Page 4 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
No doubt Enid meant for the room to be the perfect showplace in the Earl of Barrett’s home. What her mother-in-law had accomplished, however, was a parlor reeking with excess. Even the potpourri was overpowering, smelling so strongly of cloves that her nose itched and her eyes watered.
The coffin was crafted of polished mahogany, wider at the shoulders and narrow at the feet, with three brass handles on each side. A round brass plaque over where Poor Lawrence’s heart would be was engravedOUR BELOVED.
Notherbeloved, and he hadn’t shown much love toward his family. The hyperbole, however, was expected of them. So, too, all the mourning rituals that would be carried out in the next year.
Perhaps Lawrence had arranged for his own coffin and the plaque was a last thumb in the eye to his wife, mother, and sisters.
For her sitting, she’d insisted the top of the coffin be lowered. The other members of the family would probably want to view Poor Lawrence once more.
“A bad heart,” Enid had called it. A bad disposition as well, although perhaps she shouldn’t fault him for being angry at the circumstances he’d been dealt. A semi-invalid since birth, he’d been limited in what he could do, to the point of being imprisoned in this house.
Poor Lawrence was what she called him in her thoughts. To his face, she’d been a proper wife. “Dearest husband,” she’d said on those occasions when he allowed her to visit him.
“Dearest husband, how are you feeling?”
“Dearest husband, you’re looking better.”
“Dearest husband, is there anything I can bring you?”
He never answered, only slitting his eyes at her like she was an insect he’d discovered in his food.
Lawrence was, whether it was right to say such a thing about the deceased, a thoroughly unlikable person. Yet John Donne, the poet, stated that every man’s death was a loss to be experienced by all mankind.
With age, Lawrence might have changed. He might have become a better person. He might have even been generous and caring.
How foolish it was to ascribe virtues to the dead they never owned in life. Lawrence wasn’t a hero and he wasn’t kind. Look at how he’d thrust them all into poverty.
She could easily understand his antipathy toward her. After all, didn’t she feel the same for him? Why, though, would he treat his sisters and mother with contempt? Why punish them when it was obvious they hadn’t done anything but treat him with kindness and care?
Every day, Eudora and Ellice called on their brother. Even if Lawrence wouldn’t see them, they still returned, time after time. Eudora selected books she thought he’d like to read from their library. Ellice relayed stories to him of their days and the world outside the house.
Enid was as fond as any mother could be, worrying about Lawrence’s health, querying his attendant about his cough, his color, his weakness. Despite his wishes, she insisted the doctor make regular visits, and listened when his examination was done.
What had Lawrence done to repay them? Guaranteed they would forever be dependent on others.
He could, just as easily, have given some of her father’s money to his mother—or to her—to ensure their future was secure. Or he could have spent it on personal property not subject to his will.
But he hadn’t done anything kind or caring.
At least, now, she would never again have to pretend to be a loving wife. These sleepless hours were little enough sacrifice for such blessed freedom.
Custom dictated the curtains be drawn, but she’d opened them at midnight, unable to bear the closed-in feeling of the room. The mirror was swathed in crepe. Candles sat burning on the mantel beside a clock stopped at the time of Poor Lawrence’s death.
The room celebrated death, but she’d never been afraid of death. She was not overly fond of the dark, heights, or the ocean, however, and she detested spiders.
“The world is not going to swallow you whole, Virginia,” her father had said more than once. “There’s no reason to be a timid little mouse.”
She circled the bier, her fingers trailing over the polished top of the coffin, closer to Poor Lawrence in death than she’d ever been in life except one time, the night their marriage had been consummated, six months after their wedding. On that occasion, he’d kissed her, so passionately it jolted her. The coupling, however, had been a painful experience, one she’d not wished to repeat. To her relief, he felt the same and they never touched again.
Enid, Dowager Countess of Barrett, pulled open the sliding doors of the parlor, then closed them just as quickly.
Her mother-in-law was stocky and short, her shoulders as wide as her hips. When Enid headed toward her, it was like facing a solid wall of determination. Enid’s brown eyes could be as warm as chocolate sauce. Now they were as cold as frozen earth.
“Have you decided?”
Even though it was just before dawn, her mother-in-law was dressed in a black silk dress with jet buttons. Her hair was pulled back from her round face and contained in a black net snood. Although she wore a full hoop, she expertly navigated the room filled with furniture, moving to occupy a chair close to the bier.
“What you propose is so ...” The words trailed away.
