These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Jo squeezed Trudy’s hand. “And just where on Fifth will this grand house be? The Seventies? Eighties?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, but you’ll be able to find it,” Trudy said ruefully. “Just look for plenty of dogs and some rather large gardens.”

  There were footsteps in the doorway of the music room, and then a man’s voice said, “Found you!”

  Jo turned around and smiled. It was Bram. He, Addie, and Gilbert had just walked into the music room. Caroline and Rob were behind them.

  “Is Grandmama about? I thought I heard her,” Addie asked, looking worried.

  “She’s gone to check on a foal,” Jo said.

  “Good. Let’s get out of here before she asks to see your teeth, Jo. Or picks up Trudy’s leg to look at her hoof,” Bram said mischievously.

  Everyone laughed except Gilbert. He had made it known just yesterday that he found references to anatomy made in mixed company unseemly.

  The group of friends made their way out of the mansion to the front lawn. The early-October morning was sunny and clear, and still warm enough to walk outside with only a wrap. Everyone was high-spirited and chatty—except Trudy. In the few minutes it had taken to exit the house, she’d changed utterly. She was no longer her fun, lively self. She was quiet and demure, deferring to Gilbert constantly, echoing his every opinion.

  A nodding, smiling monkey, Jo thought crossly.

  Trudy had told Jo that she wouldn’t let Gilbert ruin her fun, but Jo wasn’t sure about that. Gilbert was a dark cloud who could dampen anyone’s spirits. What would Trudy be like a few months after she’d married him? A few years? Defeated, Jo thought. Dull. The very idea depressed her.

  Bram offered Jo his arm and she took it. Gilbert offered one arm to Trudy and the other to Caroline. Rob squired Addie. The party set off toward the river.

  “You look lovely today,” Bram said to Jo as they walked.

  “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she replied.

  He covered her hand with his own, a forward gesture from him. “There’s color in your cheeks again, and I’m glad to see it. You’re still not yourself, though. You seem so distracted. I hope your stay will cheer you up.”

  “It already has,” Jo said, smiling at his concern. “Did you, Gil, and Rob have a nice ride this morning?” she asked. The three had gone out early in a trap.

  “We did. I showed them the site of our ferry dock at Kipp’s Landing. Gil agrees that it should be enlarged and that the fees from the additional vessels a bigger dock could accommodate would recoup the building costs in no time.”

  Jo looked at Bram as he spoke. Twenty years old, tall and slender, he was a man who inspired admiration more than passion. A recent graduate of Columbia Law School, he was intelligent and accomplished. A high forehead and receding hairline made him look older than he was, but Trudy was right: he was handsome in his way. He had a wide smile and warm brown eyes, and he moved with a loping, patrician grace. He was always in command of himself and completely at ease in the world—probably, Jo thought, because his family owned so much of it.

  As the group crossed a meadow, he talked about ferries, trains, and subterranean railroads. The Aldriches owned thousands of acres in the Hudson Valley, a good chunk of Manhattan, and large swaths of the Bronx. They were currently cutting wide avenues through Bronx farmland with the idea of luring people out of Manhattan’s crowded tenements to new homes they intended to build there. With Peter Aldrich, Bram’s father, bedridden, the duties of maintaining the family’s fortune lay squarely on Bram’s shoulders. It was a heavy burden for one so young, which was why Grandmama was so impatient for him to marry.

  As Jo continued to gaze at the young man who might well become her husband, Trudy’s words came back to her: But you do fancy Bram. How could you not?

  Do you? a little voice inside her asked.

  Jo quickly reassured herself that she did. In fact, she loved Bram. He was one of her dearest friends. They’d known each other since they were tiny children.

  But do you fancy him? the voice persisted.

  And Jo found she didn’t have an answer. She loved, Bram, yes, because he was kind and decent and upstanding. Because he held doors and chatted with deaf aunties and never used a salad fork when a fish fork was required. But she loved her cousin Rob, too, for all the same reasons.

