A White Room - A Novel of Victorian Hysteria & Underground Nursing

Chapter 1: 3

I felt dizzy and on the verge of hyperventilation during the funeral.

Afterward, at our house, I shuffled from room to room amid swol-len faces and consoling glances, trying to make sure nothing went wrong, for my mother’s sake. The larger a funeral, the more that people assumed the family cared, and Mother wanted everyone to know how much we cared. Although we had a substantial parlor, people spilled out into the foyer and the dining and sitting rooms.

My mother had filled the house with fragrant white flowers of every kind, and I struggled to breathe as I set out food in the parlor and checked on preparations in the kitchen. I just wanted to run away, but I had to keep an eye on Mother.

I struggled to find her in the ocean of black in our parlor.

Black dresses, black slacks, black shoes, shawls, and gloves. The house itself was shrouded in black, too. We’d tied black crepe and netting around the doorknobs, hung black wreaths inside and out, and muffled the door chime. We draped my father’s portrait in velvet, locked the piano, and covered all the mirrors with black sheaths.

I had wrapped myself in a black silk-and-taffeta dress with lace details that scratched at my wrists and neck. I wore a long locket necklace with my father’s hair in it. Mother had made one for each of us, but I found it disturbing and planned to stop wearing it after the funeral.

I spotted my mother and weaved through mourners to get to her side. “How are you?”

She glanced up from a conversation that continued without her.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

I sighed. So far nothing had been ruined. She had gone on a frenzy planning the elaborate spectacle as her last grand gesture of love, but I knew she hadn’t let herself realize that he was gone. I expected an emotional collapse at any moment, and I knew that if one thing went wrong, she would crumble in front of everyone.

“Florence took your sisters upstairs.”

I sighed wishing I was with them, but my sister’s pure heart could calm better than mine could. “We have enough food?” My mother’s droopy eyes shot open.

“More than enough.” I held up my hands.

She looked all around, bobbing her head. “I should have gotten more flowers.”

“There’s plenty. It’s perfect.”

She touched my arm, her eyes wandering.

I took her hand in both of mine. “Mother?” She looked at me.

“Let me worry for you.” I released her.

A man appeared next to her to express his sympathies.

I started to search for my brother. I walked into the foyer and gazed up at the staircase, where an avalanche of flowers flowed down the banisters. I was wondering if James had gone up, too, when I heard Dr. Morris’ voice nearby. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “He had more time.”

I froze.

“It was quite sudden, but isn’t that common after surgery?” I heard a woman with a heavy-bodied voice ask.

I turned to find the location of the conversation and saw the doctor standing on the left side of the staircase. He faced away from me but at such an angle that I could see him thrust his chin out and stiffen his expression as he gripped the glass of sherry in hand. He reached up with his other hand and scratched a touch of baldness on the back of his head. “I suppose, but there are usually signs, a suggestion as to what went wrong.” He shook his head.