The Moss Maiden of Kinderhook

Chapter Forty

On Monday afternoon, the funeral for Caspar Mesick was held. William did not attend. His thoughts and emotions were no match for such an event. Instead, he spent the day in bed trying to reconcile all that had happened. But it was a futile exercise.

Marie was dead and he had killed her. What am I to think of myself?

Marie murdered others, but with reason. What am I to think of her?

His father was involved with the death of James Holland. How do I view him?

Impossible questions with no satisfactory answers. William wondered how long they would haunt him. He was scared that it would be forever. And the secret he now kept was an added burden that he wasn't even sure he should bear.

On Tuesday afternoon, the funeral for Marie and her mother was held. Despite his own difficult feelings and the protestations from his parents, William insisted on attending.

The day was cold, grey, and everyone in attendance was dressed in heavy coats, hats, and thick shawls. William was pleased to see that there was a good turnout for the Holland's. It was strange, though, to see Mrs. Groet, Mrs. Mesick, and even Mrs. Ludlow in attendance. They have no idea.

Seeing the likes of Benedict Kittle and Helena Van Allen stoked the embers of his anger. The hypocrites! However, he saw Grace Beverwyck walk by and, despite their calls for her to join them, she just shook her head with a look of disgust and kept going.

Surprising William, Grace came directly to him and hugged him gently. "I'm sorry about Marie," she said while embracing him, "and I'm sorry about not doing more on Saturday."

The gesture and the heartfelt words were appreciated but William emotions were so deeply troubled that he could only give a small smile in response when the hug ended. As Grace walked away to join her family, William turned his attention to the two coffins in front of him. Despite Grace's kindness, it was not a day for good thoughts.

When Pastor Sickles began his speech, William became numb. He could hear that words were being spoken, but they were nothing more than just sounds. His world became the two wooden boxes – he didn't even know which one was Marie's – and all the secrets and lies that put them there.

Unattended tears streamed down his face as he struggled with everything. So many different things pained him, but what hurt the most, in that moment, was that he would never see his friend, Marie, again. He had loved her for all of his life, he had set all his hopes on a future with her, and now it felt like his life had no meaning. Marie was gone and he was lost.

The good that he had believed in was taken from him. Or was it ever there?

When the funeral ended, the mourners dispersed, including William's tearful family, but he stayed and watched as Marie and her mother were placed in the ground next to James Holland. As he stood there, he wished peace for the three of them; peace that they never seemed to enjoy in life.

At some point, he noticed Nathaniel Minkler approaching and he sighed. He didn't want to be mean to Nathaniel, but was in no condition to deal with his monster enthusiasm.

When Nathaniel was close, the boy said softly, "I haven't seen you at school."

It was true, William had not gone back to the Academy, and, he knew, probably wouldn't be going back. He was in no condition to be surrounded by people and their questions. Plus, he just couldn't see the point of mathematics, languages, history after all he had been through. He had a difficult time seeing the point in anything.

Shaking his head, he answered, "No. I'm not sure when I will go back."

"How's the arm?"

William moved it a little, just until he felt the pain, and said, "Still hurts, but Doctor Van Dyck stitched it and said that it will be fine."

Nathaniel gave a half-smile and said, "That's good. The reason I wanted to talk to you is because..."

Here it comes. Some callous remark about how incredible the monster was.

"Because I wanted to say how sorry I am that all of this happened to you."

William cocked his head in surprise.

"I also wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Marie. She seemed nice and I know she was special to you."

The sincere words, and the mention of Marie, caused fresh tears to come to William's eyes. The comments were completely unexpected.

After a pause to gain control over himself, William responded, "Thank you, Nathaniel. That is very nice."

Nathaniel nodded and said, "I know that I obsess over subjects sometimes and tend to overlook the people. Please know that it is not on purpose and that I am trying to do better."

William gave a small smile and said, "I know. I think you are a good person, Nathaniel. I guess it just takes a little more work to see it sometimes."

Nathaniel nodded. "Take care, William. I'll see you around." Without any comments on the Moss Maiden, he walked away.

. . .

Seamus MacGowan stood well back from the dark clad mourners. Experience, and common sense, had taught him that he would not be welcomed amongst the gathered villagers – despite his role in the affair, he was, after all, just a stranger.

Mrs. Ludlow had paid his fee, and, to Seamus' surprise, added a rather generous reward. Including the money made with his arrangement with the silversmith, his time in Kinderhook had been rather lucrative. Not that it mattered. A few years ago he had more than enough to retire. Standing still, however, was not something he could do. The past chased him but he was good at running.

Seamus spotted William Sharp among the gathered mourners and felt very poorly for the young man. He knew that William would never be free from his guilt, would never be able to truly recover from what happened over the last few weeks. The young man's life was just beginning but was already beyond repair. Endurance – not happiness, not contentment – would have to be William's goal. Staying alive, staying sane, day after day was his future. And it was going to be painful. William had deep emotional wounds and his home, Kinderhook, would become like salt. The constant reminders would burn him relentlessly.

Shaking his head, Seamus came to a decision.