The Mistaken Widow. Cheryl St.John

“We have plans to make.”

      “What plans are those?” Nicholas turned his attention to his mother, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

      “Stephen’s memorial service. Now that our Claire’s feeling better, we can get things settled.”

      A dark expression clouded Nicholas’s face. His lips flattened into a hard line.

      “We can see to it, darling,” his mother said, reaching over and placing her age-spotted hand over his large hair-dusted one. “You’ve done quite enough already, handling the affairs in New York.”

      He turned over his hand and encased hers. “I didn’t mind, Mother. And I won’t mind helping with the service.”

      “I think we need to do this,” his mother said, and looked to Sarah for verification.

      Sarah recognized Leda’s desire to do this thing for Stephen on her own, and to spare her remaining son another unpleasant task in the process. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “I’d like to do it.”

      “Of course.” Nicholas gave in, and studied Sarah with a guarded expression, as if gauging her reaction.

      She hadn’t tasted most of the meal, and her stomach rebelled against placing any more food in it. She sipped her water, and tried to calm her fluttering nerves. A memorial service! How would she ever manage to play the part of Stephen’s wife in this scenario? What would be expected of her? How many people would she have to see?

      “A Saturday afternoon would be most appropriate, don’t you think?” Leda asked.

      A Saturday afternoon. Only one afternoon. She could get through that She nodded and gave Leda what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

      Nicholas folded his napkin and stood abruptly. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

      “There’s dessert,” his mother called after him, but he was gone. “We’ll eat his share,” Leda said with a brave smile.

      Sarah wished she could bolt from the room as Nicholas had. But she’d gotten herself into this situation. Now she’d have to see it through. She observed Leda’s determined expression and resigned herself. The least she could do was assist the woman and be as much help and support as she could. She owed them that much. And more.

      After all, how long could a memorial service take?

       Chapter Three

      The memorial service would be interminable, if the arrangements were any indication. Leda arrived at Sarah’s door early the following morning. Together they came up with the appropriate wording for the invitations, and Leda had Gruver deliver the text to the printer.

      The following day Virginia Weaver, a plump seamstress, arrived to measure Sarah for dresses and undergarments. She brought catalogues from which she and Leda selected a double-spring elliptic skirt to shape the full bell skirts, as well as six corsets. Sarah watched with growing trepidation.

      “I’ll need to make you at least a dozen petticoats,” Virginia claimed. The women gathered in the enormous dressing room that was a part of Sarah’s suite.

      The idea of Halliday money buying her clothing made her increasingly nervous.

      “I’m not usually this…full-figured,” she argued, hoping they’d see what a waste so many new garments would be after her figure returned to normal.

      “Of course not, darling. But you will be for the next year, and by then, the styles will change again.”

      Uncomfortable going along with this plan, Sarah glanced at Leda, who said, “Virginia is right. You know…” She stepped forward with her palms pressed together. “I think Claire should have one of those bustles, don’t you? Perhaps I will, too. And a few dresses to fit it.”

      “It’s the latest fashion,” Virginia agreed.

      Sarah thought of all her own clothes that had been in her trunk on the train, and wondered what had happened to them.

      All she had was the emerald bracelet she’d sewn into the lining of her reticule, and that had somehow miraculously been delivered to the hospital with her. She prayed it’s sale would bring enough money to get her started on her own when she left here.

      Virginia opened a valise of fabric samples. The new dresses would all be black, of course. Muslin, bombazine and corded cotton for day wear, silks, grosgrain taffetas and shiny sateen for evenings and outings.

      “How can you keep these on your feet?” Virginia asked, now kneeling before Sarah and noting Claire’s slippers. She poked one finger between her heel and the soft leather. “They don’t fit you!”

      “Well, I—I don’t have to walk, just yet,” Sarah stammered.

      “Your slippers are too large?” Leda asked, peering at Sarah’s feet with curiosity.

      “My feet were terribly swollen before William’s birth,” Sarah tried to explain, her cheeks growing uncomfortably warm.

      “You poor dear,” Leda said, and her gray eyes misted. “And our sweet, sweet Stephen bought you all new slippers.”

      “Yes.” The word came out as little more than a whisper. It did sound like something Stephen would have done for the woman he so obviously adored. That wasn’t so hard to believe.

      “Her dress for the service must be extraordinary,” Leda said firmly. “Stephen would have wanted it so. Elegant and fashionable, even though it’s for mourning.”

      “A bustle, then,” Virginia determined. “And I have some black French lace I’ve been saving for something special.”

      “But no one will even see it with me in this chair,” she said, wanting them to see reason.

      “It doesn’t matter,” Leda said. “You’re a Halliday. Hallidays have a position in this community. Measure her feet. She’ll need slippers.”

      William’s cry alerted them to his feeding time. Mrs. Trent appeared in the doorway holding him.

      Glad to escape the escalating dressmaking plans, and always eager to spend time with her son, Sarah opened her arms for the infant. “Will you wheel us into the other room, please?”

      Mrs. Trent did as Sarah asked. “I’ll have his bedding laundered now, and take my noon meal, if that’s all right with you, Mrs. Halliday.”

      “Certainly.” Appreciative of the woman’s time away, Sarah sat near the lace-curtained balcony windows, nursing William and humming softly. Soon she’d be able to do more to care for him herself, and then she would feel more like a mother. Leda and Mrs. Trent pampered her so, their constant attention and sometimes smothering concern had started to annoy her.

      Each day drew her further into indebtedness to the Hallidays, both financially and emotionally. But there was no backing out now, no way to loosen the comfortable but certain ties that were binding her to this home and these people.

      She brushed her fingertips over William’s silky pale hair and inhaled his milky, sun-dried cotton smell. Where would they be now if not for Stephen’s kindness and Leda’s misplaced loyalty and trust? If not for Nicholas’s tolerance?

      The possibilities were more than she wanted to consider.

      She would have to honor her benefactors and the Halliday name. She would make a proper appearance before their friends and associates. Leda and Nicholas were the only ones who ever had to know the truth. Later, she would spare them the humiliation of a public discovery by simply letting others think Claire had chosen to return to her own family.

      But for now, she’d narrowed her own choices and had none left but to play this charade to its inevitable conclusion.