  Fancying someone, though—that was a different thing altogether. It was what made Trudy risk expulsion from school for a few kisses from her apple boy. It was what singers crooned about in the songs Mrs. Nelson was always singing, like “Oh Promise Me.” It was mad, bad, and dangerous, and though Jo didn’t know what it felt like, she suspected it had nothing to do with old aunties or fish forks.

  “I must be boring you to tears,” Bram said now, after he finished telling her about a new apartment building under construction just above Central Park.

  “Not at all!” Jo protested. Though she’d been lost in her thoughts, she actually found the rapid changes taking place in the city, and the forces that propelled them, fascinating.

  “What a shameless fibber you are. You can’t possibly find my work interesting. No girl could. Let’s find a subject more pleasing to the feminine sensibilities—the weather. Is it not the most beautiful fall morning you’ve ever seen? And is Herondale not the best possible place to spend it?”

  Jo was disappointed at the turn of topic, but she smiled and agreed that it was. Who’s the monkey now? she asked herself.

  “I love this place, Jo. So much. Its borders seem to me like high walls that keep us safe from the outside world.”

  “Yes, they do,” Jo said. “I’ve always thought so, too.”

  And she had, but now, for the first time, she found those walls confining. They kept the world out, but they kept her in, too. She looked down at her gloved hand resting placidly on Bram’s arm and remembered that same hand knotted in Eddie’s shirt, and suddenly she felt achingly lonely. She wished she could confide in Bram and tell him about her father. She couldn’t, though; he wouldn’t understand.

  But Eddie did.

  She pictured him now—rumpled and brash, with his teasing tone, fast gait, ink-stained cuffs, and lively blue eyes. He was so different from the boys she knew, with their practiced smiles, their crisp suits and pressed shirts. So different from Bram.

  Jo wished she were with Eddie now, in his room. Drinking his coffee. Looking at his things. She wished she could rest her head on his shoulder again, and feel his arms around her. These were wishes she knew she shouldn’t be making, but she was, and it scared her.

  Rob called to Bram. He was pointing to a boat out on the river. Bram excused himself and walked back to see what he wanted.

  Rob’s call broke Jo’s reverie. She found herself standing alone near Herondale’s high cliffs. She hadn’t realized how far they’d walked. The edge was only ten yards away. They used to dare each other to go close when they were children—she, Addie, Bram, and her cousins. She’d always gone the closest.

  What am I doing? she wondered. I’m here, walking with Bram, but thinking about Eddie. If Bram knew … If he knew I’d snuck out of my house at night, that I’d gone to the morgue, and to Eddie’s room …

  Jo shivered at the thought. Just one of those transgressions could ruin her. Theakston had nearly caught her coming back into the house from her visit to Reade Street. She’d only just made it up the back stairs ahead of him. What if he had caught her?

  Looking out now at the broad, majestic Hudson, Jo felt as if she were on the verge of a more dangerous precipice. She took a few more steps and peered over the cliff, into oblivion. The river seemed to rush up at her. For a second, she felt as if she might actually step off the edge. It felt terrifying—and exhilarating.

  “Jo!” a voice called. “Be careful!”

  It was Bram. He was hurrying to her.

  “You’re scarin
g me,” he said, taking her hand. “Come back, Jo. Please. You’re far too close to the edge.”

  The drunk man swayed alarmingly. He straightened his filthy jacket, wiped his snotty nose, and smiled. “How much, pretty miss?” he asked. For the third time.

  Jo, standing in the doorway of the Van Houten Shipping building, on South Street, was losing her patience. She wished he would just go away. The darkness made it hard enough to see who was coming and going along Van Houten’s Wharf without him blocking her view.

  “Please, miss,” the man said, slurring his words. “You’re the loveliest thing I ever saw. Can’t a man have a lovely thing just once in his life? How much will it cost to get you to take a stroll with me?”

  “To take a stroll with you?” Jo said, bristling at his cheek. “Sir, no amount of money, no matter how vast, could induce me to stroll, perambulate, promenade, or engage in any form of locomotion with you whatsoever. Good evening.”

