed groan from the ancient house. Tip-toeing across the saloon, she slid her back close to the wall and shrunk into the shadows as she heard footsteps above her. Apparently, she wasn't the only one suffering through a night that wouldn't end, and she tilted her head upward, straining to hear any other clue. The muffled sound of a door closing, and then the gurgle of water racing through the walls, winding down the house's copper plumbing told her someone was in a washroom upstairs. Lettie guessed it to be in the east wing, where the boys rooms were, but she couldn't be certain. After the clanking cough of the pipes died down, the house settled into its slumber once again. Lettie exhaled and crept toward the library. Reading always seemed to help, and she thought of all the books tucked into the shelves, trying to determine which one would be light enough in subject to help her forget the present, or tug her into sleep.
The fire that had been smoldering all day was fizzling to embers, leaving the room chilly. Throwing two more logs into the firebox, Lettie used the poker to prod it back to life and flames eventually stretched up the chase, taking some of the bite from the air. The low light sent flickering shadows to the far walls of the room. The crackling of wood and the tap-tap of sleet against the windows provided a melancholy tune as Lettie meandered to the towering wall of books. Passing her fingers over the leather spines, she read the titles in her mind, the words tumbling over her still tongue. Guy de Maupassant, Homer, Shakespeare. Lettie shook her head, her eyes continuing to roam the stacks. She lingered at The Little Princess. It was a favorite, but Lettie left Sara Crewe and her tale behind. The story brought her to unstoppable tears in the best of times.
Lettie paused, the slick oil of a brand new book catching her attention. Thumbing it out of its slot, Lettie turned it over. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. She rested the book against her chest. Amelia's parents had brought it with them when they'd come over for the wedding. They'd brought a treasure chest of American books with them. Lettie was glad to see they had made their way into the library.
Scavenging under the ottoman, Lettie found the basket of blankets Baxter had hidden there long ago, ensuring that a warm woolen throw would be close by whenever Granny was well enough to join the family in the library. Lettie pulled one out and wrapped it around herself before falling onto the sofa. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and through the crude animal smell that always lingered on wool, the wiry fibers emitted a trace of Granny's lavender lotion. It filled her, and Lettie's eyes welled up.
"Oh Granny," Lettie whispered.
A creak of the floorboards had Lettie clutching the blanket and she jumped to her knees, heart hammering her ribs. Donk shuffled into the room, blinking with confusion at the vibrant fire. He turned his head and his eyes widened, as startled by her presence as she was his. Lettie watched in anxious fascination as several emotions rolled over Donk's features. His immediate irritation showed in the grim line of his lips but quickly, the anger faltered and his shoulders sagged. Sighing, Donk went to the beverage cart and decanted whiskey into a crystal tumbler, letting the amber liquid flow until it threatened to spill over the brim. In a second glass, he poured half a jigger. Carefully, he walked both drinks to the sofa. Lettie scooted to the corner, making room for her grandfather, and like a contortionist, he managed to collapse onto the couch without a drop spilling. He took a long sip of the full one before holding out the other glass to her.
Lettie took a breath, ready to point out that she was only thirteen, but then she closed her mouth. What did it matter? Shrugging, she took the glass from his hands quickly, before he could realize his mistake. Tilting the glass back, Lettie tensed, waiting for the alcohol to choke her. Surprisingly, the whiskey went down sweet and smooth, and Lettie sucked the taste off of her tongue. She took another, longer sip.
"Easy," Donk admonished. "It's just to help you sleep. If you swill it down you'll make yourself sick."
Lettie nodded, cradling her glass against her belly. Already, hot fingers of comfort spread through her abdomen. She felt drowsy and loose, weighed down and light at the same time. Donk brought his own drink to his lips and drained the contents.
"Will it help you?" Lettie hiccuped. "Sleep, I mean?"
"It seems so cold, doesn't it?" Her grandfather asked quietly, his own question somehow an answer to hers. His words deflated the airy feeling the alcohol had induced, like a balloon untied and let go. Lettie's vision blurred as she blinked at her grandfather's profile.
"It just seems so cold now…" Donk repeated, staring into his empty glass.