The Baby and the Battlefield

Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Funeral and a Proposal

Although it was only a memorial, and not a full funeral, Mulberry perceived Gaius' ceremonies through a clanging, incense-scented daze. The urn, carried by Marcus' father, lead the procession, flanked by two hired boys carrying incense censors. Rufus followed, wrapped in blankets and seated on a pony lead by a slave. Next came Marcus, flanked on his right by Marilla, and on his left a slave carrying a banner to represent their older sister, who lived in the provinces with her husband and children. All of them were dressed in dark, drab colours, deep grey-greens and blackish browns. Mulberry herself came next, but only because she was tasked with carrying baby Aurelia. Aurelia was also a mourner, since she was officially the niece of the deceased.

Behind them were neighbours and friends, and a crew of professional mourners. The hired mourners wept loudly and theatrically behind gauzy veils, capering and leaping in shows of overwrought, false emotion. They carried bells and small cymbals that rang and clashed and sang as they keened. Mulberry thought the dishonesty of it was disrespectful, but everyone else seemed to expect it.

At the grave site, the hired mourners broke into a tuneless dirge. Mulberry watched one of those absurdly common blue butterflies, apparently insensitive to the cold air, land on Rufus' shoulder. The boy ignored it, wiping tears from his eyes. Mulberry reflected that the antics of the hired mourners did have a purpose – they distracted the real mourners from their grief, and allowed the child to convince himself his tears went unnoticed.

Marcus' father spoke about his son, the urn was placed in a shallow depression, and inundated with rose petals. A few measures of wine were carefully poured in by Marcus and Marilla. Then the urn, rose petals and all, was covered with earth, and the ceremony was over.

                                                                                   ~*~

Hours later, Marcus sat by the table in his quiet little room. The neighbours and guests had all gone home, and the household was left to itself in the waning afternoon light. Marcus felt both pleased and nervous when Mulberry walked into the room. He was pleased that, even after such a hard day, she had accepted his summons without question. Perhaps they could put their argument from yesterday behind them. He was nervous because he had much to say to her; he was, after all, his father's only living son.

He had considered talking to her about all this last night, but the disagreement had been too fresh in his memory. In fact, last night, Marcus had gone to Rufus's room, meaning to talk to the child about the memorial service, and their loss, and about Gaius. But Marcus had heard Mulberry's voice in the room, and had turned around at the door. Marcus instead had slunk back to his own room, and sat quietly in the dark for what seemed like an eternity. Only when Marcus was sure that Mulberry must have left did he go back to Rufus' room. At first, Rufus had seemed angry with Marcus, but he eventually allowed Marcus to pull him up into his lap and hold him as he cried. Marcus never had found out what Mulberry had said to the child.

Mulberry watched Marcus curiously as he reorganized the writing tablets on his desk, placing them in a neat row before he finally began to speak.

“There are a couple of things we need to talk about, Mulberry,” Marcus began, “But first, I want to thank you for your help today. It was good of you to carry Aurelia in the procession.”

Mulberry shrugged, “Somebody had to do it, and she – I think she trusts me.”

“She loves you,” Marcus said with a shrug.

Mulberry smiled, pleased. “Thank you, Marcus, but she loves you, too. You’re very good to her.”

Marcus sighed, looking down at his hands. “I just do what I’m supposed to do. The law says I’m her father, after all. I hardly know her.”

“It’s more than that. You’re very kind.” Mulberry felt she had to admit that, “I'm sorry about yesterday. I – you may own me, but you have been kind to me. You – you haven’t beaten me. You allowed me to buy pretty dresses and fed me as well as you yourself were eating. And you didn’t – you didn’t make me - er, that is to say, you didn’t take advantage of me.”

Marcus blushed and looked down. He hated when people talked like that, like he was somehow noble or principled, especially when he felt guilty. “It isn’t a big deal. I admit I wasn't very nice yesterday,” he said quietly, glancing up at her for a moment before looking back down, “but anyhow, I didn’t think doing those kinds of things to you was fair.”

Mulberry smiled, “I don’t think most people feel that way, Marcus.” She suddenly laughed, and commented, “You even like for me to call you by name, by your given name, and speak to you informally.”

“It makes me more comfortable,” Marcus said, “It makes it feel like -” he trailed off.

“Like we're friends?” Mulberry asked, raising an eyebrow. She wondered if she should extend an olive branch to Marcus. She supposed she ought to; she had to live in the same house as the man, after all.

Marcus nodded, waiting for her to get angry again.

“Well, we are friends, sort of, aren’t we, Marcus?” Mulberry said, sounding non-chalant.

“I – we are?” He did look at her, now, staring in surprise.

“Yes. Well.” Mulberry sighed, “I know you don't have the power to manumit me anyway. So I might as well take what friendship you're willing to offer.”

“Oh. Oh, I'm glad,” Marcus let out a sigh of relief. This would make things easier.

Mulberry nodded, adding, “Besides, like I said, you really are nice to me.”

“I try. But,” Marcus continued, “I have to admit, that I don’t - I don’t quite look at you the right way for you to be my friend.”

Mulberry’s heart dropped. So much for getting along with Marcus. “It is because I am your slave, and not your equal,” she said.

Marcus blushed, pink splotches blooming in his pale cheeks as he shook his head, “No. It’s not that. It’s that – “ he left off for a moment, taking a deep breath, then continued, “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Now it was Mulberry’s turn to blush. She could feel the heat on her cheeks, and tingling down her arms as Marcus reached up to push a strand of hair from her face. This was confusing, and strange.

“I am not beautiful,” she responded curtly. Her stomach hurt when she said it. Marcus' voice was warm and kind, but his words felt false. And she felt bewildered that Marcus, trusty, quiet Marcus, of all people, would say such a thing.

“I don’t know what that man who married you told you,” Marcus said quietly, “But I think you’re beautiful.”

Mulberry’s mind raced. “Well, if you believe so,” she replied. Her voice was dispassionate and non-committal.

“I do,” Marcus said firmly, “You are beautiful and you are clever, and you are good.” And as he said it, he believed every word, even if he was saying it to please his father.

Mulberry could feel the blush prickling on her cheeks again. She had not expected this from Marcus. He had never tried to seduce her before. And that was, of course, what he was doing, wasn't it? There was nothing else he could be doing that made any sense.

She supposed he would put a hand on her knee, next, or try to kiss her. She knew that he was not free with his affections. He was much sweeter and more considerate than her husband had been. But at least in her marriage she had possessed some rights. And so far Marcus had been good and honourable; she couldn't allow him to throw that away. She would have to turn him down, somehow.

Marcus gently put one hand on each of Mulberry’s knees. She could feel their warmth through the thin fabric of her skirts. He looked nervous, she realised, and was breathing raggedly, as if working himself up to something. Well, she thought, this is it.

“So you see,” Marcus said, now looking up into her eyes hopefully, “I admire you greatly. And if – if you’re willing to stay here, for Aurelia’s sake, then, well, marry me?”