  “My money’s not good enough for you? Is that it?” the man cried. “It’s as good as any other man’s! Here, it’s yours!” He pulled a handful of coins from his trouser pocket and threw them on the ground.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Jo huffed. She knelt down, glad she’d thought to wear old clothes again, picked up the coins, and handed them back to him. “Instead of flinging your money about, you might consider spending some of it on a cup of coffee,” she advised. Then she took her leave. She’d spotted her quarry. He was wearing twill trousers, his trademark tweed jacket, and a collarless shirt open at the neck.

  “Mr. Gallagher!” she called out, hurrying across South Street to the docks.

  Eddie, who’d just trotted down the narrow plank walkway between two massive ships, spotted her. His expression turned thunderous.

  My word, Jo thought. He’s even handsome when he’s angry.

  “I was about to say ‘It can’t be you.’ But I know from experience that it can,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” Jo said, giving him a smile. She hoped it would soften him.

  “I thought you were safely tucked away in the country at the Aldrich estate. That’s what the social pages said.”

  “I returned.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “It’s October fifteenth. You said you would be.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, still angry. “We had a deal. You were to get information about your father’s business dealings, and I was to come to the docks.”

  “We did have a deal, but I’m finding it impossible to hold up my end. I’ve learned nothing about my father’s dealings. No one will speak of business in my presence. Not my uncle, nor anyone else. When I enter a room, the talk turns from ships and spices to ponies and petunias,” Jo said with a sigh.

  “Do you have any idea where you are?”

  “Well, that’s a silly question.”

  “You’re on the waterfront.”

  “Am I? I guess that explains all of these,” said Jo, gesturing to the ships in dock, their soaring masts silhouetted against the night sky, their prows nosing out over the street.

  Eddie was not amused. “It’s not funny, Jo. You’re in one of the most dangerous places in the entire city.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Jo said dismissively. “The people here are actually quite kind. While I was waiting for you, a man tried to give me all his money. Before that, a woman complimented my dress and invited me to her house. She said her friend Della would find me work.”

  Eddie’s eyes widened. “Promise me you will never, ever come down here on your own again,” he said, his voice rising. “Promise me, Jo. Now. Or this whole thing’s off.”

  “You’re awfully dramatic tonight,” Jo said. “Why are you so upset?”

  Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously exasperated with her. “Is there any way I can convince you to get in a cab and go home?” he asked.

  “You cannot. You can, however, tell me if you’ve found the Kinch.”

  Eddie lowered his hand, resigned to her presence. “I haven’t, and I’ve been up and down the entire wharf,” he said.

  “I wonder if it’s a chartered vessel. Van Houten uses them at busy times—tea and spice harvests, for example—if it doesn’t have room enough aboard its own ships to bring its cargo into port. If the Kinch was one of ours, I’m sure I’d have heard about it. Papa rarely spoke of business in front of me, but he did talk about his ships and even took me aboard a few. He was very proud of them,” Jo explained. “I’ve seen this one before.” She nodded at the graceful vessel looming above them. “The Emma May. She’s a tea clipper.”

  As they were looking up at the Emma May, a man suddenly appeared on her deck. He walked down her gangplank carrying a burlap sack over his shoulder. Three black-and-white terriers, bright-eyed and keen, followed him.

  Eddie recognized him. “Bill!” he shouted. “Bill Hawkins!”

  The man waved and when he reached the dock, he joined them. “Good to see you, Eddie! And who’s this pretty thing? You from Della’s, dolly?” he asked Jo.

  “She’s a cub. I’m showing her the ropes,” Eddie answered before Jo could respond. “Bill Hawkins … Josie Jones.”

  “Pardon me, miss! I didn’t mean to … Well, never mind!” Bill said awkwardly. “Pleased to meet you.” He doffed his hat. He had curly red hair, a beard to match, and teeth that were chipped and yellowed.

