Page 61 of Bane Bloom

Though I very much doubted it, I smiled and said, “Perhaps.”

On the way out of the church, I greeted and shook hands with the pastor, and then Annie introduced me to a few people from the village. Widow Liddell, the woman who ran the dry goods shop, friendly enough. Annie’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Foss, whose son greatly favored her, including the wary expression. A rosy-cheeked matron called Mrs. Clifford, who, with her husband, owned and operated The Fish Inn.

As I was walking with the Fosses to their cart to say goodbye, a man approached—a well-to-do-looking country gentleman.

“Good day, Fosses,” he greeted us cheerfully. He was a Scot, though his accent wasn’t as thick as Nancy’s.

“Good day to you, sir,” Annie said with warmth.

“I see you’ve increased your number,” said the gentleman, eyes briefly meeting mine.

“Let me introduce you to Miss Gray,” replied Annie. “She’s been sent by the London apothecaries to do some work for them at Pine Cottage.” She looked at me. “And this is Mr. Graham, who has been friends with Bill and his family for many years now.”

Mr. Graham raised his hat and said, “Please call me Ham, Miss Gray, everyone does.”

“Short for Hamish,” said Annie, dipping her head toward me.

“A moniker bestowed upon me by my English boarding schoolmates,” he appended.

Hamish Graham had wavy brown hair, laughing eyes, and romantic features, more like one of Rossetti’s models than a Cumberland farmer.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”

He and the Fosses exchanged a few more pleasantries as the family climbed into their cart. Then his gaze found me, and he said, “My farm is out your way, Miss Gray. I’m happy to drive you home, if you don’t mind the company of an old widower.”

Despite this self-deprecation, I doubted the fellow could be much more than forty. I smiled and said, “I thank you for the kind offer, but Thomas Bane has driven me here and is waiting around back in the churchyard.”

“Ah,” Ham replied, brow furrowing slightly. “Well, it’s lovely meeting you, and I hope to see you at The Mill on Tuesday for the festivities?”

“Yes,” I said, bowing my head, “I shall be there.”

“Excellent. I’ll look forward to hearing how you’re getting on at Pine Cottage.”

He crossed the road to his gig, and I bade good day to my friend and went to find Thomas.

The hillside behind the church was dotted with headstones, many of them with edges softened by time and so covered with moss and lichen as to be illegible. I carefully negotiated a faint, crooked footpath over the uneven ground until I saw Thomas at the back of the churchyard, next to a low stone wall and beneath a great old hawthorn tree covered with snowy blossoms. The trunk was wider even than he was, like a thick column with gnarls and long ridges. Beyond the wall and ancient tree was a copse of younger hawthorns, light glinting off a trickle of stream weaving its way through.

It surprised me to see that Thomas was not alone there; someone stood just opposite the low wall from him. The sun shone brightly now, a golden shepherd among a smattering of sheep’s-wool clouds, and the dappled light beneath the tree made it difficult to see the figure clearly. But as I drew closer, I discovered I was mistaken. It had been but a shadow.

Thomas glanced up briefly as I joined him. “You’re ready, then?”

“Yes, but I’m in no hurry.” I followed his gaze to the grave markers beneath the tree. Arthur Thomas Bane. Lily Elizabeth Wallace Bane. Prudence Artemisia Bane. A breeze stirred the branches overhead, releasing petals and causing light to dance over the stones. The air was heavy with the blossoms’ scent, which, oddly, had both a pleasing sweetness and a tinge of decaying things.

The earthen mound in front of Prudence’s stone was higher than the others, its grass patchier. I noticed that a fresh bundle of herbs had been laid at the head of it, stalks of rosemary and yellow rue tied with twine.

He misses her. He was an outcast; she’d been his whole world.

“Do you visit them often?” I asked quietly, trying not to shatter the peace of the place.

He shook his head.

“‘Rosemary for remembrance,’” I murmured. “‘Rue for . . .’” Regret, I recalled, then wished I’d kept my peace.

But Thomas recited:

“Star of rue

To death imbue