Page 55 of John Eyre

No. It wasn’t fear that had spurred him on. It was merely a consciousness of time. In his note, the vicar had stressed punctuality.

John shut the gate behind him. He’d seen the churchyard before in passing—a neat and tidy area of rolling dirt and grass, scattered with well-kept graves that were marked with headstones of marble and granite. It was very different than the last graveyard he’d visited. That sad little plot of ground where the remains of Lady Helen had been consigned.

Beyond stood the church, as small and tidy as the graves themselves. It was a Gothic structure, made of stone with a tall, thin steeple. A spire rose atop it, stretching up to the sky. The same spire John had often spied from atop the battlements at Thornfield.

He strolled down the dirt path that curved through the graveyard, making his way toward the closed doors of the church. Mr. Taylor must be with someone. A parishioner, perhaps. John didn’t like to interrupt. He lingered along the path, reading one faded headstone and then another.

A grave up ahead appeared newer than the others. Not only well-tended but liberally adorned with fresh flowers—a living accompaniment to the roses chiseled into the headstone. The symbol conveyed that the grave’s occupant was a lady who had died in her full bloom. He stopped to examine the inscription. It read:

In Memory of

BLANCHE INGRAM

who departed this life 6th June 1843

The rest was obscured by the pile of flowers. He bent to move them aside so he could see the final lines. It was a scrap of poetry, not uncommon to find chiseled into a headstone:

Remember me as you pass by

As you are now, so once was I

As I am now, so you must be

Prepare for death, and follow me

“Ah,” a voice sounded behind him. “I see you’ve discovered Miss Ingram.”

John turned abruptly to find a gentleman standing behind him on the path. He was clad in a collar and cassock. A well-favored fellow, with short side whiskers and a shock of sandy hair flopping over his forehead. He was younger than John had expected. “You must be Mr. Taylor.”

“And you’re Mr. Eyre.” He extended his hand, and John shook it firmly. “A pleasure to meet you at last. Have you been waiting long?”

“Only a few moments. I’ve been looking at some of the headstones.”

Mr. Taylor came to stand next to him at the grave. “A tragedy, this. Miss Ingram was still young. Still beautiful.”

“Was it an illness?”

“No. It was a riding accident that took her from us. A gruesome affair.” Mr. Taylor cast him an enquiring glance. “You’ve not heard of it?”

“Should I have?”

“She was returning from a visit to Thornfield Hall.”

John gave the vicar an alert look.

“It was last summer. Mrs. Rochester had just arrived home from the Continent and Miss Ingram had gone to call on her. The two of them were childhood friends, you know. As close as sisters. I’d have thought Mrs. Rochester might have said something.”

“Not at all. I’ve never heard Miss Ingram’s name spoken before. Not by anyone.” John frowned. “She fell from her horse?”

“She was thrown, I believe, on the journey back to Millcote. Her horse arrived at the Ingrams’ stables without her. She was found the next day, her neck broken from the fall. I pray she died instantly.” Mr. Taylor’s expression tightened. “She was badly mauled about. The wild animals must have got to her in the night.”

John winced. He wondered that Mrs. Rochester had never mentioned the loss of her friend. Then again, why would she? She wasn’t obliged to confide in him.

Still, the manner of Miss Ingram’s death was surely of note. Mr. Fairfax, at least, might have said something. The most John could remember him having communicated was that the Ingram family was lately in mourning, but he’d revealed nothing of the reason why, and John hadn’t thought to ask. It hadn’t seemed relevant.

Now, however…

John recalled Mrs. Rochester’s words to him the day they’d walked together along the snow-covered lawn.