* * *
Cleo awoke the morning after her father’s death with a nearly debilitating headache after having cried herself to sleep. She had sent word to her Aunt Caroline, but it would take time for the missive to reach her and still longer for her to arrive. Groaning, Cleo rolled over in bed and pulled her pillow over her head in an attempt to hide from the day ahead. Today, she would have to go and speak with the undertaker about her father’s arrangements. It was a task that she was not looking forward to.
Mrs. McGrath entered the room carrying a breakfast tray. “My poor wee lamb,” the cook murmured as she moved about the room opening the curtains and setting the tray on Cleo’s lap.
Cleo sighed and removed the pillow from her face. “Must we face this day?”
“Aye, lass, I am afraid that we must.”
Cleo sat up and surveyed the tray. “I am not hungry.”
“Ye must eat whether ye wish tae or nae. Ye need tae keep yer strength up, lass.”
“I do not think that I can keep anything down.”
“Try some toast and tea, lass, if nothing else, but a wee bit o’ parritch would nae go amiss.”
“I will try.”
“That is all that I ask, lass.” Mrs. McGrath patted Cleo’s cheek affectionately, tears glistening in her eyes. The cook left and Cleo did her best to eat something, but every bite of food hit her stomach as if she were swallowing rocks.
Cleo shoved the tray aside, climbed out of bed, and readied herself for the day. Mrs. McGrath had set out Cleo’s black mourning dress and shawl, which only proved to accentuate her Greek heritage. Mourning attire made so many of the fair English roses of her acquaintance appear pale and drawn, but black made Cleo’s coloring shine. She studied her reflection in the looking glass, noted the dark circles under her eyes from weeping, and found the imperfection to be a paltry memorial to her father.
She met Mrs. McGrath at the bottom of the stairs where they both donned their bonnets and cloaks and headed toward the undertaker, each lost in their own thoughts. A heavy weight of sorrow hung over them like fog over a mountain peak. Cleo managed to walk, but her mind was elsewhere.
This cannot be happening!But, in spite of her silent protestations, she was inching closer to the undertaker akin to the ferryman on the River Styx.
Mr. Elias Carver, the undertaker, met them at the door. “How may I help you today?”
“My father’s body was brought to you last night.”
“Ah, yes, Professor Henry Wallace. A terrible state of affairs. I am sorry for your loss.” The undertaker’s expression was devoid of judgement or emotion from years of dealing with death every day, and she did not envy him. She was, however, grateful that he did not mention the presumed method of her father’s death.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I assume that you have come to settle his arrangements.”
“Yes.” Cleo handed Mr. Carver the papers that she had brought from the house detailing her father’s wishes to be buried next to her mother.
The undertaker took the papers and read the first page. “Ah, I remember your dear sainted mother now. She was a woman of rare beauty. It was so very sad that she was forced to leave you as she did. It is a fate that befalls too many women, I am afraid.”
Mrs. McGrath handed over the professor’s suit with instructions for the task of dressing the body. Cleo refrained from reminding the cook that Mr. Carver’s livelihood was handling such personal instructions, but it served as a way for Mrs. McGrath to deal with the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. Cleo, on the other hand, was relieved that her father had left nothing to chance and written down everything that he had desired to transpire upon his death.
“I promise you, madam, that I will do all in my power to provide for your loved one’s care.” The undertaker bent over Mrs. McGrath’s hand in respect. The gesture had the desired effect to soothe the cook’s fragile emotional state.
“See that ye do, Mr. Carver.” Mrs. McGrath nodded her head firmly then took a step back and waited for Cleo by the door.
“Your father is in good hands, Miss Wallace.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carver. It brings me some comfort to know that the same man who cared for my mother will now care for my father. It is a connection of love that I appreciate.”
“It is my honor.” The undertaker bowed and Cleo turned to leave the store, with Mrs. McGrath following close behind.
They stood in the street for a moment attempting to regain control of their emotions. “I believe that I would like to visit my mother’s grave before we return home.”
“Are ye certain, lass? Would it nae bring ye more pain?”
“I am certain.” Cleo nodded and headed for the cemetery.
