Among the Darkness Stirs

Audrey stumbled along the dirt path as she walked home. Dr. Thomson was telling the truth. He had no reason to lie to her about her father’s condition. Her mother had probably lied thinking to protect her, but as she told Dr. Thomson, she preferred the truth.

She thought about the words he had said. She must be strong for her mother and sister. That much was true. Her mother had always been a flighty woman given to silly fancies, and her sister was such a young girl.

The wind had picked up, and it stung her exposed cheeks. Perhaps Dr. Thomson was incorrect about the diagnosis. Maybe he had the best of intentions in telling her the truth but was misguided. That single thought gave her hope for a few seconds.

But then she thought of her father, and coldness seeped into her bones. The late nights of incessant coughing. The severe weight loss and fatigue. Her father had been sick for some time, and it was getting worse. She knew the doctor was right. Consumption had wrapped its cold talons around her father, and they would squeeze the life out of him until he was dead.

When she entered the cottage, Frances did not greet her, and a stillness filled the air. She took her parcel to the kitchen to give to Cook, and after removing her coat and placing her umbrella away, she went to speak to her mother.

“I’m back,” she told her mother.

Her mother looked up at her serenely. “He asked for you.”

“He did?” Audrey asked. “I’m here, Father,” she said, coming to sit on the bed opposite where her mother sat.

“He can’t hear you anymore, Audrey. Not now,” she said softly.

“He can’t—” Audrey began and then gasped. “What do you mean?”

“You are too late. He’s gone, Audrey.”

Audrey pressed a cool hand to her forehead. Her head ached and had been doing so for several hours. She had given Frances laudanum to help her sleep, as the poor dear had been inconsolable. Her mother refused to leave her husband’s bedside, so Audrey had sent Polly into town to fetch Dr. Thomson. It would be hours before he received the note, saddled his horse, and arrived. He might not even arrive until after midnight or beyond. She could do nothing but wait.

There would be so many preparations to come, and she could see she would have to do them all alone. Her mother was too distraught, and there was simply no one else.

She went to her armoire and opened the heavy walnut doors. She pulled out dress after dress until she found the one she was looking for. It was a heavy dress of black bombazine she had worn two years previously for a cousin who had died of typhoid fever. It was considered bad luck to keep mourning clothes, but her mother had insisted. She had paid good money for it, and Audrey had complied.

She laid the dress across her bed and stared at it. She must wear mourning for a year as was the custom, and her mother would do so for a minimum of two years and longer if she wished. Only little Frances was not expected to wear mourning.

Tears fell upon her checks, but she brushed them aside. She had loved her father, but he was gone, and now there was so much to do.

She must place the black crape bow on the door to let visitors know someone had died. She must make the funeral arrangements and send the invites with the wide black borders. She sat down at her desk and took up her fountain pen and paper. She wrote the words across the paper that would announce her family’s loss to their friends and stared at them.

In affectionate remembrance:

Ezra Wakefield

Died in Kingsdown, Kent, 1880

Ten words that would tell their small world that her life as she had known it was gone. She placed her pen aside, folded her arms, and put her head down. The tears wouldn’t stop coming. Her kind and affectionate father was gone.

Chapter Two

Augusta pulled on her black gloves and tied her widow’s cap underneath her chin. She didn’t bother to look at herself in the mirror, as it had been covered with crape to prevent Ezra’s spirit from getting trapped inside. She picked up her small bag and entered the front parlor. Audrey was waiting on the small sofa with her hands clasped in her lap.

“Come. We must hurry or we’ll be late,” she told her eldest daughter.

“Can I come, too, Mother?” Frances asked.

“Certainly not,” Augusta told her. “We are going to the village to visit the solicitor. The reading of the will is to take place, and that’s no place for a child.”

Audrey tweaked her sister’s noise in affection. “We’ll return soon enough, Lambkin. Don’t worry yourself.”

Augusta settled into the carriage, and Audrey sat across from her. As the carriage began, Audrey looked out the window much of the time to avoid conversation with her mother. She knew this was a difficult time for her, but her mother was behaving oddly. She would often speak about her father as if he were still alive, and she had found her caressing his photograph several times.

Her mother was not elderly, and at forty-six, she was not ready to wear black for the rest of her life. But she also knew her mother had relied upon her father for everything.

“The reading of the will. It’s such a nice turn of phrase for such a morbid event,” Augusta said suddenly.