My mother was buried a few days later. Only three were in attendance. The coffin and arrangements were handled by Mrs. Holmes. It was not her responsibility to pay for my mother's burial, but it was a kindness on her part to take it upon herself. It was a gesture that I could not adequately express gratitude for or repay.
The doctor's preliminary judgment was that my mum had a growth on her brain that pushed too far and eventually killed her. They think her blindness may have been a manifestation of this.
Mrs. Holmes did not act shocked when told about my mother's infirmity, apparently already aware of it. Her silent acceptance of the disability, unbeknownst to me, was another consideration that was owed thanks. I was not in any condition to do so, however, and lived the next few weeks in a bad temper.
After the quiet services, I stayed seated on the damp patch of earth that she lay buried under. I dug my fingers absently into the soft soil, fingering the clump of violets that had been placed there.
She was only six feet away from me, but I never felt farther from her.
He came and sat by me as the sun was disappearing over the horizon and filtering pink and purple rays through the trees.
I turned to face him, my eyes were unfocused, but I felt as if was seeing him clearly for the first time. He avoided my gaze and stared out into the field. He settled on his knees, his dark black trousers dug thoughtlessly into the ground.
It was odd seeing him turn away from me. He was not one to be easily intimidated. Seeing the suffering of another seemed to stir some emotion in his usually cold demeanor; he did not appear to know what to say to me.
He looked very tired.
My eyes traveled over his features, as he did his best to appear as though he did not notice my scrutiny. There were a few random freckles on the left side of his face that I had never noticed before. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
Tears that I did not know I was shedding spread across his face where my skin grazed his. My lips near his ear, I spoke to him softly, my mind far from where we were. "I remember now, what I was running from."
He shifted his head to look at me, his face so near to my own that he regarded me from an awkward angle. I noticed his discomfort but would not turn away. He did not look as though he knew what I was speaking of.
"The scar," I elaborated, "I fell running from our home. We were being chased. She - we - were forced out, because of what she was."
"Mary," His voice was low, husky with stifled emotion. I knew then that I did not need to explain what I had so recently learned about my mother. I wondered how long he had known.
I leaned towards him, my skin suddenly feeling warm as I slipped an arm around his waist. Emotional upset made me cleave to him, creating an almost irrational hunger to be as near to him as possible.
He pulled away suddenly, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He helped me up as I crushed my face into his neck, not willing to let him pull away so easily. He bent to pluck a lone flower from the humble bouquet, slipping it into my hand. As we started our walk back to the carriage that lay ready to bear us away from St. Patrick's, I could feel his heart hammering against where my shoulder snuggled into his chest. I laid my head on him.
He let me rest there, and that was what I needed.