Mikah sighed, but not in exasperation. Yes, it was one last thing to do before she set all of this behind her. Well, and perhaps there was one other.
Looking around, she took in the lay of the land. Most of the plants she remembered were gone but the trees stood tall, shading the area and blocking some of the wind. She explained this all to her friend as they walked, the grey winter sun lighting the frosty ground that crunched beneath their shoes. Years before the air had been fragrant with the scent of azaleas, roses, wisteria, and snowdrops. There’d been moss only on the oldest stones. Now, there was nothing to indicate that anyone maintained the small monuments in the last century.
Weaving her way through the worn and weathered stones that represented dozens of generations of the Conagham family, she left Kris to trail behind. Many were so worn by wind and rain that nothing of their inscriptions remained. All that was left was the wavy indentation where the words once were. There were several larger mausoleums as well. She found Robert Conagham’s easily enough, and a very ornate, if somewhat art deco, one erected to Daphne Kennedy, inscribed as the Fourth Marchioness of Ayr.
Turning away with a shrug, she discovered a small mausoleum nearly hidden behind the heavy branches of a weeping willow. An intricately carved shepherd stood guard over the door of the elaborate Georgian tomb. Engraved on the carved banner there were the wordsUntil Next We Meet.
Intrigued, Mikah pushed open the heavy door and entered.
“Mikes, where are you going?” Kris hurried across the cemetery to enter the tomb behind her. “You shouldn’t be in there.”
She shushed him and looked around the mausoleum. The stone side walls were carved into an intricate latticework that allowed the hazy light to filter into the tomb from either side, lighting the lone sarcophagus at the center of the building. Each pillar was marked with sconces for torches. The other two walls and ceiling were breathtaking, shaped to look very much like the branches of the willow just beyond. The burial vault, elevated to chest height, was topped with a thick sheet of white marble. The base of the crypt was covered in a relief of tree trunks and flowers.
It was a magnificent tomb, obviously built with love for whoever rested there. Curious, she moved to look down at the top of the carved marble lid. It repeated the wordsUntil Next We Meetin flowing script; beneath which were words that made her catch her breath.
Hero Margaret Ashburn Conagham
Marchioness of Ayr
Born 1828
Ian Alexander Conagham
3rdMarquess of Ayr
Born 1825
Both departed of this earth the 27th day of June in the year of our Lord 1856
Wicked fate took them from this earth
Until they meet again
May peace be theirs
Mikah outlined Ian’s name with her finger, reliving yet again the anguish of his death, and rested her cheek against the cold marble. The tomb was so large because it held not one body but two. Hero and Ian were entombed together so they’d never be apart, just as Ian promised.
More than any part of the trip to Dùn Cuilean—more than the discovery of her wedding ring or any of the items in the auction—this made the events of the past real to her.
Love. Devotion. Sacrifice. Those things weren’t tangible. They never could be. What a fool she’d been to think that a few inanimate objects could offer recompense or comfort for all she’d lost. The only purpose they’d serve would be to serve as a constant reminder of what was, and Mikah knew that she couldn’t live that way. She couldn’t live the next fifty years aching for what might’ve been.
“Mikes, what the…” Kris reached out to her, freezing uncertainly as he read the inscription. “That’s just…I’ll leave you alone for a little while.”
He exited quietly, and she knew he was expecting her to bawl like a baby over the tomb, but she just sat back on her haunches, resting a hand against the cold marble, and remembered.
Remembered it all.
Tomorrow she would leave Scotland for good. Leave the past where it belonged.
Still, it was some time before she’d collected herself enough to emerge from the tomb. Blinking against the brighter light, she found Kris and Smith leaning against nearby headstones, waiting for her.
“Are ye well, lass?” Smith asked, and Kris’s eyes echoed the question. “I’m sorry to interrupt ye and yer young lad here, but ye were out here so long, I started to worry after all.”
“I’m fine. I was just looking at this tomb for the Third Marquess.” Mikah gestured back to the small structure. “It’s lovely. Who erected it for them? I don’t believe they had any direct heirs.”
“Ye’re right about that.” He scratched his head. She thought that it was more because of the nature of her query than because he didn’t know the answer. “The marchioness’s father, the Duke of Beaumont, had that done. Fine piece of workmanship.”
“The duke?” She frowned at Kris, who just shrugged. “But I thought he was mad.”
