Into Chaos Hurled (Book 2)

Epilogue - May 1922

Above: A 1920s sketch, just to ground you in time, and for fun. :)

The clouds of war were finally gone, and with it a new era had arrived. It brought new drinks, new dances, and new ideas. Dresses were shortening, and so was women's hair. Young people were having new thoughts on relationships, insisting on 'dating' and not 'courting.' 

     Such was the climate that early spring day, as the procession of mourners snaked from the doors of the chapel to the grave site on the hill, under a large old tree with a thick trunk and gnarled bark. It was as old as Mr Lowell, who had died peacefully in his sleep just two days before. At the front came the coffin, its pallbearers Peter Haywood, Lord Dorchester, and Henry Bishop, Duke of Tonbridge, among others. Behind followed their wives, their children, and Peter's mother, the Dowager Countess. Numerous villagers turned out as well, bowing their heads as the coffin passed them. 

     'I will start,' Peter said when the coffin had been set in the freshly dug grave, 'with a few memories. Mr Lowell lived to be one-hundred and eight, a ripe old age by even Elemental standards. My mother tells me that her father, our grandfather, had many fond memories of him as a young and energetic under-butler when he was a boy. He regaled them with many tales from his time serving in the Royal Navy, advancing to the rank of Sub-Lieutenant. He advanced through the ranks of the Haywood staff just as quickly, becoming under-butler before age thirty-five.

     'My mother tells me he also served as a friend and confidante when she arrived here, alone and orphaned. He was the one constant throughout the tumultuous months battling Benedict Huntley, and again through the upheaval of the war and the chaos that Wittenberg caused. She credits Mr Lowell with assistance in keeping her sanity. Even after my father and my wife's parents died of the Spanish Flu, Mr Lowell was there, anchoring us when we felt adrift on a sea of tragedy. I do believe he and my mother have more strength than all of us combined.'

     Peter hesitated, glancing over at his mother standing opposite him next to his sister Charlotte. She was not stooped by age but by grief. He remembered her facial expression when he'd finally delivered Arthur Kingsley's last letter to her–something had broken inside her, never to be repaired. Soon after had followed the epidemic, taking countless lives with it. They included his father from its complications and both Grace's parents. After those losses her hair had lost most of its bright red colour, fading first to a silvery grey but now turning slowly towards white. Her eyes met his, and she gave him a single nod to continue.

     'Mr Lowell,' Peter said, bowing his head. 'We as a family thank you for your service. The house lives on with you, although the National Trust has taken it over. I cannot think of another who is as loyal as you, and I believe we may never find it again. You will always hold a special place in our hearts and in our households. Farewell, Mr Lowell. May you find lasting peace.'

     The vicar delivered his sermon, and allowed the Dowager Countess the final word and the first handful of soil on the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. All the villagers, as they passed, followed suit. Peter had had no idea that Mr Lowell would bring as many friends as he did to his funeral. He had touched so many people's hearts, and that brought a smile to his face.

     'Peter,' said a soft voice at his elbow, and he turned to find Grace, her expression concerned. 'Are you all right?'

     He sighed, and laid his hand over hers on his elbow as they followed Lottie and his mother down the gentle slope again. 'I believe I will be, yes. Mr Lowell was loyal until the very end.'

     'Indeed he was.' She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles. 'I hadn't any idea that he'd served in the Royal Navy before your house. It was his life, it seemed.'