Viette #7: Breakfast and Mourning

The rest of Viette's first night back in the Doherty house was uneventful, and in the morning, Delia ushered her briskly into the breakfast room, to a long, low table piled sinfully high with delicious English food. Even Viette couldn't find anything wrong with the food, and she ate so many plump, juicy sausages she thought she might be satisfied to never have to eat a thing ever again.

Delia chattered happily at Viette while she ate, and Viette answered all her mother's questions with enough voluntary detail that she was sure Henry and Grandpa Peter would be proud. She hesitated, though, when Delia asked how she slept; but nearly all of her disconcerting nightmare had dimmed, and she just asserted that her bed was very comfortable, and she was thankful for the fire Delia had sparked up in the hearth. Viette noted at one point that Delia was being very careful not to mention Carlotta's death, and she didn't ask any direct questions about Henry.

Just after Delia had begun to inquire into the specifics about Viette's seaside home in Kavala, they were interrupted by a servant who announced the arrival of Mr. Dawes. Grandpa Peter ducked into the breakfast room behind her and gave an awkward little wave.

"I didn't realize I was disrupting something," he apologized, making to back out, but Viette stood abruptly, self-consciously smoothing her skirt and clamoring out from between the table and her chair.

"That's alright, Grandpa, I've eaten enough to last me our whole week in England," Viette said, realizing too late that she was being very rude. A carefully calculated look from Grandpa Peter was enough to let her know that.

Delia, always poised, offered Grandpa Peter some breakfast, which he politely turned down and followed up by requesting to talk to Delia in private. Viette immediately wondered if she had heard him wrong; but when the two swept from the room, she was left to sullenly speculate about their conversation. They were only gone for a minute, and when they returned, neither seemed any different.

"Well, Viette, if you're ready to go, I'll be needing your assistance about town," Grandpa Peter said gruffly. "There's a lot to do before the funeral tomorrow."

Viette glanced down at her outfit; she'd donned a floral print skirt and a simple white blouse before coming downstairs for breakfast, but a glance outside the tall windows revealed that the rainy weather had not surrendered overnight. And did she need to be dressed in black if she were going out into the village where the people would know Grandpa Peter? How did this mourning thing work in England? Why had no one bothered to fill her in?

Delia had come around to Viette's side of the table, and she slid her arm across her shoulder. "Come on, Vivienne, I'll make sure you're taken care of before you leave," Delia said softly, guiding Viette toward the door and throwing Grandpa Peter a dazzling smile.

*****

Standing before the open wardrobe in the guest room, Delia briefly inspected Viette's clothes, then decidedly pulled her more stylish black dress off the hanger and handed it to her. "I'll make sure you have something nice to wear to the funeral," Delia told her. "But don't worry too much about your appearance. Contrary to what you'll find in society, observance of death is simply not the time to hold on ritual; it's emotion, not rules."

Viette didn't know what to say to this, so she just took the dress and sidled awkwardly behind the changing screen so she could swap the outfits. "I just didn't want to offend anyone who knew Carlotta or make them think I was being disrespectful," Viette confessed reluctantly. She normally pretended to not care what anyone thought, but her mother's kindness was making her feel differently about this habit.

"Oh, not many Brighton folk knew Carlotta," admitted Delia. "She was.... always traveling. Rather like you," she said with a easy laugh, and Viette even cracked a smile. She came out from behind the screen and allowed Delia to lace up the back of the dress.

After a brief interlude of quiet between the women while Delia worked on the knots, Viette wondered aloud, "Do you think any of them know how she died?"

Viette could feel her mother's fingers pause along the trail of the dress. She noticed tension in Delia's voice when she finally responded, "I doubt it, Viette. But if you're curious, you ought to talk to your father." She finished lacing and patted Viette's hair a little clumsily.

Viette stepped reluctantly into her black pumps and reached for a sweater to combat the weather she knew she'd encounter outside, turning to smile with completely false brightness at Delia. "Thanks for your help. I guess I'll see you tonight at dinner?"

"Certainly," Delia said, but Viette noticed the same forged happiness in her eyes. Well, at least she knew where she inherited that talent.