Moonshadows by Mary Ann Artrip Page A

people and their feelings and didn’t for a moment believe doing so to be a human frailty.
    At long last her busy mind rested and she was able to push aside the momentous events of the day and fall asleep. Shining ringlets, as if burnished by fire, framed her face as she slept. Sometime later, something—a slight sound, a whiff of movement—roused her from her sleep and she was faintly aware of a shadow moving silently across the room.

 
     
     
     
FIVE
     
    J anet lay still and waited for the apparition to take shape.
    “Miss.”
    The light from the hallway outlined Lettie’s form.
    “Miss,” she said again and nudged Janet’s shoulder.
    “What is it, Lettie? What’s the matter?”
    “It’s Madam, Miss Janet.” Pain was evident in her voice. “She’s gone.”
    “Gone?” Janet bolted upright. “Gone where?”
    “She’s dead, Miss Janet,” Lettie seemed to apologize. “Doctor was called in a little after midnight.”
    “And just why was I not awakened?” Janet demanded.
    “I wanted to come for you, but he said to leave you be, said you needed a good night’s sleep for what lay ahead.” She wrung her hands. “He worked with her for a long time, but there was nothing he could do.”
    Janet scrubbed sleep from her face. “What time is it now?”
    “Almost three.”
    “I’m sorry, Lettie. I didn’t mean to snap at you, but I should’ve been there.” Her eyes, midnight dark, floated like glassy orbs on a layer of water. The tears washed over and rolled down her sleep-flushed cheeks.
    Lettie placed an arm around her shoulders and let the bright tousled head lie against her bosom.
    “Cry if you like, child. It’ll make you feel better.”
    “Thank you, Lettie, but I’m fine now.” Janet pulled away and looked into the kindly face. “I loved her, as we all did, but she had a full life and she wouldn’t want a lot of grief on her behalf.” Janet’s shoulders squared beneath the America Rocks nightshirt. “I’m sorry she’s dead and I’ll miss her dreadfully, but she’d be furious if she thought I was giving in to sorrow. That wasn’t her way—the Lancaster way.”
    “No, Miss.”
    Janet swung her legs out of bed and stood up. “Is there anything I can do, Lettie? Anything at all?”
    Lettie shook her head. “Madam has been taken to the funeral home at the Point. She always said to all of us in this house that when her time came to go, she didn’t want her obsequies turned into a sideshow. With your permission, that’s the way we’d like to keep it.”
    “Of course,” Janet said, picking up her chenille robe.
    “Come along downstairs now. Cook will have fresh coffee brewing and some lovely pastry. A bite will do you good. We noticed that you ate very little at dinner.”
    Lettie helped Janet into the robe and held her arm as they left the bedroom.
    The rest of the servants ringed a small table in the kitchen. The men rose as Janet approached.
    Cook, unaccustomed to having her territory so fully invaded, darted back and forth and fluttered her hands.
    “Please sit here, Miss Janet,” she trilled and motioned toward a ladder-back chair. “I’m so sorry about Madam. We all are,” she said, speaking for the men, who stood in awkward silence.
    Trent and Duffy bobbed their heads and quietly cleared their throats. Cook’s hands took flight again and she tucked a wisp of hair beneath the elastic thread of her hairnet.
    “Let me get you a nice cup of coffee and a bite to eat.”
    “Thank you, but coffee’s fine. And please sit down, all of you.” Janet pointed to the chairs. “We’re family here and this is no time to be formal.”
    The group sat down to their cups and saucers. The indignant rattle of dishes sounded disrespectful in the somber room.
    Janet’s gaze traveled around the table. “You’ve all worked here a long time.” She spoke to no one in particular.
    “We have at that, Miss,” Trent answered. “Me and Cook came to this house the day your grandfather