These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “I shall be certain to guard my watch, then,” Jo had cheekily replied.

  “You know exactly what I mean, Josephine,” her mother had said. “It was your uncle’s idea that you go to this ball. I was unsure about it at first, but I now believe he’s right. It’s not wise to be absent from the market too long or you might be left on the shelf.”

  “You make me sound like a pineapple, Mama. And anyway, haven’t you heard? Bram’s not taking me. He’s taking Annie Jones,” Jo had said, mischievously referring to a bearded lady in the employ of Mr. Barnum’s circus.

  “An overfamiliarity with the amusements of the lower orders does not become a young lady,” her mother had retorted frostily.

  Jo shuddered at the memory. She’d earned her mother’s chilly disapproval with a mere joke. She could only imagine what would’ve happened if she’d actually told her about Eddie. Thank goodness she hadn’t.

  Eddie doesn’t care. You know that now, she said to herself. And instead of dreading Bram’s proposal, you should be doing everything you can to encourage it. Because he does care. And if you don’t start acting like you do, you’ll lose him to Elizabeth Adams.

  Jo’s dark thoughts had put a scowl on her face; she could feel it. Certain that girls who scowled did not receive marriage proposals, she smiled brightly and focused once more on the lovely scene before her.

  As the orchestra played on, however, the music began to overwhelm her. The scent of the hothouse flowers became cloying, and the dancers, whirling and smiling through the quadrille’s complicated steps, seemed like clockwork figures. She glimpsed something dark in the beautiful scene. It showed through the surface like base metal under badly plated jewelry.

  The glittering ball, Jo realized, was a symbol of her life. Everything was lovely and perfect as long as each person knew the steps and executed them. The women must only ever watch and wait. The men were the ones who would decide. They would choose. They would lead. And the women would follow. Tonight and forevermore.

  Despite her resolutions, Jo’s fake smile slipped. She suddenly wanted out—out of this room, out of the ball, out of the small, gilded parakeet’s cage she lived in. The feeling was so strong, it was all she could do to stop herself from running for the door.

  She wanted a bigger world—the world that Eddie had shown her. She wanted freedom, but what happened to the parakeet once it was free? She knew. Every once in a while, she saw the colorful little bodies of birds that had escaped captivity lying on the ground in Central Park, dead of hunger or cold. And she knew that she had no more idea of how to survive outside her cage than those pretty, fragile, foolish birds.

  “Hey, miss,” said a voice at her elbow, startling her. “How ’bout a glass of punch?”

  What a dreadfully rude waiter, Jo thought. “No, thank you,” she said, not even bothering to glance at him.

  “It’s really good. Have some.”

  Jo couldn’t believe the impertinence of the man. “I am not thirsty at present,” she said coldly.

  “For Pete’s sake, sister, take the punch.”

  Jo turned, ready to give the insolent fool a piece of her mind. Her sharp words died in her throat, however, as she recognized the blue eyes, the tousled hair, the broad smile.

  It was Eddie.

  “What are you doing here?” Jo hissed, glancing around to see if anyone was watching them. Luckily, all eyes were on the dancers.

  “Pretending to be a waiter so I could talk to you.”

  “But how did you—”

  “Take the punch, will you?” Eddie said, holding the tray he was carrying out to her. “Before the maître d’ who’s staring at me realizes I’m not a waiter.”

  Jo did so. She took a sip, then held up a finger, as if asking him to wait for her to empty her cup.

  “Nice touch,” Eddie said, handing her a napkin.

  “Why are you here?” Jo asked, her voice still cold. She hadn’t forgotten the story her uncle had told about the callous reporter, or that Eddie had written her only a single terse note since she’d last seen him.

  “I’m here because Jackie Shaw’s in town,” Eddie replied.

  Jo’s eyes widened, her anger toward him momentarily forgotten. “He’s the one Bill Hawkins mentioned, isn’t he? The one who might know about the Bonaventure,” she said.

  Eddie nodded. “It’s going to cost, and I’m broke. Had to pay the rent yesterday. I was hoping you might have a few bucks.”

