Connie climbed the two steps to the chapel door. “What?” She was surprised to find it locked. “Brian, look, the welcome sign isn't here anymore. There's a placard next to the door where the sign was Saturday."
"What does it say?” Brian continued testing angles for his shots of the old church. He twisted a series of filters onto the lens; satisfied, he put the instrument to his eye and started adjusting the focus.
"There's a list. The pastor, four elders, and the sexton, one Charles Farnsworth, also listed as the person to contact in case of emergency. No mention of Harvey Bender.” Turning Connie saw Brian was waiting to take his shots. She moved out of the picture.
Brian talked as he worked. “Maybe he was sexton and retired. He could still think of himself as The sexton."
"That could be it, I guess,” Connie agreed.
A neat lawn extended to the sidewalk on the corner, in the back the head stones of the long past stood in proud, fairly straight rows. Connie started in their direction. “The church outgrew even this large graveyard years ago. I wonder when they stopped using this one.” Green hills with rows of white stones stretched to the left and rear of the church. The streets were built as close to the retaining fence as was considered respectable.
"My guess would be around the turn of the century.” Brian snapped pictures as he talked. “They probably had a small congregation. The church won't hold more than a hundred or so people. If they had grown bigger they would have built a new church. It was big enough for their needs at the time."
He followed Connie to the back of the church.
* * * *
"These closest to the building will be the first to be buried and maybe some of their families if they thought to reserve enough plots.” She scanned the even rows of stones set close together. Some were no more than sheets of slate dug out of the ground and chipped into dagger shaped markers. The engraved messages had worn smooth. Some descendants of the dead had replaced their ancestors’ stones with new markers, more modern marble headstones, while others were long forgotten and ignored, by all but the grounds keeper.
Brief legend told of the lives lost and lived: “Mary Kemp, loving wife, 46 years 3 months 2 days, 1785 to 1831"; “Harold Douser, respected elder, good husband, 1797-1857, 60 years 4 months 13 days". And of the young lost to some mutual disaster: “Jonathan Murphy, 2 years 3 days, 1820"; “James Murphy, 3 years 2 months 21 days, 1820"; and “Martha Murphy, 1 year 4 months 3 days, 1820".
How did a woman live with the loss of three children at the same time? Connie wondered as she looked for the stones of the parents. They were nearby, two narrow markers stood together behind the smaller three, as if to watch over them. Karl Murphy died in eighteen fifty-six at the age of sixty-five a loving husband and grieving father. Catherine Murphy, devoted wife and mother, did not outlive her children my many years, dying in eighteen twenty-five of despondency. She was only twenty-four.
Connie read as many as she could, stopping to etch some of those who died during the Civil War and a few years beyond, especially those who had served in either army.
"Connie, what was Harvey's last name? It was Bender, wasn't it?” Brian called.
Connie didn't look up, her hand busy making an etching of a stone left in memory of a young man who died in eighteen sixty-three. The engraved ‘CS’ above his name showed that Rollin Carpstairs had served as a Corporal with the Confederate Army. He had died for his cause at the young age of eighteen years, seven months, and fourteen days. “Yes, Harvey Bender, sexton since fifty-one.” She finished the rubbing and sprayed it with fixative before carefully placing it with the others.
"I think you should see this.” Brian waited.
Taking the roll of paper and charcoal stick, Connie carefully picked her way through the obstacles.
Brian had moved into the field of stones. The sun had finally evaporated the remaining puddles and dried the last of the moisture in the grass. The warmth of the sun had long since burned away any cool air. He stood, his eyes focused on a marker midway to the outside fence.
The stone appeared smaller than those around it. On closer inspection she saw that it was broken. Something or someone had snapped the thin stone almost perfectly in half. The groundskeeper had carefully placed the top half in front of the bottom, leaving it rest at a sharp upright angle. The top half held the name “Harvey Haverford Bender". The next line listed his service to the small chapel, ‘faithful sexton 1851—1898'. Below was the jagged break in the stone.
