Page 5 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Chapter Three

D ays later, Isabella endured the procession to the graveyard. The first carriage held the minister and pallbearers—six decrepit old men, contemporaries of her father’s. She half-feared they would all perish from overexertion in their effort to carry the casket to the grave.

The hearse came next, a black carriage with glass sides, its silver fittings dulled by the drizzle and grime.

The undertaker had urged Isabella to choose one with four horses, a canopy of ostrich feathers, velvet coverings, and an elaborate cornucopia of flowers to flank the coffin.

She had declined, settling instead on a hearse and mourning coach with one horse each, a modest floral arrangement, and a complete absence of feathers.

Papa had never been one for elaborate displays in life; she could not imagine he would want them in death.

A good thing, that. Though she did not yet know the whole of it, she knew that Papa had left their finances in a less-than-ideal state.

The figures she had not yet dared to total rustled at the edges of her thoughts like papers in a draft.

Isabella sat in the third carriage clutching a posy, accompanied by Mr. Christopher, her father’s solicitor.

He was a middle-aged man with plump, ruddy cheeks and kind eyes.

She had hired mourners to walk before the hearse, but there was no one else to remain at her side for Isabella had no close relatives to weep with her on this day.

She had been a late life baby, a child neither of her parents had expected, an only child born to only children.

Her mother had exhaled her last breath as Isabella drew her first. It had always been just Isabella and Papa. And now, just Isabella.

A bluebottle droned inside the carriage, slow with cold, butting the glass with dull, stubborn taps. She fixed her gaze on her gloved hands and tried not to hear it knock.

This was the finality of death, not the cold body in the chair or the closing of Papa’s eyes, but this endless, hollow procession. A line drawn across her life: before, and after.

Mr. Christopher stared out the side window and did not speak. That was for the best. There were words that needed to be said, but not yet. After the burial would be soon enough.

At length, the carriage rocked to a halt next to a tall hedge that surrounded the cemetery.

Mr. Christopher helped her down and escorted her around the hedge, past the mausoleums that rose on either side of the main laneway, past row upon row of crosses, angels, and engraved stones.

The grass was winter brown splotched with puddles of mud, the trees bare and stark.

It was too late in the year for snow, and too early in the year for the trees to bud or flowers to push through the barren ground.

Rain dripped from the edges of the black umbrella Mr. Christopher held for them both. Droplets fell from the brim of Isabella’s mourning bonnet, and despite the presence of the umbrella, the hem of her skirt was sodden. Cold crept up her calves and lodged behind her knees.

At the graveside stood several older men, more of her father’s contemporaries—scholars, rare book aficionados, antiquarians—their umbrellas gleaming like black beetles huddled close.

Set apart from the mourners stood a younger man, shadowed beneath the brim of his hat.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and both the cut and cloth of his elegant black coat suggested the garment had come at some expense.

He stood facing away from her, far enough that he could be visiting another grave and not be part of this service at all. But close enough that he could be.

At his back, a single wraith hovered, pewter mist edged in charcoal, its clawed hand resting on the man’s shoulder.

He did not twitch or shudder, but the way he inhaled, deep and slow, made her think he felt the frigid touch.

Some people didn’t. Some did. Those who did were wont to laugh nervously and say that someone was walking over their grave.

And then there was Isabella, who felt them, saw them, heard them.

For a fleeting second, she glimpsed high cheekbones, a straight nose, an angular, clean-shaven jaw. A tug of recognition stirred then vanished as he turned away.

Frowning, Isabella took her place as the minister began to speak in a slow, steady drone. The words held no comfort. Her heart was as leaden as the sky.

Before her was the open grave, the earthen sides giving way beneath the onslaught of the rain, oozing down in clumps and streams. Her father lay in the casket at the bottom of the hole. The life she had known was in there with him.

Water dripped from her bonnet onto her face, blending with her silent tears.

Her eyes felt swollen, her lids heavy. She did not wail or sob.

She did not fling herself upon the casket.

She only stood by the grave and willed her spine to stay straight, her trembling legs to hold her, and the whispers to stay quiet.