  “I do, but not with me. I’ll have to—” Jo abruptly stopped speaking. She’d spotted her uncle out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her—and Eddie. She finished her punch, then put the empty glass back on Eddie’s tray. Phillip started walking toward them.

  “Dip your head,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “You’re a servant. I’ve just dismissed you. Acknowledge it before my uncle thinks something’s amiss.”

  Eddie did so.

  “Meet me upstairs in the sculpture gallery in five minutes. By Cicero.”

  “But—”

  “Go.”

  Only seconds later, Phillip arrived at her side. “Are you all right, Josephine? Was that man bothering you?” he asked, staring at Eddie’s back.

  “Not at all, Uncle Phillip,” she said. “In fact, he was very kind to me. He noticed I was flushed and brought me a drink.”

  Phillip frowned with concern. “Are you unwell?”

  “Just a little overheated. It’s grown so warm in here. I’m going to go and pat some cold water on my cheeks. Please excuse me.”

  As she walked out of the foyer toward the ladies’ lavatory, Jo congratulated herself on her quick thinking. She’d managed to buy herself a few minutes away from the ball and establish an excuse for the premature exit she was already planning. She’d say she was feeling light-headed and wished to go home. It wouldn’t be a total lie. She was feeling light-headed. Only it wasn’t overheatedness that was causing it.

  She told herself any excitement she felt was over Jackie Shaw, and the lead he might possibly provide—not Eddie.

  But she knew that was a lie. The mere sight of him made her forget herself. He was a flame and she’d gotten burned, and the pain was terrible, yet it didn’t make the fire any less alluring.

  As soon as she was out of her uncle’s sight, she turned right toward a flight of stairs, grabbed her skirts in her hands, and hurried up the steps. She knew her way around the Met. She visited often, but only during daylight hours. The upper floors were dark and deserted now, and it was hard to get her bearings. Moonlight slanted across the statues, giving them a ghostly look. A bench had been moved across the doorway to the sculpture hall to prevent people from entering. Jo didn’t see it until it was too late. She barked her shin against it, paused to rub it, then made her way down the long hall to the statue of Cicero.

  Eddie was standing behind it, in a shaft of moonlight, still wearing his waiter’s garb.

  “That jacket is two sizes too big,” Jo coolly observed. Her traitorous heart was beating faster than it should, but he didn’t have to know that. She would not make a fool of herself again.

  “I sneaked in and gave a guy my last dollar to let me borrow it,” Eddie said. “There was no other way to speak with you. Seems my invite got lost in the mail.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?” Jo asked, her tone still unfriendly.

  Eddie smiled. “It’s the biggest social event of the season. Where else would Miss Josephine Montfort of Gramercy Square be?”

  Jo didn’t return the smile. She was in no mood to be teased. Not by him.

  Eddie grimaced. “Is it just me, or is it chilly in here?” he said.

  Jo looked away.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asked. “Look, I’m sorry I came here. I probably put you in a bad position. I didn’t want to, but there was n
o other—”

  Jo looked at him. There was confusion on his face, and hurt in the depths of his eyes. Could her uncle have been mistaken? Could he have overheard some other reporter? She bit her lip. What she was about to do was foolish, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Eddie, are you sorry?” she asked.

  “I just said so, didn’t I?”

  “I meant for the other night.” Jo hated herself for asking, but she had to know. “I … I haven’t heard from you for a good two weeks. Except for a rather businesslike note. Is that why? Because you’re sorry? About what happened between us, I mean?”

  “No, Jo. That’s not why. Work is why. I’m at the Standard all day, and at night I’m working any lead I can find on Kinch and …” He trailed off. He signed deeply. “Just, um … ah, forget it.”

  Jo looked at him quizzically.