"It can't be.” Connie knelt, dropping her supplies. Gingerly she touched the rough stone.
Brian crouched beside her, looking into her face. “It would seem we have been visited by a ghost. Until yesterday, I would have told anyone who said that that they were crazy, but today. Why not?"
Connie turned to look at him, her eyes full of tears.
"What's this?” He wanted to reach out and wipe away a drop making its way down her smooth round cheek.
"I can't help it, I liked that old man. I expected to find the Doctor, and Prudence, maybe Max, if he didn't move away, and even Victoria, but Harvey is ... well it's just a surprise to find him here."
They sat in silence, each with thoughts of their own. Finally Brian broke the stillness. “Why don't you make a rubbing? I'll help you move the stone and you can get the bottom part too."
Nodding Connie reached for the paper and after judging how much she would need, neatly tore a piece off. Brian held it in place while she worked. The words were clearer than on the original stone when she was finished. Harvey had died in eighteen ninety-nine. He had been almost eighty-seven years old.
With a sigh, Connie struggled to get to her feet. Brian put his hand under her elbow for support. “I have to see the Brentwell's plot. The doctor was a very respected man.” She turned slowly to face the small stand of trees at the top of the hill overlooking the small church. “He would have selected a choice spot. The top of that hill would be my guess."
"Sounds right to me.” Brian hoisted his bag to his shoulder and viewed the hill through his camera. “If I was important, I would see to it that my family was buried in the most comfortable place in the cemetery, and the highest point."
Connie's smile turned into a light laugh. “And if your crazy friend insisted on spending a hot day looking at tombstones, you would try to find a most comfortable place to look.” She started walking toward the trees.
"It's the logical choice. Where would you pick if you could choose from almost the whole graveyard? He lost a daughter in fifty-six or fifty-seven, didn't he? So he would have laid out the area before the war.” Brian fell behind as he stopped to snap a few shots of the grove in the distance.
She walked to a small stone lying flat in the ground on the edge of the grove. “Evangeline Amanda Brentwell, stillborn 1857” Connie felt a surge of sadness. “This is it,” she called over her shoulder. “It's the Brentwells. I'll be awhile."
Without waiting for an answer she started working. The rubbing didn't take long. Connie stood, afraid to look at the stones nearby. Instead she glanced around for Brian. He was busy snapping pictures of the old stones and statues. Connie watched him work.
The quiet little church sat at the bottom of the grade glistened in the sun. It was getting close to noon. The snowcapped stones sparkled like diamonds on a white velvet cloth.
"Kone, are you all right?” She knew the voice immediately, but it was different, huskier, and deeper in tone than Connie remembered, but that could have been caused by the tears that made tracks on the girl's face.
She nodded, unable to answer right away. Then she remembered the small stone. Connie stepped back. She stood, and looked at the marker. The broken ground around it was bare of the snow that covered the rest of the open field. No other stones were near. The cemetery ended at the tree line a few feet beyond them.
"I never knew her, but I miss her still.” Bending in front of the small stone, Victoria reached inside her fur muff and pulled out a small
brightly colored wooden horse. “Do you think she will like this? I want to bring something for her on her birthdays, but flowers will not survive in the cold. Papa had the stone placed at Mama's request. She said it wouldn't be proper to leave the grave of their child go unmarked with the wedding coming soon. I hope Evangeline likes the toy."
Connie smiled wondering what kind of mother Victoria would become. “I'm sure she will."
Victoria made a small hole in the broken soil and after placing the toy in, covered it, and with a soft pat sent it to be with her sister. She stood putting her hand back into the muff. “I miss seeing you, Kone. I would like to see you more often."
Connie wrapped her arms across her chest. “I would like that too. But I don't know what brings me back, or makes me leave."
"You are dressed for warm weather, are you not? Is it proper in your time to show your limbs so openly?” Victoria quickly glanced toward the road.
"It is almost summer in my time."
