I lay as motionless as my husband, but the room seemed to fall away, pulling the light with it. My heart dropped in my chest and I was suddenly cold and increasingly distressed that my shivering did not stir George. I held him tightly, perhaps I cried, I recall only the aching desire for him to wake. I clung to him until noises in the street warned me that the city was coming to life. With a final kiss I said, “Goodbye.”

I rose stiffly and opened the window so that the angels could collect his soul for heaven, then I left him and checked on the sleeping children who were unaware that their father had died. I went downstairs to feed his beloved cat, which had been forgotten in the strangeness of the previous day. I checked the fire in the parlor, even though my companion of almost twenty years would never sit beside it again, talking to me about his patients. It was incomprehensible to me that ordinary things should be done, and yet I did them. The foundations had crumbled. I felt the press of his body against me, but now I was alone.

As custom and my grief demanded, I stayed home for a fortnight and did not venture beyond the parish for three months. George was buried with all due pomp, his coffin escorted by the men of our family and fellow physicians. My brother Eustace told me how it passed off and I was glad that so many of his clients and friends had paid their respects. Many visited us at home, but only once. I spent much time stroking George’s cat and staring into the flames of small fires. The dirt and cold of March gave way to spring, but I did not venture into it for fear of tainting beauty with sorrow. For the children I put on a smile and gave them enough love for George and me both, but I was shaken. It was not only grief for my husband, but for myself. Mistress Turner was dead, toppled into the grave as irrevocably as my husband’s body. Only thirty-four years old and still so much to give, but I was become a shadow, a ghost in black and gray. Widow Turner. Widows on the whole are a sorry lot, poorer than the cats on the street.