They Buried Her: Chapter 2

“Where have you been?” My mother snatched my arm, yanking me so hard through the doorway I nearly fell.  

“I was at the Yardley’s.” I had stayed the night.  Not the wise thing to do, and I knew that, but the idea of Misses Yardley waking up alone was a greater consequence than any I would have faced here.

“Do you have any understanding of how worried I’ve been?”

“As I’ve had to watch someone very dear to me slip away over years of my life, I would say I am more qualified than anyone in this house to understand worry.”

“Then that makes your behavior even worse.”  She pulled her hand away from me like I was suddenly covered in filth.

“You would have known had you been there.” A faint blush crept over her cheeks, even that barest of color was more than I would have ever expected to get from her.

“Your father and I had an appointment.”

“Which means you either think an appointment more important than my dearest friend’s funeral or you thought so little of her, of her station, that it was beneath your notice.”

“Winnifred,” and my heart began to race, that she put her cool hand so lightly upon my cheek. That I saw some shade of what I thought might be sadness in her eyes, “I wish I could say that there would never come a time when you find the world is much larger than what is at your fingertips, but I’m afraid that time is already upon us.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Come.” She quickly turned away from me. “We’re going to speak to your father.”

“Mother—” but she was already making her way down the hall towards my father’s study.

“I’m afraid some things are going to have to change.” My father tugged at the sleeves of his overly fitted shirt from behind his desk.  One that had long needed replacing.

“What’s happened?” He was still fussing over his cuffs so I took the opportunity to look at my mother.  She bore almost no expression at all. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that her normally flawless features were worn. Her eyes swollen and lips pale. With endless patience she watched him fidget in his leather armchair. I wish I could say the same for myself. “Father.” My tone was enough to get his attention.

“Don’t.” He said as offhandedly as any of his other scoldings. “Winnifred,” he let out a breath, “I’m afraid some things are going to have to change.” And it struck me that this was rehearsed.  There was a flicker of impatience on my mother’s face, which I kept neatly in the corner of my eye.

“What do you mean?” I asked and my mother took three brisk steps over to the desk, placing her hand on father’s shoulder.  He glanced up at her, their eyes only meeting for a moment before he sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Winnifred, our investments have decreased significantly. We are almost out of money and it will take every sacrifice to keep the house.” This he said with such matter of factness that the meaning of his words took a moment to sink in.

“Our money… all of our—? But you’ve already ordered Ada’s headstone, yes? You promised she would have one. As a gift to me, you promised.” I tried to keep my voice stern, my riding instructor’s voice in my head; volume gets you nowhere, it’s all in the pitch.

“Is your first thought truly of—” He starts, but mother cuts him off.

“That promise was made when we thought there was a way to salvage this situation. There is no possibility of us affording that now.” As though she were explaining a clause in a contract, no apology in her voice.

“So my friend must reside in an unmarked grave? The fate of someone unknown, unloved!?” 

“Ada was a lovely girl,” father started tiredly, “how she’s buried doesn’t have to say anything of how she lived.”

“And if it was me!? If I had died, would you feel that same way!?”

“Don’t be so morbid.  If that were to happen to you we would have the finances to get you a headstone.”

“Then how can you not have enough for Ada’s?”

“Because that is money we need to take care of you.”

“Of course, well I’m sorry to be so burdensome, better off for you I be in Ada’s place!” I saw my father’s eyes widen at this and I dropped my own to the floor, chest heaving, in total shock at my own words. A droplet of water fell upon the toe of my shoe and I realized I’m crying. Shame crept up my throat, the pressure of it rising to my eyes. 

“I think that’s enough money talk for today.” My father’s voice is strained. I can barely look at him.  Mother’s silence does pull my gaze, seeing her through the shroud of my lashes.  Her expression— completely unfamiliar and unrecognizable.  She moved to leave the room, but stopped beside my chair. 

“I’m sure Thomas could use some help getting Midnight ready for the storm. And a visit with her is overdue.” And that’s when I recognized it. That look.  Every time the reverend would talk of Ada or someone would pass her slowly walking in the street; pity. Just like that my shame was replaced with a static rage vibrating through my muscles and I didn’t right my chair as it slammed to the ground with the force of my exit.