Simulation - Chapter One

Chapter One
Thomas lies there in such a deep stillness that I fear if I venture forward he will leap up and grab me. That is my only worry at first, although his egg-white demeanour makes me quiver a little, so I quickly pinch my hands behind my back. I am more used to the sight of deceased insects than the plumper bodies of those I have known.

The room is appropriately lit, with dimly glowing candles dotted around the casket and window. The curtains have been drawn so that even though it is daylight outside, the room remains as dark as the crypt it mimics. I focus my gaze on the specks of yellow light before I can bring myself to turn to his face. I tut. It is as worse as I expected. His cheeks are sunken and the skin seems to hang off his bones like raw dough.  It is obvious where the embalmers tried to conceal the damage to his left eye: the blood has been washed away but the indentation remains. They are likely to have paid for an entirely new glass eye, but it is an ill-fitting match. I am glad they have sewn his eyelids shut.

Taking in a little breath, I move closer to the cadaver, noticing the suit they have dressed him in. He would never have worn such a thing, especially one so modern. He detested the nouveau riche as much as he detested me. I expect it is something his mother chose. The suit is black and pinstriped, but at least it is formal and stiff around the collars. It appears to be choking him. My throat tingles unpleasantly at the reminder.
He does not look serene and peaceful as he is supposed to. The skin looks soft enough but the expression is forced, as if the muscles want to contort back into his usual grimace. My hands twitch behind my back, wanting to comb his hair back into its typical unkempt style. He was never so trim and shaven when alive.  But I must not. I cannot.

 I wonder where he has gone. His being, his soul, not just his earthly body.  Maybe somewhere under these bones and decaying skin he is still there, just beneath the stench of death.  What a ridiculous idea.  I imagine him sprouting out of this cadaver, shedding his skin like a snake and growling me as I shriek and kick him away. But of course, he does not. Thomas lies as still as a corpse can lie.

‘Mrs Foster?’

The funeral director stands in the doorway of the chapel of rest, dressed in the gothic splendour that is expected. I pretend to compose myself.

‘Oh, yes I’m quite ready,’ A moment passes as I mechanically fold my handkerchief and straighten my gown. ‘Although I suppose it is Miss now?’

‘Of course- ...Miss,’ He retracts his paradoxically sombre smile and gestures for me to leave.

I nod and oblige, taking comfort in the tip tap of my best shoes on the wooden flooring as I follow him outside. I open my umbrella, staring up at the sun as it disappears behind the plumes of grey clouds covering the noon sky. It is cold, bitterly cold but I am glad the winds have not ceased. Thomas never cared for flyaway hair. I cannot see the faces or hair of his family though; the line of black umbrellas and hooded figures are interchangeable.  

‘I trust you will behave today,’ Mother places a thin hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve sullied yourself quite enough without a public display.’  

‘And how have I done that?’

‘Have you not heard the rumours, all the whispering and murmuring?’

‘I’m afraid I have not.’

‘You’re in a dangerous position, Eleanor.’ She steadies herself and sneezes into her readily opened handkerchief. ‘This is no time to be sneaking around with those strange men and your ungodly books,’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Mother.’

‘How can anyone be sure of that?’ she says softly, ‘I’ve heard from your Father, the things you get up to.’

Ha! Father had been proud of my involvement in the research. I shake my bonnet loose and retied the strings.

‘Oh don’t hold back, Mother, say what you are thinking,’

‘It’s not right for a married woman to be cavorting with young men at every hour of the day-’

‘-It is work! And if you haven't noticed, I seem to be lacking a husband at this moment-’
‘Eleanor, be quiet!’ Mother clamps her hand on my mouth and takes me aside. ‘This is not about what I think. You must be very careful, darling, you were with him¸ you are the one who can and shall be blamed.’

‘You know very well it was an accident. There is no reason for anyone to believe otherwise.’

‘Evidence can be tampered with. Witnesses can be bribed and bought. Especially by those who have influence.’ She raises her eyebrows. We both glance over to the other carriages, where old Mrs Foster is standing with her living offspring, her mouth moving up and down at considerable speed.

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Pay your respects. But you must get your affairs in order.’

I sigh.

‘You want me to leave?’

‘I think it best you stay with your father for a while. I shall send a telegram this afternoon and most likely he will send for you tomorrow.’

‘You expect me to abandon my post at the university? I cannot just sail away to India and forget it all, not now.‘

‘Listen to me. You will catch the first train to Cornwall tomorrow morning. I shall say that you have been taken ill and sent to your father for your health.’

‘Do you think they’ll care?’

‘The more sorrowful you are seen to be, the less anyone shall suspect.’

I hold my tongue but nod, if just to stop her protests. Mother takes my silence as agreement and returns to the other mourners. It is customary for the widow to stand alone.

I watch the pall bearers carry out the casket and place it on the hearse. The ceremonial leading of the hearse begins and I am ushered into the second coach, for the close family and of course me, the grieving widow. I do not enter that carriage of course, instead taking my place in the next coach, along with a few orderlies and maids who wouldn’t meet my eye. but exchange looks readily when they think I am contemplating the upholstery. Whilst it is tradition the widow travels in the first coach, the Foster’s had made it quite clear that I am to stay away.

As the horses start to trot and pull the carriage away, I give them a sharp smile and watch as their chins fall and they attempt to rein back their horrified expressions. One of them I know personally tuts loud enough for me to hear. She was his handmaid, a clever name for what she did. I often saw her leaning over his bedside with an extra pot of tea or commodity for his ‘poor, aching chest’, but I am not one to speak so crudely.

‘Would you like a cough drop, Nichola?’

The handmaid raises her eyebrows but is not bold enough return my offering of antagonism. It is wrong for me to be so brazen during the ceremonies but the blushing of her cheeks is worth it.

‘No, milady.’

I draw the blinds.

‘Of course you wouldn’t.’

The rest of the journey passes without a sound from any of the staff. Instead I listen to the jangling of the horse reins, the heaving of the carriage wheels and bells coming from St Catherine’s Cathedral as we grow ever closer.