Page 9 of Black and Silver

Still off-balance by his cheeriness, Minnie began to walk among the headstones, reading them and absorbing the names they contained. Her mind buzzed with a dozen stories to match the simple epitaphs she read.

“Here lies Constance Whitcomb, beloved wife and mother,” she read aloud.

“Poor thing,” Lawrence said.

Minnie glanced to him with a small frown. “Why poor thing?” she asked.

Lawrence nodded to the smaller stone beside Constance’s. “Her date of death is the same as the infant beside her.”

Minnie sucked in a small breath and glanced at the two stones, seeing the connection.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I’d wager that she waited for all of her —” she paused as she calculated Constance’s age at her death, “— thirty-one years to have a child, and when she finally did, the babe died before the night was done. Poor Constance died of a broken heart in the morning.”

Lawrence hummed, then said, “Perhaps not. Gauging by several of the other stones nearby, Constance and H-Harold,” he squinted as he read the stone, “had quite a few children.” He pointed to three other stones, stating the dates of those buried there aloud. “I’d wager that they had a lovely, happy family. Constance was the apple of her dear Harold’s eye and beloved by her children, most of whom lived to a ripe, old age. They may have lost their mother in childbirth, but Constance was well-loved and her memory was cherished by all.”

Minnie stared flatly at Lord Lawrence. “Dying of a broken heart is a far more romantic death than an ordinary, comforting one,” she said. “And her husband’s name was Harland, not Harold.”

“Oh? I beg your pardon,” Lord Lawrence said, blushing, and bowed to the headstone.

Minnie moved on, finding another name that struck her fancy.

“Paul Abercrombie,” she said, pointing to the stone of a man who had lived well into his eighties. “He was a terrible miser who made the lives of those around him miserable. He had two wives whom he poisoned, but they were so glad to be rid of him that they drank the poison willingly.”

Lord Lawrence squinted at the headstone and tilted his head. “Oh, no, that’s not it at all. Paul Abercrombie was a jolly, beloved soul. He hosted picnics for the entire hamlet at his country house every midsummer, even though he hardly had any money of his own. He was a wise and beloved grandfather to all who knew him. He loved his first wife dearly and never truly got over her early death, but when his wife’s fetching cousin came to care for him and the children in the hour of his grief, he fell in love with her, a different sort of love, and married her when the appropriate mourning period was over. They lived happily for the rest of their lives and never forgot the beloved first wife.”

Minnie wanted to huff and stomp away through the wet grass in protest. Lord Lawrence clearly did not know how the game was played.

She moved on, attempting to find a stone with a story behind it that he couldn’t possibly turn into a cheery, romantic tale.

“William Everley,” she said, pointing at a newer stone. The man had only been eighteen, and he’d died two years before. “Struck down by a speeding carriage while on his way to his wedding. The physician thought he could save him at first and amputated his mangled leg in an effort to save his life. But the wound turned gangrenous, and he died in agony after days.”

Lord Lawrence started, then turned to look at Minnie with a strange look of bewilderment.

“He was a soldier,” he said, as if it were obvious. “He died a hero on the battlefields of France, defending an entire village against Napoleon. He helped a distraught, widowed noblewoman to escape to England. She wished for him to escape with her, and she promised to marry him and make him a rich man. But Billy had a higher calling and returned to fight for what he believed was right. He took a bullet in the heart defending the captain of his regiment and was awarded a cross of honor posthumously.”

Minnie huffed and shook her head. “How do you know all that?”

“How do you know that he was struck by a carriage?” Lord Lawrence asked in turn.

“I have imagined it,” she said, tilting her chin up.

Lord Lawrence pointed to the headstone. “I have observed the carving of the Medal of Honor that was given to those who died in the war against Bonaparte on the headstone,” he said.

He kept a straight face, but his eyes glittered with mischief.

Minnie felt her face, and the rest of her body, heat over the observation. She had not noticed the carving. All the same, she thought her story was much more lurid and enticing.

“I believe it is time to return to the inn,” she said, picking up her skirts and stepping away from the gravestones. “As much as I do not mind the rain, it is increasing, and I am hungry.”

“I believe I smelled rabbit pie at the inn,” Lord Lawrence said as he jumped ahead of her once more to hold the graveyard’s gate open for her. Minnie noted that he did not poke fun at her for her observational failures. “The other patrons of the inn looked jolly and content, so I assume the inn’s cook is accomplished in their craft,” he went on.

Minnie walked past him with a nod of thanks for holding the gate, then waited so that the two of them could walk side-by-side up along the path back to the inn.

“Unless, of course, they were all just being poisoned into smiling and enjoying each other’s conversation,” Lord Lawrence added with a wink.

Minnie quivered on the inside, but as much as she wanted to believe she was shaking with rage, she had a terrible feeling that it was laughter, not anger, trying to escape from her.

“We shall have to be careful about what we eat, then, Lord Lawrence,” she said in as somber a tone as she could muster. “I would hate to be poisoned into laughing and enjoying anyone’s company.”

---