Read Online Hounds of Autumn by Heather Blackwood - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Blackwood
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Beatrice and Mrs. Malone sat across from Chloe and Ambrose.
Mrs. Malone rested her elephant-headed cane against the side of the carriage and folded her hands in her lap. She and Beatrice spoke softly together. Beatrice’s plain hat sported one spot of color—the tiny mechanical robin that Chloe had repaired. It was not moving, and Chloe hoped to heaven that Beatrice had not brought the key in her handbag. To have the little bird bobbing and twittering at a funeral would be inappropriate in the extreme.
The carriage lurched forward, the horses’ hooves crunching rhythmically on the gravel drive. Once they emerged on the main road, the row of carriages turned away from the direction of town. The sun shone white through the morning mist that swirled up from the damp earth and a soft wind rustled through the moor grass.
After a twenty-minute ride, the carriages stopped in front of the Granger house, a two-story home that was respectably opulent without being ostentatious. Bright clay pots brimming with asters, pansies, irises and other flowers in reds, yellows, blues and whites lined the walkway to the front door.
“How could these plants grow in this season and climate?” said Ambrose, leaning over a lush pot of white crocus.
“Mrs. Granger had a greenhouse, a large one,” said Robert. “She loved exotic plants and even ordinary ones. She let me go see them if our family came to visit. She had the servants bring some of them out in wheelbarrows each day and bring them in at night.”
“One of her little eccentricities,” said Dora. “She spent hours in the greenhouse, pulling off dead leaves, watering them, just looking at them. It was servant work, but she liked it. The only thing she loved more was tinkering with her little machines.” She turned away to pull a handkerchief from her bag and dab her eyes. Alexander put his hand on his sister’s shoulder.
“One of the servants must be keeping the flowers alive. Mr. Granger didn’t much care for them,” said Robert, stooping to finger a pot of blue trailing bellflower.
Chloe hadn’t known about Camille’s love of plants. Her friend had mentioned the greenhouse, and even mentioned some of the plants that she particularly liked. Their letters had centered on mechanics and Chloe had never realized just how much her friend had liked growing things. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrose studying her, gauging her emotional state. He offered his arm and she took it, biting back the tightness in the back of her throat.
They moved with the line of mourners into the house. They passed the stately portraits and the crepe-covered mirror in the hallway. The parlor clock was stopped, and the room was filled with flowers and mourners. Chloe glanced around to see if she could recognize any of the wealthier people she had seen at church. She spotted a group of them to one side, though the majority of the people were common townsfolk. They formed a slow-moving line past the walnut coffin.
As they approached the coffin, Chloe pulled back. She could not bear to see her friend again. Ambrose let her stop and then moved gently forward, his hand on hers.
Camille Granger had been transformed. The dirt had been washed from her skin and hair, which was wheat-gold and arranged in pleasing curls. Her head rested on a pale blue satin pillow, surrounded by a wreath of peonies, possibly to disguise her injury. Loosely clasped in her hands was a single white lily, perhaps from her own greenhouse. Her eyes were no longer open and encrusted with mud, but were closed as if in sleep. But she did not look asleep, not really.
Chloe’s vision blurred with tears as she bent down to brush a kiss on Camille’s forehead. Ambrose pressed a handkerchief into her hand. The push of the crowd moved them into an adjoining room where other mourners were sharing cucumber sandwiches, pastries and hot tea.
When Ambrose left her to fetch refreshments, Dora approached. “I was hoping to speak
Mrs. Malone rested her elephant-headed cane against the side of the carriage and folded her hands in her lap. She and Beatrice spoke softly together. Beatrice’s plain hat sported one spot of color—the tiny mechanical robin that Chloe had repaired. It was not moving, and Chloe hoped to heaven that Beatrice had not brought the key in her handbag. To have the little bird bobbing and twittering at a funeral would be inappropriate in the extreme.
The carriage lurched forward, the horses’ hooves crunching rhythmically on the gravel drive. Once they emerged on the main road, the row of carriages turned away from the direction of town. The sun shone white through the morning mist that swirled up from the damp earth and a soft wind rustled through the moor grass.
After a twenty-minute ride, the carriages stopped in front of the Granger house, a two-story home that was respectably opulent without being ostentatious. Bright clay pots brimming with asters, pansies, irises and other flowers in reds, yellows, blues and whites lined the walkway to the front door.
“How could these plants grow in this season and climate?” said Ambrose, leaning over a lush pot of white crocus.
“Mrs. Granger had a greenhouse, a large one,” said Robert. “She loved exotic plants and even ordinary ones. She let me go see them if our family came to visit. She had the servants bring some of them out in wheelbarrows each day and bring them in at night.”
“One of her little eccentricities,” said Dora. “She spent hours in the greenhouse, pulling off dead leaves, watering them, just looking at them. It was servant work, but she liked it. The only thing she loved more was tinkering with her little machines.” She turned away to pull a handkerchief from her bag and dab her eyes. Alexander put his hand on his sister’s shoulder.
“One of the servants must be keeping the flowers alive. Mr. Granger didn’t much care for them,” said Robert, stooping to finger a pot of blue trailing bellflower.
Chloe hadn’t known about Camille’s love of plants. Her friend had mentioned the greenhouse, and even mentioned some of the plants that she particularly liked. Their letters had centered on mechanics and Chloe had never realized just how much her friend had liked growing things. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrose studying her, gauging her emotional state. He offered his arm and she took it, biting back the tightness in the back of her throat.
They moved with the line of mourners into the house. They passed the stately portraits and the crepe-covered mirror in the hallway. The parlor clock was stopped, and the room was filled with flowers and mourners. Chloe glanced around to see if she could recognize any of the wealthier people she had seen at church. She spotted a group of them to one side, though the majority of the people were common townsfolk. They formed a slow-moving line past the walnut coffin.
As they approached the coffin, Chloe pulled back. She could not bear to see her friend again. Ambrose let her stop and then moved gently forward, his hand on hers.
Camille Granger had been transformed. The dirt had been washed from her skin and hair, which was wheat-gold and arranged in pleasing curls. Her head rested on a pale blue satin pillow, surrounded by a wreath of peonies, possibly to disguise her injury. Loosely clasped in her hands was a single white lily, perhaps from her own greenhouse. Her eyes were no longer open and encrusted with mud, but were closed as if in sleep. But she did not look asleep, not really.
Chloe’s vision blurred with tears as she bent down to brush a kiss on Camille’s forehead. Ambrose pressed a handkerchief into her hand. The push of the crowd moved them into an adjoining room where other mourners were sharing cucumber sandwiches, pastries and hot tea.
When Ambrose left her to fetch refreshments, Dora approached. “I was hoping to speak
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