  “Look, everything I just said is a load of horse—it’s total bunk. The truth is, I’ve barely slept since I last saw you. I think about you all the time. I never wanted … I didn’t … Oh hell, Jo!” he said, throwing his hands up. “I shouldn’t be saying these things to you. I mean, you’re not here with me tonight. You’re with Bram Aldrich, and I have no right—”

  Eddie didn’t get to finish his sentence. Jo took his face in her hands, pulled him to her, and kissed him. With her lips, her breath, and her body, she gave him his right.

  Her uncle was wrong. She was, too, for doubting Eddie. The reason he’d kept his distance was because he thought she was spoken for. He cared for her, as she cared for him. And the knowing of it made her wildly happy.

  It was Eddie who finally broke their kiss. He smoothed a piece of hair off her cheek and said, “This is going to sound like a line from a dopey song, but you look beautiful in the moonlight.”

  He leaned in for another kiss, when they both heard it—a crash. It came from the doorway. They froze.

  “The bench,” Jo whispered. “Someone walked into it. Someone’s there.”

  They both peered around the statue. The bright shaft of moonlight that illuminated the back of the statue also fell across the bench—and the man who’d stumbled into it. Jo glimpsed close-cropped hair, hard eyes, and a long, livid scar running across his right cheek.

  The man stepped over the bench, into the gallery. Eddie pulled Jo back behind the statue. They crouched down, out of the moonlight. Neither could see the man now, but they could hear him. He was walking toward them, his footsteps echoing in the dark.

  Jo hardly dared to breathe. Her heart was thumping. She was scared of being discovered here alone with Eddie, just as she had been when they’d hidden in Van Houten’s broom closet, but this time her fear ran deeper. There was something about the man she’d just seen—a brutal, predatory air—that made her feel afraid of him.

  Eddie put his mouth against her ear. “Is there another way out?” he whispered.

  Jo nodded.

  “Run on three,” he said. “I’ll stop him.”

  Jo shook her head.

  “Yes!” Eddie hissed. “It’s the only way.”

  Closer and closer the man came, his pace slow and measured.

  “One … ,” Eddie whispered.

  A few more steps and he would see them. All he’d have to do was turn his head to the left.

  “Two …”

  Jo could feel her heart hammering against her ribs now. Her back was against the statue’s base. Her face was buried in Eddie’s chest. She knew he was trying to save her. If she could get out of the gallery and back to the ball, no one would ever have to know she’d been anywhere other than the lavatory. But what would happen to him? She tensed, dreading what he was about to do.

  And then, miraculously, the man stopped. For a few long seconds, they heard nothing, and then only the sound of his footsteps receding. A moment later, he was gone.

  Jo exhaled raggedly. “A guard?” she whispered.

  “Must’ve been,” Eddie replied. “Where’s that other way out?”

  “There’s another doorway at the far end of the hall,” Jo said, taking his hand.

  She led him through it, then down a stairway that emptied into a gallery of Renaissance paintings. It, too, was dark and deserted, but it was on the ground floor of the museum and opened onto the foyer. Light spilled into it, and from where Jo and Eddie stood, they could see the dancers, and beyond them, the orchestra. A waltz was playing.

  “I can rejoin the festivities from here,” Jo said. “Hopefully, no one will see me do it. You’ll have to do the same, but don’t follow too closely lest we give anyone the wrong idea.”

  “Or the right one,” Eddie said.

  He pulled her close and kissed her again. In his arms, she no longer knew where she was or who she was, only what she wanted—him. The strength of her feelings frightened her. This passion was the wind that would push her off the cliff and leave her broken on the rocks.

  This time it was she who broke their kiss. She took an unsteady step back, her chest heaving. From the look in his eyes, she knew he felt the same way.

  “My God, Jo,” he said. “What are you doing to me?”

  They heard the swelling of violins. The waltz was almost over. “I have to get back to the others,” she said. “I’ll make my excuses and leave right away. After I arrive home, I’ll pretend to go to bed, get the money, and sneak back out.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “You are not. Walsh’s is in Mulberry Bend, and the Bend makes the waterfront look like the Ladies’ Mile.”

  “Meet me at Irving and Nineteenth in an hour.”

