When It Rained at Hembry Castle

A Funeral at Hembry

T

he mourners lined the village roads as far as the castle, their umbrellas pointed like black wreaths at the crying sky. There were hundreds of them, from the village of Hembry, from across the county of Berkshire, from London 60 miles away. They bowed their heads, tipped their hats, or curtsied as the hearse passed on its way toward the church, the black-draped driver keeping his four black stallions with their glossy fake tails moving in time to the slow-falling rain. The onlookers tried to see through those at the front, the shorter on their toes, straining their necks, while fathers held their children on their shoulders to see the white lilies on the polished oak casket. There were few dry eyes as the body of the 8th Earl of Staton passed. The women hid their sorrow behind their handkerchiefs while the men insisted they weren’t crying, it was rain on their faces, after all.

The escort to the church was a well-orchestrated affair. Ten men acted as pages, four were feathermen, and two mutes in black gowns and silk hatbands acted out the family’s sorrow in a lugubrious pantomime. The family’s carriage jerked up and down, up and down over the mud-slicked road while the mourners trailed behind, following the 8th Earl on his final journey. As though the heavens had their fill of tears to shed that day, the closer to the church the mourners came, the harder the rain fell. The onlookers struggled to protect themselves from the warm June splashes until, in the space of a breath, the sky cleared and the sun peeked pink beneath the parting clouds. The air was heavy, you could hold it in your hands like warm dough, and the mourners dabbed with handkerchiefs at perspiring foreheads.

The mourners of a mind to converse remarked on the size of the crowd. It was rare that the death of a peer touched the lives of so many. Normally, when one died, people shrugged, muttering how it was too bad Lord Whatshisname or Lady Soandso had passed on, but you know how it goes. When you get to be that old you have it coming. The Earl of Staton had died in residence in his country seat at Hembry Castle, so some public display of grief was to be expected, and there were always those who turned out with expectations of pocketing whatever alms the family saw fit to bestow. But the 8th Earl of Staton prompted more than shrugging and greed for alms. Everyone knew the Earl as a good man, a compassionate man, and they mourned him. Many had already paid their respects by filing past as the coffin lay in state at the castle. They had all been there—the dignitaries, the aristocrats, the neighbors, the farmers, the tenants, the villagers, the tradesmen—but they came out again for the Earl’s funeral. There are few truly good men in the world, and when one passes he should be acknowledged.

The hearse neared the church on a grassy hill dotted with yellow wildflowers and white budding bushes. The church itself was sun-bleached stone, its castle-like bell tower looming over the family. The stallions stopped, straining against their reins as though the slow pace had left them with energy to spare. The onlookers bowed their heads, praying for the eternal safekeeping of their beloved Earl, while the pallbearers lifted the coffin and carried the Earl inside. The onlookers waited in silence a respectful distance away while the family attended the church service. In time, the family reemerged with the white-robed, solemn-faced vicar.

Those lucky enough to get a view closest to the proceedings saw the eldest son, last week Richard Meriwether, today Richard, 9th Earl of Staton, as he passed the wrought iron gate to the crypt. He was only eight-and-forty, the new Earl, his long face handsome in an elegant way, his slim figure youthful and wiry, his chestnut curls peeking from under his black silk top hat and hiding the half-moon scar near his left temple. Every villager in Hembry could tell you how, when he was a boy, the Earl of Staton as is had fallen into the river when he tried to learn to swim. He lost his balance, slipped under the water, and nearly drowned as he cut the skin close to his left eye on a knife-like rock, leaving that half-moon scar still visible four decades later. There was no sign of the frightened boy that day, however. The new Earl of Staton looked fine in his close-fitting black mourning suit, his frock coat buttoned to his chin, his top hat his only protection against the wet. There was something in the new Earl’s eyes, some misgiving, perhaps, and the onlookers pressed forward for a closer look. Normally, there would be a whisper or two about the new Earl’s unmarried state, especially at his age, but on this solemn day the gossips let it rest.

As the family made its way to the cemetery gates, children and a few of the shorter adults elbowed their way closer for a view of the 8th Earl’s widow, Agatha, Countess of Staton, who was hidden in black by a billowing dress and a heavy veil which left her featureless, like a storm cloud floating toward the gravestones. Necks strained higher when other members of the family appeared. The 8th Earl and his Countess had been unusually lucky since all three of their children were sons—Richard, the eldest, now Earl, behind him the Honorable Frederick Meriwether, at five-and-forty the second son, known as “the wayward” around the village (and possibly the castle itself) since it was common knowledge that he hightailed it to America the moment he completed his studies at Oxford. Everyone knew everything in a rural village like Hembry, and they knew Frederick was a widower, his wife having died nearly five years before. For this sad occasion, Mr. Frederick had brought with him his only daughter, his only child, to England for the first time. There were rumors that Mr. Frederick’s daughter was a Beauty, as her mother had been (because who else could entice the son of a peer to stay in America but a Beauty). The golden-haired young woman appeared near the cemetery gate, and though a thin black veil covered her features, those close enough could see the sadness on her lovely face and they nodded, thinking, yes, she is indeed a Beauty.

