to the haberdasher,” Tryphena said dryly, bending to her soup again. The light shone on her fair hair, making a halo of it. “Half an hour at the most.”
“Dominic is going to make the arrangements for Unity’s funeral,” Vita explained. “In the circumstances it seems more appropriate.” Her face pinched a little, but she did not add anything further.
“Funeral!” Tryphena jerked her head up. “I suppose you mean something in church, something pompous and self-important, with everyone wearing mourning to make a parade of the grief they don’t feel. That’s what you want the black: for. You are all hypocrites! If you couldn’t care about her and appreciate her when she was alive, what good is it to sit in solemn rows like crows on a fence pretending you do now?”
“That will do, Tryphena!” Vita said sternly. “We already know your feelings and we do not require to hear them again, certainly not at the table.”
Tryphena looked from her mother to Ramsay at the head. “Do you imagine your God believes you?” she demanded, her voice hard-edged and brittle. “He must be a fool if He’s taken in by your poses. I’m not! Nor is anyone who knows you.” She swiveled to face Mallory. “Why do you all treat your God as if He’s an idiot? You use stilted language and go on explaining yourselves over and over, as if He didn’t understand you the first time. You speak to Him the same way you speak to old ladies who are deaf and a bit senile.”
Clarice bit her lip and covered her mouth with her napkin. She made sounds as if she had something stuck in her throat.
“Tryphena, either hold your tongue or leave the table!” Vita said sharply. She did not even glance at Ramsay; presumably she had given up hope that he would step in to defend himself or his beliefs.
“So do you,” Clarice said challengingly, lowering her napkin again.
“I don’t talk to God at all!” Tryphena swung back to stare at her sister angrily. “It’s ridiculous. It would be like talking to Alice in Wonderland or the Cheshire cat.”
“You might get a better audience from the March Hare or the Mad Hatter,” Clarice suggested. “They would be mad enough to listen to you repeat yourself over and over on social finances, free love, artistic liberty and general license for everyone to do as they please and hope someone else will pick up the bits.”
“Clarice!” Vita said sharply, her eyes hard, her body stiff. “You are not helping! If you cannot say something appropriate to the occasion, please say nothing at all.”
“Clarice never says anything appropriate on any occasion,” Tryphena said with a sneer, bitter and full of hurt.
Charlotte knew what Tryphena was doing. For some reason Unity Bellwood’s death had wounded her more than she could contain, and her anger was against everyone else who did not share her loneliness and loss, or whose fear she could not see. Charlotte looked up at Ramsay Parmenter, sitting at the head of the table, nominally presiding, but in effect doing nothing.
She turned to Vita and saw a shadow of an old tiredness cross her features, and she wondered how many times before Vita had had to make the decisions, mark where the boundaries of behavior should be, when she had expected it of him. Perhaps that was the ultimate loneliness, not the bereavement of death but the isolation of failure to share in life, to find yourself linked to the shell of your dreams when the substance has gone.
“Well, fortunately the church will pick up our shortcomings and say all the appropriate things.” Mallory passed his soup plate to the maid who was collecting the dishes. “At least as far as it goes.”
“It goes far enough,” Dominic responded for the first time. “The rest is up to God.”
Mallory turned to him sharply. “Who gave us the sacraments of Confession and Absolution for our salvation, and Extreme Unction to fit us to accept His grace and be saved in the end, in spite of our frailties and sins.” His long, slender fingers were lying on the white linen of the tablecloth, stiff and held still with an effort.
“That’s totally immoral!” Tryphena said with disgust. “You are saying that in the end all it comes down to is magic. Say the right words and the spell will remove guilt. That is really and truly wicked!” She stared around at them each in turn. “How can any of you believe that? It’s