Charles Augustus Fenton. Alana Whiting

      The morning of the funeral was cold and drizzly. My mother had ordered mine and Meg’s mourning clothes from Jay’s in London. I was obliged to wear my best dark suit with black trim and to keep clean and quiet. A small task but odious as my suit scratched and irked me but I didn’t complain as I knew the day would be fascinating and end with a pile of delicious food baked by our cook.

      Rebecca’s family had all arrived and had seen both her and Jack at the cottage prior to the coffin lid being closed. I was grateful not to see her face again and struggled daily with deliberately sweeping her flyblown image from my memory. Jack had been putting money aside for Rebecca’s funeral long before I knew of her existence and he proudly refused any offer of help from my parents. They insisted, however, that he take a month paid sabbatical before returning to work and arranged a temporary man to take care of the horses.

      As the family squeezed into the cottage, they dutifully admired the richness of the coffin, whispering later how much Jack must have loved Rebecca by the obvious expense involved in her final dwelling. The brass knobs alone would have cost three months’ wages each they calculated avidly. There were nods of admiration as they ran their hands down the deeply burnished oak that had been presented so superbly.

      The voices dropped further as they speculated about the possible cause of Rebecca’s demise. Many knew where she had been residing for the last nine years and were keen to impart that information to the few who didn’t. The gossiper was usually rewarded with a delicious expression of horror that Jack’s wife had died in the asylum. She was only skin and bone according to a cousin who had witnessed the body before the coffin was sealed. They further fed the scandal by whispering titbits about possible suicidal involvement causing many to piously pray for her damned soul to be redeemed. The official cause of death was dysentery which explained her emaciated body, though many raised an eyebrow at that. It was only respect for the dead that swallowed further words being aired.

      Jack was oblivious to the clucking behind him as he sat awkwardly next to Rebecca’s mother and father. They were strangers to me, but since they were sitting right in front I knew they must be significant. I sat next to Meg and pulled her for information.

      ‘Who are those people next to Jack?’ I whispered in her ear.

      Meg sniffed. ‘That’s Mr and Mrs Done, Rebecca’s parents. Not that they were very good at it. When Rebecca became unwell they never attempted to visit her.’

      ‘What was wrong with her?’ I continued with my façade of ignorance. ‘Why didn’t they visit her? Was she contagious?’

      Meg collected herself and fixed me with a no-nonsense stare. ‘You always like to know everything, don’t you, Charlie? But you can’t always get what you want. It’s enough for you to know that she was sick and now she is dead. Leave it at that.’

      I quailed at the telling-off and sat docilely in my chair for the remainder of the service. For the most part I dutifully joined in singing the psalms and reading the prayer book. On the rare occasion that I wandered into my dreamland, I was quickly returned with a pinch on the arm by Meg. At the end of the service we trailed out behind the pallbearers loading the coffin carefully into the hearse.

      The hearse was the first I had ever seen. It was jet black and protected from the elements with polished glass, which also allowed clear view of the dearly departed. The horse was brushed to a fanatical extent, gleaming black with a festoon of feathers adorning its head. It was a modest hearse but the horse put our own stable horses to shame. I admired its blackened polished hooves and handsome black head that reared and whinnied with the sudden influx of people.

      Flowers were surrounding the coffin, freshly cut and fragrant, to accompany Rebecca to her grave. The mutes had been standing guard outside during the service draped in black sashes and holding long sticks covered in black crepe. They were hired to be the protectors of the dead and held this contract with great dignity, accompanying the coffin with the most solemn of expressions. Unbeknownst to Jack, however, they had secretly warded off the cold with intermittent nips of brandy and, as the service was particularly long, they were the epitome of concentrated melancholy.

      Our coach followed behind the hearse. Rebecca’s parents accompanied us and were in awe of my family’s ordinary coach. I was introduced to Mr and Mrs Done, who expressed a servile gratitude at letting them use the master’s coach and for gracing them with my presence. I puffed up a bit and sat slightly more regally on my seat. We all piled in and enjoyed a brief interval of warmth and comfort until we reached the outskirts of town. As this point, the coach emptied and we walked behind the near-staggering mutes through the streets, noting the respectful lowering of bared heads as we passed. Any exchanges of goods and services ceased as we were observed and only recommenced once there was a considerable distance between us and the merchants. It was only when we had cleared the town that we could again embark and travel on to the cemetery.

      The mutes regathered themselves for the final obligation they held. They sucked in the cool air and shook their heads to clear the mind and put all their energy into making their most despondent faces. Any future employment would be riding on the last impression they gave. A basset hound could have delivered no better. Their final ponderous steps to the gravesite were humble and sober, and one could nearly believe it was one of their own darling wives that was now lowered into the ground.

      Jack plucked a long-stemmed flower and whispered lightly into the bloom. He then kissed it softly and threw it on the coffin. He turned to avoid the inquisitive eyes and looked down at the tombstone of his son George. He stood in bowed silence staring at the inscription whilst we watched deferentially. It was only the noise of someone coughing that broke his contemplation and saw him briskly return to his carriage leaving us to follow.

      It was my first funeral and as we filed back I took one last look at the grave-diggers piling the dirt onto Rebecca’s coffin. A slight movement on my left shifted my attention and I was alarmed to be held in the full stare of Magda, who had privately joined the ceremony. She looked deep into my soul still battling with the secret guilt and smiled sadly. She blew me a kiss and disappeared, and I wondered if I had even seen her in the first place. Wisely, I kept my own counsel but shuddered as I mused, running to grab Meg’s hand for security. She squeezed my hand and promised me a big wedge of bacon and egg pie with apple cider once we got back to the house. It was my reward for being such a good boy. How little she knew.