The 8th Earl’s youngest son, the Honorable Jerrold Meriwether, nine-and-thirty, and his wife, Hyacinth to family and friends (age withheld), had just arrived from London where they lived with their two young sons, Harold and Xavier, the boys somber in their small black clothing. Jerrold Meriwether, though he was the youngest son, looked older than his brothers with his thinning hair brushed to one side, an unfortunate pretense obvious even beneath his top hat. He wore a mustache over a protruding lower lip, which gave him the appearance of a lopsided mouth, too thin on the top, too thick on the bottom. He waited near the wrought iron gate looking at no one, especially not his wife, who was most certainly not looking at him. If they cast their eyes in opposite directions, they were also turned away from each other, he to the right, she to the left, and their backs would have had an easier time conversing than their fronts. Though the space between them was a few steps, it could have been miles for all the attention they paid to each other. Their two small boys, taking their cues, stood in the gulf between their parents and watched their grandfather’s burial with detached glowers, as though this were the funeral of any poor sod they might have happened upon in the street. The only sign of emotion from anyone in Mr. Jerrold’s family was from Mr. Jerrold himself, and that was when an infant child of one of the onlookers cried. At the sound of the wail, Mr. Jerrold snapped around, his neck growing longer, his lank hair blowing out from under his top hat as though Medusa’s snakes were crawling from his head, ready to discover the unfortunate child who dared to make a noise. But there were no snakes to aid him, it was only his thin strands of hair blowing about, so Mr. Jerrold cast his eggshell glare over the crowd and grew small again. When his mother, the Countess, gestured for him to join her near the mausoleum, he walked to her side, leaving his own family near the gate.

After Mr. Jerrold was inside, the family’s physician, Mr. John Hough, appeared. The new Earl pointed his walking stick toward Mr. Hough, and they found their way toward each other, the tall, lanky, chestnut-haired Earl and the nearly as tall though not so lanky doctor with glints of silver in his black hair. Mr. Hough whispered to the Earl and nodded toward Mr. Jerrold, who was too busy scrutinizing everyone else to notice. Did Mr. Jerrold expect a specter to jump out from behind a gravestone? The onlookers noted Mr. Jerrold’s odd behavior, though some insisted that his behavior was no stranger than usual. He always looked like a little boy caught with his hand in the sweets jar. The golden-haired Miss Meriwether touched her Uncle Jerrold’s arm, gently, and the man seemed to come to himself. He nodded at his niece and followed her.

Edward Ellis was among those watching the funeral proceedings, and he was struck, like many others, by the lovely young woman recently arrived from America. It was some time before he remembered to exhale. He wanted to press past the bodies, yell “Get out of my way!” like a churlish old woman knocking everyone aside with a walking stick until he could see Miss Meriwether up close. She couldn’t truly be that lovely. After all, her features weren’t clear under the black lace veil. If he saw her without the veil she wouldn’t make such a strong impression. Would she? Then he saw the line of servants from the castle making their way into the graveyard, the female servants in their simple black dresses and bonnets, the male servants with their black armbands. He saw the butler and housekeeper at the head of the line, arm in arm, heads bowed. They didn’t need to feign their sadness, Edward knew. He caught the housekeeper’s glance and she nodded. She nudged the butler and gestured toward Edward. The butler looked over the top of his round spectacles and smiled in a muted way. Edward returned the solemn greeting and watched them walk more slowly than he had ever seen them. When the butler and housekeeper broke their staffs of office over the dead Earl’s coffin, Edward knew their hearts would break too.

From outside the gates the melancholy voice of the vicar was heard reciting the burial rites: “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die…”

The family was hidden behind bushes, trees, and ancient gravestones, and not much could be seen outside the gates. Some of the onlookers began to drift away while others remained until the end.

“I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors…”

Edward wanted to stay. He wanted to see the golden-haired girl again. He wanted a glimpse of her without the veil. He wanted to be certain. He remembered the untouched paper in his carpetbag, and he knew he should be writing down everything he saw, but he trusted his memory not to forget this scene. Certainly, he wouldn’t forget the girl. He pulled his fob from his pocket, saw the time, and sighed. He had to leave now if he were to make it to the train and back to London before nightfall. Edward Ellis looked once more at the cemetery, saw a smattering of black dresses, armbands, and top hats, but that was all he could make out. Since there was no glimpse of Miss Meriwether, he walked at a brisk pace from the cemetery. At the end of the field where horses grazed on grass and wildflowers shimmied in the humidity he heard the death knell. The old Earl had been entombed. Edward looked to his left and there in the distance, perched on the tallest hill, looming large above the village, bursting out beneath the darkening clouds, was the sand-colored limestone of Hembry Castle. Edward was certain he saw the chimneys bow toward the church in reverence for their lost lord, wondering if anything at Hembry would ever be the same again.