I paused at the gate and glanced behind me at the solid block of rough-hewn stone that was St. Cuthbert’s. I knew if I truly wanted to be left alone, I would need to venture into the graveyard. The villagers would assume I was visiting my parents’ graves and leave me to my solitude. But still I hesitated. I supposed after the disturbance at the Dryburgh Abbey cemetery two nights prior, I was a bit wary.
However, when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Mrs. Stamper, a notorious busybody, moving toward me, I knew that word of the disturbance at my aunt and uncle’s Hogmanay party had spread. Having no desire to rehash the event with her, I opened the gate and slipped inside the graveyard.
The ground was still soft from the recent rains. I nestled deeper in my cloak and picked my way carefully around the graves toward the tall oak under which my parents rested, side by side. I huddled close to the tree, using to it block some of the wind, and stared down at my mother’s gravestone. It was rather simple, by most nobility’s standards, but lovingly rendered with flowers and vines. Father’s was plainer still, but it suited him.
I tilted my head back against the tree bark to look up through the oak’s barren branches at the winter blue sky. Clouds raced across its expanse, driven hard by the blustery wind. It was not a bad place to spend one’s eternal rest, with the flat stretch of fields to the south, and the curve of the River Tweed to the north. There would be the sound of church bells and singing, of farmers toiling in the fields, and children playing in the river to mark the seasons.
I knew Father and Mother had both loved Elwick, and Trevor showed every sign of following in their footsteps. But, of course, he owned Blakelaw House, so his home was here. I, on the other hand, felt as adrift as ever.
I had left my sister’s household because I knew I couldn’t stay there indefinitely. It was true, I had needed to get out of Edinburgh and find a place to heal after Will’s death, but I had also been escaping a situation I knew no longer suited me. Alana had her own family. She didn’t need me constantly underfoot, no matter her protests to the contrary.
So I had come to Blakelaw House. But I knew my childhood home was not the place for me either. Trevor had welcomed me with open arms, and shown me every consideration. I knew he was grateful for the companionship, no matter how poor my company had been in the past seven weeks. But I could not settle here—there was a restlessness in my spirit—and I suspected that once this investigation was concluded, it would be time to move on. Whatever healing I had been looking for, I had not found it at Blakelaw.
I would return to Edinburgh to help my sister with the birth of her fourth child in a few months’ time, but once she was safely delivered, I knew I couldn’t remain. Where I would go was still a mystery to me, but I felt the surety of the decision in the depth of my bones. I had three or four months to decide what to do. Perhaps I would know by then.
Sir Anthony had left me almost nothing. Even the dowry I had brought to the marriage had been spent. I had the proceeds from the sales of my artwork, done mostly under an assumed name, so I was not without means, modest as they were. I could live comfortably on my own if I was careful with my money.
I rarely played the game of “what if.” It was futile. But standing before my mother’s grave, I couldn’t seem to help but do so. I wondered what my life would have been like had she lived. Would I still have married Sir Anthony, or would my mother have seen the truth about him that my father and I had missed? Maybe she would have insisted I have my London season rather than allow my father to arrange my marriage as I’d requested, too consumed with my art to be bothered to meet eligible gentlemen.
For all of my father’s properness, my mother had been the one who most easily related to people of all classes, high and low. She had been the one to force my head out of my sketchbooks, to make me accompany her on calls so that I might learn to socialize, to insist I take better care with my appearance when I would have been happy to go about covered in charcoal dust. At the time, I had disliked her meddling, but now I could see the truth for what it was. Left to my own devices, as my father had done upon her death, I retreated into the safety of my art. It was satisfying to paint such skilled portraits, but it was also a rather lonely existence. I observed others and captured them on canvas, but I rarely interacted with them in any meaningful way.
I thought that was what I wanted. But now I wasn’t so sure. And maybe my mother had seen the truth of that long before the rest of us.
The sound of approaching footsteps alerted me to my brother’s presence, for I knew no one else would disturb me here. I didn’t look up as he came to stand beside me, his hands clasped behind his back. I wasn’t sure what he would see reflected in my eyes, so I kept them trained on my mother’s gravestone, lest he read too many of my thoughts.