Trying to get my first five (in this case, seven or so) spic and span polished. Thank you in advance for all constructive crits and comments!
Chapter One
A Most Dismal Prospect
The sky today was properly grey and somber, not that it was at all unusual. It gave the entire churchyard a wilted look, as the dusty old preacher read from his dusty old Book among the gravestones. To young Abigail Crowe, who stood at the foot of her father's grave wearing a horribly uncomfortable black dress, it all seemed quite fitting.
As the eldest child of Maris and the late Mr. Lewis Crowe, it was, of course, Abigail’s understood duty to look most properly saddened. Proper sadness, however, proves to be a rather difficult thing to pull off – as you are to shed tears (but not bawl), be respectful (yet not grave), and stand up straight and tall (without being too stiff). While the dress made her, indeed, too stiff, she found the other problems in her proper appearance to be far more troubling.
For one thing, she could not cry. She did not bawl either; her cheeks remained pale and dry, her eyes distinctly lacking in puffiness. All morning, she had been confronted with the stark reality of her father’s death, and through all of it, she had not shed a single tear. It was not that she was unwilling to – even now, she tried her hardest to feel the sadness that she was supposed to be feeling. But for all her trying, the only thing she felt was the very strong urge to hit things.
Her brother William was an appealing target. He, certainly, was being neither respectful nor grave – fidgeting with his collar in an incessant way that was most improper for a funeral. But the presence of their Mother – never mind the Preacher and other mourners! - prevented Abigail from acting on her more vindictive instincts.
"Ashes to ashes," droned the preacher in a voice as parched and cracked as the pages of his Book. "Dust to dust..."
And now William's fidgeting could not be ignored. Along with the Preacher’s ecclesiastical ramblings – as meaningless and frustrating to her as ancient Greek – it made the situation almost impossible to bear. But still, she had no reason to break decorum until:
“Oh!” exclaimed the boy (very quietly, of course). “When is he going to finish, Abby?”
Abigail kicked him in the shin. And just to show that she was serious, she added a disapproving and very grown-up glare. Tsks and titters came from the other mourners, though the Preacher continued on, and Mother remained oblivious – but the important thing was that William got the message, and remained quiet and still throughout the rest of the Preacher’s prayers.
At last there was a final "Amen" from all, and the black company parted. The veiled women drifted off towards the carriages; the men put on their hats and went to get the shovels; and Mother remained just long enough to dab her black kerchief to her eyes one last time before floating away herself. Left alone by the open grave, the children did what anyone might expect, and knelt down next to the edge to have one last peek.
Their father's dark elmwood coffin stared back up at them. Despite the smooth, dirt-smeared lid, Abby could still imagine her father's body, with his hands laid ever so gently upon his chest, a black rose between them, looking just as he had the past few days when the casket had stood open in the middle of their drawing room - as if he were asleep. Indeed, that was what they had thought at first. That awful morning, the sun had been unmannerly bright and cheerful, and Mother and Abby and William had gotten up and wondered why Father was still sleeping. He was usually up before the rest of them, bent over some notes in his study or walking in the tiny patch of yard in the back that they called the garden. So Mother bent down with a kiss to wake him, and that was when they knew.
The investigations began immediately, and the inquiries, and the undertaker came to poke and probe and take measurements. But though the funeral preparations were quickly arranged (Mother had needed to sell her favorite pearl earrings to pay for all of it), and the papers notified, and the inquiries made, no one knew the answer to the most pressing question:
How had Lewis Crowe died?
But while the two sat, contemplating this, the men had returned with their shovels. Abby and William were shooed away, to wander among the graves and monuments.
“What do you think it's like being dead?” asked William.
And Abigail, at a loss for an answer but not about to admit such, replied: “Don't ask stupid questions.”
So instead they played tag, and a short game of hide and seek (there were not many places fit to hide) and by the time that was done, they were feeling quite ready to go home. They headed back towards the gravesite, where the men were just finishing their work, tamping down the last few shovelfuls of dirt. Mother was nearby. She stood next to the hearse, deep in conversation with a tall, thin-limbed gentleman.
“Who's he?” asked William.
“Don't point!” said Abby, slapping down the boy's skinny finger. “That's just Uncle Edward.”
It was actually quite understandable that William hadn't recognized the man; their Uncle Edward had never really been close. Abigail herself knew little of him, save that he was their father's brother, and some sort of doctor. Seeing him now, she was almost a little glad that he hadn't been around more often.
There was nothing conspicuously remarkable about Dr. Edward Crowe. He was stern-faced and dark-haired, with just a little bit of grey starting to show around the temples, and every part of him, from his straight posture, to his distinguished manners, to his impeccable clothing declared him the gentleman. Everyone agreed that the good doctor was the most respectable of respectable men.
Abigail found him terrifying.
She could not explain why that would be. But whatever it was, William sensed it too, and said, simply:
“I don't think I like him very much.”
Abigail shushed him, before ducking down behind a nearby gravestone.
“Maris,” Uncle Edward was saying. “I cannot imagine what it must be like to be in your position. For Lewis to have died so suddenly, and without a shade of an inheritance left behind... I cannot – If there is anything I can do, you have only to name
it.”
“That's very kind of you, but I couldn't possibly impose -”
But Uncle Edward waved this off. “It would be no imposition at all.”
For a moment, Mother was silent, and then: “It - it's the children, Edward. It's William. I worry so much about them. And if they were to find out -” She trailed off.
But Uncle Edward was all comfort as he took Mother's hand into his own. “Perhaps... perhaps you should come to the Manor for a bit. Just for a few weeks...”
“I – I don't think...”
“Just until you get all your affairs settled and have recovered somewhat from this tragedy.”
For a moment, there was silence, and Abigail found herself feeling extremely queasy at the thought of what Mother's answer might be.
“Of course, Edward,” said Mother finally. “It would be lovely to visit.”
"I shall see you soon, then," he said. He replaced his hat and, taking his cane in hand, he gave mother a smart bow. "Farewell, dear Maris."
"Farewell."
And with one last nod of acknowledgment, they parted company, he leaning heavily on his cane as he disappeared beyond the carriages, she turning to the children who had emerged from the graves.
"Mum," said Abby as she took her Mother's crape-gloved hand, "what's going to happen now?"
Mother patted her daughter's hair and said, in the softest, gentlest, most comforting voice she had at her disposal: "That's nothing you need to worry about, dear. Everything will work out for the best, you'll see. We may be going on a little trip soon... Won't that be fun?"
Somehow, Abby didn't think so.