  “Likewise, Mr. Hawkins,” Jo said. Who is this Della? she wondered.

  “How’s the catch?” Eddie quickly asked. Jo felt he was desperate to change the subject.

  Bill opened his sack and Jo looked inside, thinking it odd that anyone would fish at night. But instead of the silvery glint of scales, she saw a black, squirming mass—rats. Dozens of them. Some were dead. Others were alive—writhing and squealing, vicious with fear. She stifled a cry.

  “Bill’s a ratcatcher,” Eddie explained. “He and his dogs clear the holds of ships at night.”

  “I gathered,” Jo said, determined not to show the revulsion she felt.

  As Eddie spoke, Bill tied a rope around the top of the sack and chucked it into the water. The dogs watched it sink, whimpering. “Quit yer whining, boys!” Bill bellowed. “There’s plenty more to be found. New York’s full of rats!”

  “Bill, we’re looking for a ship called the Kinch. Do you know if it’s in dock?” Eddie asked.

  “If it is, I don’t know about it. It’s not a name I’ve ever heard,” Bill replied, spitting a gob of chewing tobacco into the water.

  Jo felt disappointment descend at what seemed to be yet another dead end, but then Bill said, “Tell you who might know—man by the name of Shaw. Jackie Shaw. He’s an old-timer. Sailed on dozens of ships.”

  “Where can I find him?” Eddie asked.

  “Walsh’s.”

  Eddie groaned. “Not that dive.”

  “ ’Fraid so. If Jackie’s in town, he’s there,” Bill said. He whistled for his dogs. They left the pile of fish guts they’d found on the dock and joined him.

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “My pleasure. Night, all,” Bill said. He strode off to the next ship, his dogs trotting behind him.

  Jo wanted to find out what a dive was, but she had another question first. “Who’s this Della I keep hearing about? And where is her house?” Jo asked Eddie.

  “Della,” Eddie said. He cleared his throat. “Della …”

  “Yes, Della,” Jo said impatiently.

  “She’s a … She, um, keeps a house … a house for girls,” he explained awkwardly. “Bill just assumed … it being late and you being on the docks …”

  “A house for girls?” Jo echoed. “Is it some kind of finishing school?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it is. The girls there are finished. And how.”

  “You’r
e being awfully cryptic,” Jo said, growing annoyed.

  “This is a mistake. A big fat one,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be home. In your nice house. Having milk and cookies.”

  “I only asked—”

  “Let’s get back to business, shall we?”

  “All right,” Jo said, wondering at his brusqueness. He seemed to be very embarrassed by the conversation. She had no idea why. “I suppose our next stop is Walsh’s. What’s a dive?”

  “A rathole bar in the basement of a building,” Eddie said absently. He was frowning up at the Emma May.

  Jo followed his gaze. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s odd that Bill hasn’t heard of the Kinch. Very odd. He’s been catching rats on the wharves since he could walk. He knows every ship that comes in and out of the harbor. If the Kinch was here, if it had ever been here, he’d know it.”

  Jo thought about this. “Perhaps we’re mistaken and Kinch isn’t the name of a ship,” she said. “Perhaps it’s a person’s name. When I first saw the word in my father’s diary, I assumed it was, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed too odd a name for a person.”

  “But your father jotted down the letters VHW for Van Houten’s Wharf next to the word Kinch. Why would he hold a meeting with a man on a wharf at this hour?” asked Eddie.

  “Perhaps he didn’t mean the actual wharf when he wrote VHW,” Jo said. “He always referred to both the firm’s docks and its offices as Van Houten’s Wharf since they’re just across the street from each other.”

  Eddie nodded at the Van Houten building. “I don’t suppose you have keys to the offices?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Do you have any money on you?”

  “Yes,” Jo said guardedly. She continued to use the money she’d taken from her father’s agenda. She felt guilty about it, but how else could she pay for cab rides to Reade Street or the waterfront? Her mother gave her no money of her own; young ladies who carried cash were common. “Why do you ask?”