His Heiress Wife. Margaret Way

There were great sprays of arum lilies, November lilies, roses, carnations, orchids and clouds of gypsophilia. Her huge bouquet of white November lilies had been placed on Harry’s casket. They all rose to their feet as the vicar, tall, silver haired, black and white robed, moved to a position just to the right of the coffin. He began to speak. The sort of words one always hears at funerals. Life, death, resurrection. The organ began to play. They all consulted their service sheets to join in the hymn. Perhaps there were too many flowers. They looked wonderful, softening the cruelty of death, but the perfume was clogging her nostrils making it hard for her to breathe. She began to pray for Harry; for her parents long dead. Harry had been far more than a guardian. He had been the closest person in the world to her. Outside Jason. It was impossible to leave out her traitorous lover.

      “Are you all right, Livvy?” An elderly cousin bent solicitously towards her, placing a hand over Olivia’s.

      She made a huge effort to respond. “Yes, thank you,” she whispered.

      She made herself focus on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Deep and slow. Surely she wouldn’t be able to read the short poem she had picked out for the service? She was amazed now she had agreed to get up and speak. She was far too upset. She would read the poem quietly over his grave. Harry had been of a generation that read poetry constantly and loved it. She loved poetry herself. Poets had a way of expressing everything that needed to be said in the shortest possible time.