They did not. Of course, they did not. She was in a graveyard, after all.

They came, faint and scattered, but she pretended not to hear them. She refused to let them shatter her composure here, in this moment, when all she had left was the dignity of her grief.

After the service, her father’s friends filed from the grave murmuring condolences as they passed her. She nodded and murmured appropriate replies. One or two clasped her hand before they went. She had never felt so alone.

At length, Mr. Christopher urged her to return to the carriage.

“A moment, if you please,” Isabella said. “I’d like a moment alone to say my goodbyes.” She glanced at the posy clutched in her hand.

Mr. Christopher hesitated and looked up at the sky. The downpour had stilled for the moment. With a nod, he said, “I will wait there,” and gestured to a large marble angel a few feet away.

Isabella shook her head. “Please. I want to be alone with him one last time.” Though she knew it was unlikely, a tiny part of her hoped that Papa’s spirit had stayed, that it would appear to say one last goodbye before leaving forever.

Mr. Christopher frowned and looked as though he meant to argue, so she whispered, “Please,” once more.

“Very well. I will wait by the carriage.” With a last wary look at the sky, he strode toward the tall hedge growing along the wall that separated the graveyard from the road.

He rounded the far end and disappeared. In the distance, the gravediggers stood beneath the shelter of an ash tree, caps pulled low, shoulders hunched.

They made no move to approach, waiting until she was done.

Isabella turned back to the grave. For long moments, she stood looking down, saying nothing, her heart a lump of coal in her breast. She heard them, the whispers of those who begged her to listen, but she refused their plea. She wanted to think only of her father.

Memories danced through her thoughts: Papa reading her stories, tucking her in, placing a cool cloth on her forehead when she was sick with fever.

The pride in his voice when he complimented a job well done.

His excitement when he acquired a rare and wonderful volume after a lengthy hunt.

The twinkle in his eye when he brought home a box of her favorite sweets or a ribbon for her hair.

His wheezing laughter that always ended in a cough.

Never again would she hear it. Never again would she hear him humming to himself as he worked.

“Papa, I will miss you,” she whispered. “I hope you are with Mama. I hope you are at peace.” She smiled a little.

“I hope there are shelves and shelves of wonderful books for you to read and catalogue.” She brought the posy to her lips and placed a kiss on the petals, then she dropped the flowers in the grave.

Cyclamen. The symbol of resignation and goodbye.

Choking on a sob, she spun away. Her foot slid on the wet earth.

Arms flailing, she struggled to regain her balance, to no avail.

She fell to the ground, cold mud seeping through her gloves as she landed on her hands and knees, the sodden hem of her gown pooling around her.

She made to push herself up, but her boots slid uselessly beneath her, offering no purchase.

A gloved hand appeared before her. Expecting Mr. Christopher, she reached for it and looked up, only to snatch her own hand back in surprise.

The man towering over her was not Mr. Christopher.

The dark-haired stranger she had noticed earlier stood before her. A single wraith, grim and ominous, floated at his back.

She had thought he’d departed with the others.

His hand remained where it was, an offer of assistance.

Isabella hesitated. The tall hedge hid Mr. Christopher and the carriage from view. But surely he was close enough that he would hear her should she call out.

“Miss?” the stranger said.

“My gloves,” she said, rocking back on her heels and holding up both hands to show the mud dripping down her fingers. She couldn’t imagine he would want that smeared on his pristine glove.

She was wrong.

“Dirt of that sort can be washed away,” he said. He reached down with both hands and closed his fingers around her wrists, then pulled her to her feet as though she weighed nothing at all.

For a breathless moment, they stood close…closer than propriety allowed, closer than strangers ought.

His irises were pale gray, rimmed in storm-dark charcoal, his lashes long and dark and curling, his eyes too pretty for a man. And yet they did not make his face pretty. His face was all masculine angles and hard edges. His mouth was unsmiling, his expression unreadable.

His presence struck her with a jolt. Something unfamiliar flared, cold beneath her ribs.

The whispers rose again, sharp and sudden, buffeting her. Instinctively, she made to pull her hands from his.