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Losing a sibling is like losing a limb. Rhiannon finds this on an early September morning, where the clouds hang low in the sky and coat the city with a thick, wet fog. The fireplace was working overtime, the very fireplace Arthur Daveys II fell into a deep sleep in front of and neglected to wake up.
He had no children to pass his name onto. The remaining siblings being only women, two of which were already destined to marry, Rhianon took it upon herself to keep her surname no matter what. Another homage to a dead man. How many times would she repeat this ritual?
Rhiannon phoned Josephine around nine, when his body was still warmed from the fire, but his eyes closed way beyond his usual hours of waking. If she focused hard enough, she could paint a picture of a tired, overworked man falling asleep in front of the fireplace with his pale skin only due to the cold.
Harry woke to help them carry his body to the carriage. He slipped his well built arms under the tall, thin man that was Arthur Daveys II and picked him up like he was nothing but a sack of flour. He was limp like one, left arm hanging downwards, a red color collecting at his fingertips. Harry picked the arm up and tucked it inwards.
No grave was enough to memorialize a man like him. Rhiannon had never been one to conduct high praises to men, especially those of politicians, much like her brother. But Arthur devoted his life to caring ever since that fateful day their father died and Rhiannon left to bury herself in her studies. She imagined statues of gold erected only for him, engraved with each and every good deed he’d ever done, so all of Britain could see, and perhaps the whole world, too.
It wasn’t like this when Arthur the First died. Rhiannon remembered it in the third person, even today. Three raps on the door, and a member of the Yard on the doorstep to tell three children that their father was gone. If grieving one person wasn't enough, Rhiannon temporarily disappeared shortly afterwards.
She regretted it now just as she regretted it every day. Arthur was lifted into the ground slowly. Far too gentle for a man as capable as him. Come on, she urged, show them the man you worked so hard to become. But Arthur didn’t move. He stayed just as lifeless as he was on the sofa.
There were many attendees. The little family they had, friends, coworkers. Men quite obviously from the government, despite his admittedly minor role in the operations of it. Harry stood beside her with that same suit and tie he’d adorned the day they met. She never realized how much it fit into the sea of black, despite being so intricate. A somber thing, it was. Harry was mourning his own death that day.
He reached over and tentatively squeezed her hand. It was a symbol of comfort, an attempt at reassurance from such a physically reserved man. A strangled cry made its way out of her throat, and as they closed Arthur’s coffin, she broke into a sobbing fit.
His headstone was boring and gray. Lifeless. In memory of Arthur Daveys II, it read, departed this life the 26th of September, 1898. Aged 33 years. The son of Dr. Arthur Daveys I. It spoke too little.
He was Arthur Daveys II. Brother of three, son of two, step-son of one. Caretaker of two. Coworker of many. Companion of all.
Her Arthur was lying in the ground dead. Rhiannon jerked her hand out of Harry’s hold, and silently thanked him for his look of indifference. She tore through the crowd, shoving aside men and women who she did not care to know. She didn’t stop until she found Gwendolen in a corner with her husband, wiping her tears with a handkerchief.
“Rhiannon,” she whispered, voice hoarse. She’d been crying for a long time.
Rhiannon brought a shaky hand up to Gwendolen’s cheek, caressing it. She could only imagine the look on her face. It probably matched her sister’s. Her empty eyes longed for just a moment more with Arthur. But Rhiannon was a selfish woman who wanted a lifetime of do-overs, of amending for her mistakes.
“It’s okay,” Gwendolen spoke. “It’s okay.”
Rhiannon opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Evangeline is at home, sorting through his belongings. She promised to be careful. She didn’t want to come. Couldn’t bear to see him dead.”
That made sense. The image of his lifeless body was burned into Rhiannon’s retinas forever.
“Where is Harry?” she asked.
“At the front,” Rhiannon choked out. “He…”
“It’s okay. Don’t strain yourself.”
When Rhiannon was very young, the boys at the center said she cried like a girl. She had made the mistake of standing too close to the road, and a young foal pulling a carriage much too large for its tiny body kicked her back onto the sidewalk.
Despite appreciating the sentiment, it hurt, and she cried and cried until her father came back from looking at the stalls. He scooped her up, cursed lowly at the boys who insulted her, and took her home.
She was glad she had that memory now, when her emotions were too heavy to compartmentalize. Being emotional had been the only feminine trait she refused to embody, but today was different. She could cry as much as she pleased.
She didn’t stop crying while she and Harry took the carriage home, and she cried harder when she looked at the horses ahead and thought of that young foal who had probably only kicked her because he was so hurt. She didn’t stop crying as Harry practically dragged her past the living room where Arthur died, past his temporary study, past the dining room where they’d eat together every night, until they reached her room.
He laid her down gently like the coroner settling Arthur in his coffin. Rhiannon was content with dying. What left was there to do?
“Could I dress you in pajamas?” he asked. His voice was softer than usual. Less demanding.
Rhiannon nodded without thinking. She wanted the horrors of today to be removed from her body.
“Put the dress in the fire when you’re done,” she croaked.
“And the shawl?”
“And the shawl.”
He took care of her clothes kindly, paying no attention to her body as he dressed her. It was the only positive thing about today, if any. That one could look at her so closely and still want to care for her. Only one such as Harry Allard.
As Harry turned to leave, Rhiannon grabbed his arm.
“Stay,” she whispered.
So he climbed under the covers beside her, staying far away so as to not scare her but close enough to where she could feel his body heat. Harry was not dead. Harry was not dead, and if their luck kept up just a bit longer, he wouldn’t die for a few more years. A few more years of comfort, until one of them inevitably dies and they’re alone again.
She falls asleep thinking of childhood, and the cooing of a baby behind her as a police officer informs her of her father’s death.