The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller. Dilly Court
her. Now come with me and we’ll get you warm and dry first. Then we can attend to the departed.’
The undertaker came downstairs, walking slowly as if in a funeral procession. ‘There will be costs, of course, Miss Carter. Has the deceased any family that you know of?’
Clara shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She had shut the shop out of respect for Miss Silver, and at Luke’s insistence she had drunk a cup of strong, sweet coffee laced with brandy. Her stomach had rebelled at the thought of food, but the alcohol had made her feel drowsy and detached from the proceedings, as if she were in a bad dream and might wake any minute to find that everything had gone back to normal.
Mr Touchstone pursed his lips. ‘Have you any idea as to her financial status? Did Miss Silver leave a will? Otherwise I’m afraid it will have to be a pauper’s burial.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Clara said dazedly. ‘It’s not the sort of thing she would have talked about.’
He glanced at the small escritoire where Miss Silver used to sit and do her paperwork. ‘Might I suggest that you take a look and see if she has left any instructions? The poor lady must have known that her condition was serious and unlikely to improve.’
‘It seems so heartless talking about money and what she was worth when she’s lying upstairs, cold and lifeless.’ Close to tears, Clara turned her head away.
Luke had been standing by the fire, having refused to leave until Clara was ready to go home. ‘I’ll take a look, Touchstone. I’m a friend of Miss Carter’s and I didn’t know Miss Silver, so I can approach the matter in a more practical manner.’
‘It would be beneficial if we could sort something out, sir.’ Mr Touchstone picked up his top hat and made a move towards the shop door. ‘I’ll arrange to collect the deceased. Let me know how you want me to proceed.’ He nodded to Clara. ‘I’ll be back shortly with the hearse.’ He let himself out into the street, closing the door behind him.
Clara turned to Luke, who was going through the papers in Miss Silver’s desk. ‘That’s private. I don’t think you ought to be doing that.’
He turned to her with a satisfied grin. ‘I don’t need to look any further. I’ve found her will. It’s lucky that the old girl was so good at keeping things neat and tidy.’ He handed the document to Clara. ‘You’d best have a look at it and see if she had enough put by for a decent burial.’
A pale wintry sun had struggled through the mass of pot-bellied clouds that threatened yet more snow, and the north wind whipped at Clara’s black veil as she stood beside Jane at the graveside in Brookwood Cemetery. They were the only mourners present and had travelled on the Necropolis railway from Waterloo Bridge station to give Miss Silver a proper send-off. The oak coffin with shiny brass handles had been lowered into the frozen heart of the hard earth, and the vicar had intoned the words of the interment. He acknowledged Clara with a nod and strode off with unseemly haste to the relative warmth of the chapel.
The whiteness of the fallen snow was in stark contrast to the dark green of the fir trees and the bare branches of the elms that surrounded the cemetery, and Clara shivered in spite of the thick woollen cloak she had purchased especially for the occasion. The musty smell of the second-hand shop still clung to the folds, but that was the least of her worries.
Jane squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘She’s not suffering any more, Clara.’
‘I know, but I miss her all the same. She was kind to me in her own way.’
‘She must have been fond of you or she wouldn’t have left you everything she had.’
‘I know and I still find it hard to believe.’ Clara tucked Jane’s small hand into the crook of her arm. ‘The least I could do was to give her the first-class funeral, although it’s sad to think that we’re the only ones who came to mourn her.’
Jane tugged at her arm. ‘Look over there. Do you know that fellow? He seems to be waving to us.’
Clara turned to see a young man slipping and sliding on the hard-packed snow as he hurried towards them. He was clutching a bunch of wilting Christmas roses in one hand and waving frantically with the other. He skidded to a halt, sending a powdering of snow onto the coffin. ‘I am too late. I was afraid I would be.’ He hesitated, peering at Clara over the top of his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘I say, I’m dashed sorry to intrude. I’m not even sure if I’ve got the right funeral.’
Clara eyed him curiously. His clothes were well-cut, but his shirt cuffs were slightly frayed and his black jacket was unbuttoned to reveal a scarlet-and-gold brocade waistcoat, which was in stark contrast to his otherwise sober appearance. ‘This is Miss Silver’s grave. Who are you looking for, sir?’
‘Then I am in the right place.’ He doffed his top hat, revealing a wild mop of auburn curls tinted with chestnut in the feeble rays of the sun. ‘I’m her nephew, Nathaniel Silver. How do you do?’
‘How do you do?’ Clara replied automatically. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know Miss Silver had any living relatives. I really would have—’
He held up his hand, cutting her short. ‘A family feud, ma’am. Aunt Rebecca and my late mother fell out long ago. A bitter quarrel over a gentleman, so I believe. I haven’t seen my aunt since I was a child, but I read the announcement of her demise in The Times, and I don’t know quite why, but I felt I had to come here today.’
‘He’s after the shop,’ Jane whispered. ‘Don’t speak to him, Clara.’
Nathaniel blinked and took a step backwards. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss, er – I didn’t catch your name.’
‘That’s because I didn’t tell you,’ Jane said sharply. ‘You’ve left it a bit late to show concern for your aunt.’
Clara was quick to see the look of embarrassment cross Nathaniel’s mobile features, followed by one of shame. ‘It’s none of our business, Jane.’ She held her hand out to him. ‘I’m Clara Carter and this is my sister Jane. I used to work in Miss Silver’s drapery in Drury Lane.’
Nathaniel grasped her hand and shook it. ‘I didn’t know she had a shop. No one spoke of her at home.’
‘It’s very cold,’ Clara said, glancing anxiously at Jane, whose pinched features were turning blue. ‘We have to catch the train back to London.’
‘There’s little point remaining here now.’ Nathaniel dropped the drooping flowers onto the coffin. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Rebecca. I should have tried to find you after Mama died.’ He shot a sideways glance at Clara. ‘I don’t suppose she can hear me.’
‘Who knows?’ Clara managed a smile even though her lips were stiff with cold. ‘Come along, Jane. Let’s go before we freeze to death.’
Nathaniel proffered his arm to Jane. ‘I seem to have difficulty keeping upright on the icy surface. Would you care to assist me, Miss Jane?’
Clara held her breath. Jane was acutely conscious of the leg irons she was forced to wear, and for a moment it looked as though she was going to react angrily, but then, to Clara’s surprise, her sister subsided into a fit of giggles. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you, Mr Silver.’ She handed him her crutch and allowed him to take her arm.
Holding on to each other in an attempt to remain upright, they negotiated the frozen paths leading to the place where carriages waited to take mourners to Brookwood station. Nathaniel suggested they share the cab and it would have been churlish to refuse, although Clara was feeling acutely uncomfortable in his company. Nathaniel Silver seemed like a nice young man, but he could challenge his aunt’s will if he so chose; she could see her bright future vanishing before it had even begun.
It