"Ah, I love the summer. Going on picnics, reading under the trees, walking along the river, do you do those things?"
"As a matter of fact I do,” Connie said.
"I must go.” Victoria looked again toward the road in front of the church.
Connie heard a horse whinny.
"Evan has returned with the wagon. I hope we will meet again soon, Kone. Maybe we can learn what strange thing is happening."
Connie heard the muffled hooves of the horse and the whisper of the sleigh being pulled over the packed snow. Victoria was a young woman, but she and Evan weren't married yet.
Her long green cloak stood out against the new snow as Victoria went back the way she had come, following her own footprints across the field to the front of the church. The hill was too steep to climb up or down in the snow. There was no wall. It must have been built later.
Straining to see the man getting down from the seat, Connie moved closer to the bank. His scarf and the overcast sky hide his face from view, but he was well turned out in waistcoat and bowler. He seemed polite and respectful to Victoria. That went a long way in Connie's book.
"CONNIE! Stand still.” The sound of Brian's voice made her stop in her tracks.
The Currier and Ives picture in front of her, the man fitting a cover over his lady's lap in the sleek black sleigh with the bonnet up to shield them from the wind, and a fine horse to pull it, started to fade. She tried to reach into the past, trying to make it last a little longer.
"Don't move,” he called again.
Where was she? Why was Brian shouting at her? She turned too fast and lost her balance.
Connie realized too late, she was standing on the top of the chopped off hill, the waist high wall no longer in front of her but behind, between herself and Brian. The steep slope that had once been there, had been cut away to make room for a new road, and there was nothing beyond where she stood. Her arms wind-milled as she tried to get her balance, but she could feel herself falling.
"Got ya!” Brian's strong hand caught her loose shirt, pulling her toward him, he held her as close as the barrier would allow. “God you scared me."
"Me, too.” She tried to cover her fear with a nervous laugh.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't realize what was happening until I got close enough to see the cloud on the other side of the wall. You were coming back, the colors got darker and swirled. I didn't know if you would hear me.” His voice caught, perhaps reacting to what might have happened. “I was on the ground trying to get a shot of the clouds through the tree branches, something made me look up."
"It's all right. You were loud and clear,” she said, her voice a whisper. They seemed unable or unwilling to release each other. Brian was trembling as badly as Connie.
Several minutes passed, finally Brian looked at the three foot high stone wall. “I suppose you can't get back the way you got over."
Realizing for the first time that she had walked through the wall, or at least through the place where the wall was later built, Connie agreed with a nod. She sat on the rugged stones and pulled her feet up; she let Brian lift her to the other side.
* * * *
Putting his arms around her trembling body, Brian pulled her close. My God, I could have lost you. The words were only in his head but she seemed to know what he was thinking.
"It's over now. I'm all right.” She pulled back and looked into his face. “And I promise to be more careful."
"Let's take a break, get some lunch,” he suggested. “Give us both a change to calm down."
"In a little bit. I want to finish the rubbings on the Brentwells first. I have to get back on the horse that threw me.” There was a quiver in her voice.
Brian nodded. He wouldn't let her go further than his own arm span. “I'll be right here."
He felt her cold fingers on his bare arm. “I'll get back to work.” Her mouth curved into a smile. “Thank you for being here."
"My pleasure.” He returned the smile. “I'll get my equipment and be right back. I can get some pictures of you working. Maybe you can use them in your article."
"Could be,” she agreed. “Okay, to work then.” Connie walked the last few feet to her discarded supplies, bending to gather the unraveled roll of white paper.
Brian wasn't surprised to see that her hands were still shaking.
* * * *
The work wasn't as hot under the trees and with Brian's help went quickly.
Prudence was buried next to her infant daughter. Born in eighteen twenty-five, she died in nineteen oh-two. The short legend “Wife and Mother” told little of her seventy-seven years, nine months, and twenty-two days of life.
