Chapter 29: Fate

At nine o'clock on Sunday morning, everyone congregated at the front door. Arthur nervously counted heads to make sure everyone was there, as though they were all going on a daytrip to the country. It took a moment before they noticed that someone was missing.

"Father, Miss Leckie isn't here," Mary quipped.

"Miss Leckie isn't coming," Arthur muttered. "Too inappropriate. I can't—" he blinked. "Well, come on. It would be disrespectful to be late."

Richard, Charlotte, and James exchanged significant looks. Arthur led the way outside, followed by Kingsley, and Richard moved forward to escort Mary. Charlotte checked herself in the mirror. She had become increasingly obsessed with her reflection, but seemed to be developing a contradictory phobia of mirrors.

James seized her arm and pushed her through the door. "You look fine!" he hissed in her ear as they went to the carriage.

"I don't know. I mean, Mary certainly isn't anywhere near the same size as me, and it's got to be obvious how much I let out the dress."

"No one will be able to tell," he insisted, doing his best not to become irritated. The fact that she was fighting him was entirely out of character. He had yet to get used to her constant changes in mood, and was often completely bewildered by them.

The six of them had a difficult time fitting into the carriage, and there was very little privacy during the journey to town. Thankfully, the ride was short and did not trouble Charlotte, as James had worried it would. They all waked in silence to the graveyard. Arthur went to have a word with Reverend Maltby. Charlotte suddenly looked worried.

"It's not going to be an open casket, is it?" she whispered to James.

He grimaced, remembering Sylvia's funeral.

"It isn't bad," he assured her. "She'll be nicely made-up. But I'm sure no one would blame you if you couldn't look."

"I'll look. Are we still leaving afterwards?"

He smiled. "We'll get back and pack as soon as it's appropriate. I know you want to get home."

She sniffed, reminding him irresistibly of Mrs. du Maurier. "Well, if it hadn't been for your tantrum last night," she said stiffly.

He had to chuckle at this behavior. When she made an effort to like the others, to be proper like Mary and Jean and everyone else, it wasn't fake. It was charming, an act she put on for his benefit.

He heard very little of what the Reverend said. His mind was busily imprinting images of his wife—the way she looked in profile, the way her dress flowed behind her as the breeze stirred it, the twinkle in her eyes that he was sure only he could see. It had only recently begun to sink in that she had his child. His. He thought he might be composing a poem for her. It was not something that had ever occurred to him where Mary was concerned. Though of course, he thought bitterly, it wasn't as though she needed it. Gilbert had probably written volumes about her before James ever found out what was going on.

Louise never knew about Arthur and Jean. Because James had promised not to tell her. Was she better off that way? Yes. She had to be.

Charlotte had inched closer to him. He caught a last, brief glimpse of Louise before the coffin was lowered into the hole—grave. Earth. Just before it reached the bottom, the ropes holding it snapped. Charlotte clutched his hand as the casket hit the dirt with a thud. Mary dropped a bouquet of flowers on top of it. Arthur threw in a handful of soil. Kingsley followed suit. James and Charlotte turned away. Louise was taken care of for eternity. May she rest in peace.

"What now?" Charlotte asked.

"I think we can get going. I don't really want to stay any longer. Let me see if I can get Arthur's attention."

Arthur turned around and almost immediately found where James and Charlotte were standing. The two men made eye contact. James nodded once. Arthur shrugged. "We'll call you," James mouthed. Arthur waved his hand, making a feeble attempt not to look hurt and upset at their decision to leave. Charlotte noticed.

"James, we shouldn't leave now. We don't have to go home."

He stared at her. "What are you talking about?"

"Look at him." She gestured at Arthur, who had turned his back on them and was standing forlornly next to the open grave. "We cannot leave his wife's funeral. I thought you were very fond of Louise."

"I was. I am. That's what makes this so hard. I can't look at that blasted wooden box knowing that Louise is in it."

She stamped her foot in exasperation. "How would you feel if Arthur acted like this at my funeral? I can't envision you being particularly understanding if Arthur wanted to leave after half an hour."

"How dare you talk that way? We're talking about Louise, not you."

"I think I'm perfectly within my rights to—"

"We're leaving. Go and say goodbye to Arthur."

He watched her go over and stand next to Arthur, immediately feeling guilty for the way he had treated her. It wasn't her fault. He was the reason she got upset so easily. He just didn't like to think that a day might come when she would no longer be there. Realistically, she ought to outlive him by twenty or thirty years. He didn't even want to think about the fact that Sylvia should have lived longer.

But if he was perfectly honest with himself, Charlotte's future was not certain. Her untimely and tragic death was a distinct possibility, and statistically it was likely that she wouldn't live more than six months. Eight would be almost too much to hope for. It was entirely unfair. He suddenly realized what she meant when she told him she was frightened. She wasn't worried about the prospect of motherhood. She was afraid to die.

His brain frantically calculated the possibilities again, deciding quickly that there was too much at risk. He could not afford to be angry or even frustrated with her anymore. Somehow, he had to give her the strength to live.

She came back.

"I'm sorry," he blurted at once. "Is it all right if we get out of here?"

She didn't protest, so he led her out of the cemetery. They went into the church for privacy. They sat in a pew near the front. Her back was to a massive stained-glass window depicting the Resurrection of Christ. The sunlight came through at an angle and lit the wall behind her. The rainbow poured over her hair and onto the front of her dress.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I just don't like to think of you not being here."

"Nor do I."

"It upsets me. I'd miss you too much."

"James, the knowledge that you could die before I do is always in the back of my mind. But I love you too much to let that stop me."

"It's a painful thought, that fate could somehow be cruel enough to take you before your time and leave me too long, to wither away alone."

"But we can't stop it."

He had no reply to this. He wanted to tell her that surely their love for each other could prevent any harm from coming to either of them, but even he knew that to do so would not be so much pretend as a foolish lie. He couldn't lie to Charlotte.

Instead he took her hand, his way of promising to do what he could.

She smiled slightly. "It's rather ironic, you know."

He blinked. "What is?"

"Well, you refused to consent to a minister at our wedding, yet you've brought me into church and declared your love for me in the presence of God."

"I suppose I have."

They watched the sun fade from behind the glass, sitting in silence until everything around them was almost pitch black.