They had a celebration that night, brandy and meat pasties Prudie had made, the room decked with the last flowers, grasses going pale, a few hot-house roses Caroline brought with her. It was a small gathering but on it went for hours, Caroline and Dwight the first to arrive and then so many others, Demelza’s brothers who’d only known a white face under a white cap, miners, farmers, each ready to drink a toast and shake Ross’s hand. Ross told stories and so did the others if they could, of her exploits and epigrams, of cards laid on a marquetry table, invocations and slyness and unexpected sweetness. No one left remembered her young. But there were those who’d known her in her prime, when she left for balls in a carriage and sat in the first pew in the church, when her voice had rung out without a crack in it.
There was music—hymns she would have grimaced at and airs on the flute she would have preferred, nodding and tapping her foot along with her stick. Ghosts attended: Francis in a frock-coat, bright-haired Julia running about, Ross’s father sitting in his chair as he always had, glowering until he couldn’t keep his face from a grin. Candles lit every window but they did not have a bonfire; Ross’s hands near-ruined from the grave. There were no tears shed and even Clowance, up too late, didn’t cry.