He glanced down at the sorry bunch of flowers he’d picked during his journey to place on Emily’s grave.
If he could only find it.
Pulling up his collar against the wind and the rain, he contemplated Elizabeth and James Lilywhite’s graves. An adventurous pair, obviously. He was curious to know what had lured them to India. Was it the spoils of trade? The adventure? Had Elizabeth been as willing to leave England as her husband? How had she endured in frontier-like conditions?
Stamping his feet to keep his blood flow going, he checked himself for thinking such things when it was too late. Violet hadn’t spoken much about her parents, but there had been little time for idle chitchat during the past three weeks. The raging physical attraction between them had taken centre stage. With more time for contemplation, Max would have liked to have quizzed Violet about her life in India in view of what he might expect in exploring new frontiers in Africa.
A crack of lightning illuminated the old stone church with its rows of crooked headstones. The evening was advancing, and he should be returning to London for his final night there.
Max sent another dubious look at his floral offering as he leaned over to place them on the moss covering beneath Elizabeth Lilywhite’s headstone.
He hesitated. Despite the weather and the late hour, he really should make the effort to find Emily’s grave since he’d come so far. Hers was the grave he wanted to tell Violet he’d seen and tended. He needed to describe it to her and assure her it was well tended.
Slowly he retraced his footsteps, scanning the names of every stone in the cemetery, but still he could not find it.
The storm was intensifying; cracks of lightning spearing the sky with greater frequency now. It was madness for him to be delaying his return, and in weather like this it was foolish in the extreme.
Frustrated, he returned to the graves of Violet’s parents; put the flowers on Elizabeth’s grave, and headed towards his horse which was tethered by the lych-gate.
As he passed beneath the arch, movement caught his eye and he flinched, immediately berating himself for being twitchy in what seemed so much more ghostly only because of the weather.
Glancing down, he realised it was a prone form, lying along the narrow bench, that had moved. He was about to pass on, assuming the huddled bundle was a vagrant or traveller seeking what little sanctuary the narrow, covered area offered from the wild weather.
But it was not an adult, he quickly saw, and as he passed near, the child sat up, gasping, her expression full of terror when she saw him, before she regained her composure, tucking her knees up under her chin, and staring over his shoulder as if he were of no account.
“Should you not be at home?” he asked. He’d thought the child perhaps a gypsy or beggar child, but then saw her clothes were too fine and she was clearly well nourished. A gentleman’s daughter? It was an incongruous finding and decidedly concerning to the parents who must surely have no idea she was here.
The girl shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, dropping her eyes and tracing a pattern distractedly upon her knee.
“Is it far to go? I can take you,” he offered, despite himself. “Your parents will be worried.”
She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
She was so dismissive of his help Max was at a loss. How could he leave a child outside in the dark, alone, in a storm? A little girl? Well, no more than ten or eleven. His conscience wouldn’t allow it. Her parents would be wild with anxiety. He certainly would be if she were his.
Unwilling to walk on, he cast about for something that might elicit some information from the runaway. She had to have run away, he decided.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you back to your house?” He indicated the two buildings on either side.
She shrugged but said nothing, evading his look. In the light of the moon, her pale skin had a ghostly pallor, her eyes seeming too large for her face. Framed by strands of wet, dark hair, her forlorn appearance tugged at his heartstrings. He wondered what must have happened to have sent her into such extreme weather.
“You look as if you can’t live too far away. Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for the grave of Emily Lilywhite.”
The girl’s head jerked up. “I’m Emily Lilywhite,” she said.
Her eyes were suddenly bright, her body tense as she leapt up, craning her neck to look at him. “I think you must mean you’re looking for Violet Lilywhite’s grave; then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, sir. Violet is buried in London.”
Max stared for a long moment. “Who told you that?” he asked, already knowing the answer as a terrible weight of premonition weighed upon his shoulders.
“Grandmama.” The little girl slumped back onto the bench seat. “Violet is my sister, you see, but she died last year.”
Max cleared his throat. “Did your grandmother say…anything else?”
Emily’s lip quivered. “Only that Violet had been wicked, and she died a horrible death because of the evil creature she was.”
“Have you been to London to see where she’s buried?”
The girl ran her hand across her wet cheeks and shook her head. “Grandmama only told me after the funeral, and when I wanted to go and see my sister’s resting place she said I’d be contaminated.” Dully, she returned to tracing patterns with her finger on her knee.