The next three markers were small. None lived to see their fifth birthday and all were Brentwells. Elizabeth Ann Brentwell, devoted wife, rested next to Maxmillian, Jr. Had the three children been theirs? Did they have any other children that survived to maturity?
"Maxmillian Wolfgang Brentwell, good citizen, beloved husband and father.” The stone was larger than any other around as befitted the standing of a prominent citizen. It stood on the opposite side of the tree, further up the small grade. Had anyone ever wondered why the doctor and his wife were separated, even in death? Dying in eighteen seventy-two at sixty-six, the short tribute to his memory noted his service as a surgeon in the Confederate Army, an elder of the church, and leader in the community.
So the doctor did join the army.
What about Victoria? Connie scanned the stones around the Brentwells, but could find none with the name Victoria.
She selected several other headstones to copy. Two were young soldiers and the third was another “good citizen". His stone was almost as large as the doctor's, but unlike Max, he had been buried with his wife nearby.
She made the rubbings of their stones with Victoria in mind. The man's name was Evan Brewster. Could it be Victoria's Evan? His wife's name was Annabelle (Victoria's friend?). The Brewsters had died within a year of each other, in eighteen eighty-five. The graves of Simon and Henry Brewster proclaimed that the Brewsters had at least two grown sons.
After eating a quiet lunch, Brian and Connie sat under an ancient oak to sort and bundle the rubbings. Gentle breezes pushed at the tall trees’ new leaves. The chipmunks frolicked nearby. Clusters of insects moved in small clouds over the wild flowers that grew around the trees on the far end of the lot.
"Nature at its best. I hate to leave, it's so peaceful.” Closing her eyes, Connie leaned back against the tree's rough trunk.
* * * *
Connie sat up. She looked around the field spread out in front of her. Clouds hid the sun. A chill made the hair stand up on her arms. A distant rumble announced an approaching storm. “Boy, they came up fast,” she said. “Brian, we better get going.” She looked around. Brian wasn't there, neither was the roll of rubbings.
"Oh, no,” she groaned, “it's so soon.” Feeling guilty that she would be unhappy about seeing Victoria again in such a short span of time, Connie searched for her in the gather
ing gloom.
She looked back at the small marker. The grass carpet had long since enveloped Evangeline's grave. No stone marked Prudence's grave, it was not yet her time. There were new markers, one of the lost children Connie had seen, and in its place of honor on top of the knoll, Maximilian's stone stood as testament to the fallen doctor. The grave was fresh, not more than a month old, new grass appeared in the turned soil, but for the most part it was bare. A bundle of dead and dying flowers had been thrown aside, and a fresh bouquet lay at the stone's base.
"She has to be here.” Connie looked down at the road. It was busy with wagons and carriages trying to beat the bad weather. Turning she could see the field of tombstones behind the chapel.
Victoria stood silhouetted against the darkening sky. The skirt of her long dress bellowed out in front of her, as she looked up the hill, but she didn't make the short journey. With a lifted hand to show she knew Connie was there, she turned and went to the closed carriage that waited in the street, the pair of black horses pranced uneasily. Connie watched until even the sound of the hooves had disappeared.
The wind slowed to a breeze. The sun melted the black thunderheads into white cotton balls. Sounds of birds and bees, chipmunks and squirrels, insects and birds filled the air. Connie could smell the wildflowers and scent from the honeysuckle.
Brian snored softly nearby, his head next to her knee. She knew that was to alert him if she decided to take another unexpected walk.
She thought about Victoria. This visit bothered her. Why hadn't she walked up the hill? I know she saw me. Connie tried to puzzle out the reason. The Doctor had just died, the year was eighteen seventy-two. Did that have something to do with Victoria's actions? Maybe the journal would shed some light on the mystery. Another thought stopped her short. Victoria was still alive in eighteen seventy-two and so was Evan. She must have married and moved away. But not Evan. Annabelle married Evan.
Connie watched as Brian woke.
Smiling up at her, Brian stretched. “Are you ready for lunch?” He stifled a yawn.
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