  “Jo, I swear to God …”

  “I want to hear what Shaw has to say,” Jo said stubbornly. “It’s your story, Eddie, but it’s my father. You take my money, you take me.”

  “You don’t belong in the Bend,” Eddie protested. “You could spook the source and wreck everything!”

  The last notes of the waltz rose. On the far side of the room, Elizabeth Adams and Bram were executing a final twirl. Bram led with elegance and Elizabeth followed him gracefully, her skirts billowing around her. Her color was high. Her eyes were sparkling. As the music ended and the applause began, Bram bowed to her. She curtsied. They were both smiling.

  “Too late, Mr. Gallagher,” Jo said. “I already have.”

  Jo stared in horror at the dirty rag Eddie was holding. “I’m not wearing that!”

  They’d just gotten out of a cab. Eddie had asked the driver to drop them at Mulberry and Bayard, but he’d refused to cross Canal Street. “Not at this hour, pal,” he’d said.

  “You are wearing it or you’re not going,” Eddie said, handing the rag to her.

  “What is it?” she asked, holding it between her thumb and forefinger.

  “A workman’s apron. I found it as I was leaving the museum. Put it around you, like a shawl.”

  “But it stinks of turpentine!”

  “Good. It’ll block the other smells.”

  Jo, grimacing, gingerly draped the apron around her shoulders.

  “No. Like this,” Eddie said, pulling it up so it covered her head. “Keep your eyes on the ground. Don’t look anyone in the face.” His tone was hard; he was worried. “We’re in the Bend now. It’s dangerous here.”

  “I know that. I’ve read Jacob Riis.”

  Eddie snorted. “Riis was a tourist. Let’s go,” he said, taking her arm.

  “And you’re not?” Jo shot back.

  He didn’t answer her, but set off at such a brisk pace, she had to trot to keep up. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all, Jo thought. But she had no intention of turning back.

  Ever since she’d left the museum, nearly two hours ago, time had rushed by in a mad, breathless dash. At the ball, she’d told both Bram and her uncle that she was feeling unwell. Phillip had bee
n concerned; he’d offered to ride home with her, but she refused. She made the same excuse to her mother when she arrived at her house, then hurried to her bedroom. Katie had followed her upstairs to help her undress, and it was she who was in Jo’s bed now. Another crisp dollar had bought her cooperation.

  As soon as her mother had retired and Theakston had disappeared into his room, Jo—wearing Katie’s work clothes—had hurried from the house with five one-dollar notes and two five-dollar notes in her skirt pocket. She’d met Eddie on Irving Place and given him the singles, and then they’d taken a cab downtown. The dark, enclosed cab would have been the perfect place to steal another kiss if either wanted to, but they were too busy talking. Jo had told Eddie all about her visit with Sally Gibson and what she’d learned.

  They continued that conversation now as they crossed Canal and started down Mulberry, past darkened shops and gas-lit bars, past overflowing ash cans and empty beer barrels. They avoided stumbling drunks, stray cats, and a wizened old lady selling baked potatoes out of a basket. “Ever since I spoke with Sally, I’ve been convinced that Kinch is Stephen Smith. He has to be. There are just too many coincidences otherwise,” Jo said, clutching both ends of the nasty rag Eddie had given her under her chin. She was certain she’d never get the smell out of her hair.

  “Yeah, but there’s one tiny flaw with your theory. … Smith’s dead. He drowned. His ship went down in the Indian Ocean, somewhere in the Seychelles,” Eddie said.

  “The Seychelles? How do you know that?” Jo asked. She didn’t remember telling him.

  “I looked it up after I got your letter. The Standard did a story on it back in ’74. A reporter filed it from Zanzibar. He interviewed your uncle, who told him that in late 1873 Smith sailed out to the Seychelles on a ship called the Gull to see if any of the smaller islands were suitable for growing nutmeg. He never came back. Nor did the crew. The ship was never seen again, either. There were storms in the area where Smith was sailing—reported by the crews of other ships in the same waters—and it was thought that one of them destroyed the Gull.”