Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  Contempt?

  It had almost looked like guilt.

  Sam yanked the curtain open and started after them, then stopped and came back, frustrated. Because it wasn’t worth losing his job. And it wasn’t anything that hadn’t happened before. Or wouldn’t happen again.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him.

  “How can you stand it?”

  “It’s just Lucy. No one takes her seriously. She’ll say anything for attention. Now, go get that fish before you’re fired. I’ve got Latin.” I stepped away.

  But Sam reached out and took my hand, holding me back. He waited for me to look up and meet his green eyes. “Four more months, Valentine, then you’ll graduate and be free of this place.”

  I forced a weak smile.

  What Sam didn’t understand was that Drake Academy was the only place where I did feel free, where I managed to escape the truth for a few glorious hours, lost in the Napoleonic Wars and the proper stitch to use when attaching lace and the conjugation of French verbs. I squeezed his hand and released it. “Bye, Sam.”

  The dining hall was nearly deserted, only a few stragglers remaining. I hurried across it, then made my way across the main foyer to the row of wall pegs where my cloak hung alone. I pulled it on and opened the front door.

  Outside, heavy sheets of cold rain fell. I glanced at the umbrella stands and found them empty, so I lifted my skirt and ran.

  2

  “Tomorrow, that man will be gone,” Mama whispers as she puts me to bed, her eyes sparkling in the dance of candlelight.

  I am six years old. “What man?” I ask, but she blows out the candle without answering.

  Before the night is over, Mr. Blackshaw is dead.

  And three days after that, Mama is dead as well, hanged at the gallows.

  3

  Drake Academy sat at the end of a quiet road, surrounded by dark woods, a short walk from Feavers Crossing.

  Rochester Hall dominated the grounds—four stories of evenly laid bricks and gleaming windows, with the dining hall and library on the ground floor and the boys’ classrooms upstairs. Pathways connected it to the rest of the buildings: the boys’ dormitory; the old schoolhouse where the girls had classes; Drake House, where the girls lived; and a stable and caretaker’s cottage.

  By lunchtime, the rain had stopped, and by the end of the school day, the sun was breaking through.

  I stayed late in sewing class to help Miss Dibble find her scissors and was one of the last to emerge. Most of the students had already returned to the dormitories, but a few locals remained, climbing into carriages in front of Rochester Hall. Lucy and Philly left in the Meriwethers’ carriage, and a couple of younger girls were picked up by a buggy, one sitting on the other’s lap. When the Blackshaws’ carriage arrived, Rowan offered rides to Simon Greene and Jack Utley.

  I would walk, as usual, but wasn’t sure which way to go. I usually took the shortcut through the woods, but part of the trail always flooded after heavy rain, so I begrudgingly decided to take the longer road through town.

  As soon as I’d passed through the stone pillars that marked the entrance to Drake Academy, the well-tended grounds fell behind and the woods crowded back, the air thickening with the smell of damp dirt and bark. I tightened my cloak. I’d sewn it a few months ago in an attempt to be fashionable, but the fabric wasn’t as warm as I’d hoped. Still, I refused to return to my old green coat.

  Behind me, I heard the stealthy crunch of footsteps. I took a few more steps, then glanced over my shoulder to see a scrawny woman of about thirty years a short distance behind, wearing a strange coat made of animal hides. I smiled. “I heard you, Birdy.”

  She flashed a grin. “I almost got you that time.”

  “You almost got me,” I agreed. Once in a while, I pretended to not hear so she could sneak up and tag my shoulder. “Here, I brought you something.” I dug into my coat pocket and pulled out a napkin tied in a loose knot.

  “Is it bread?” she asked, opening it.

  “Apple cake, saved from my lunch. They don’t serve that every day.”

  “Cake!” She took an enormous bite.

  I liked watching Birdy eat. No delicate manners, just genuine hunger and appreciation. I would have brought more, but I’d been lectured by Mr. Foley about the unseemliness of sneaking food into my pockets. This isn’t some barbaric orphanage; it’s the finest school in Connecticut.

  Birdy ate as we walked. “I like cake,” she said around a mouthful.

  According to stories, she’d been found on the riverbank as a child, soaking wet and unconscious, with no family or possessions. Whether she’d been simpleminded before the near drowning or only after, no one could say. She’d been young enough, back then, to stir compassion; an elderly woman had taken her in. But now, she was a grown woman who lived in an old trapper’s shack and stole to survive, and people were less sympathetic.

  “You like cake, Valtine?” she asked. The middle part of my name always eluded her.

  “I think everyone likes cake, Birdy.” She’d been nicknamed Little Bird by the woman who’d taken her in, which had evolved into Birdy. And some people called her Birdbrain. Once, I’d tried to explain to her why she shouldn’t respond to that name, but she hadn’t understood why it mattered, accepting her status in this town.

  Something I refused to do.

  She finished the cake and stuffed the napkin into her pocket. She must have collected a hundred by now. “My blanket is wet. I don’t like the rain.”

  “I’ll ask Sam to patch your roof.”

  “Rain makes me wet. It makes me wet and drown.”

  “You can’t drown in the rain, Birdy,” I assured her, not for the first time. “Stay away from the river and you’ll be fine.” I cast her a sideways glance. “It wouldn’t hurt you to take a bath, you know. You can do it at my house.” She never washed, as far as I could tell. Her hair was a greasy brown, about six inches long. Every summer, she cut it close to her head to keep cool, then it grew out until the next summer’s cutting. Like a sheep getting shorn. And today, she did look a bit like a sheep, with her gaunt face and long neck; her boxy coat made of patchwork hides; and her skirt too short, exposing boots like dark hooves.

  “I don’t want to drown like the raccoon. You remember the raccoon, Valtine?”

  “I remember the raccoon, but you’re not going to drown, Birdy. Here, let’s do the alphabet,” I said to distract her.

  “I’m not sure I can do that anymore.”

  “Sure you can. What comes after A?”

  Birdy grinned, unable to resist. “A, B, C, D.” Which was as far as she ever got. She could be clever about some things—like stealing eggs and trapping animals—but had a hard time holding on to letters.

  “What’s next?” I prompted, touching the sides of my head. “Sounds like—”

  “Ears!” she cried, triumphant. “And OPQ!”

  I laughed. “That’s right.”

  She called out her favorite letters until a dog barked around the next curve of the road, then her eyes widened in alarm and she darted into the woods. Birdy never went near the Fryes’ farm, for good reason.

  I sighed and continued alone, trying to ignore my own unease as the trees opened up to reveal a lumpy field full of dead winter stalks, outlined by a split-rail fence. My eyes darted as I neared a sagging barn, looking for trouble. But the barnyard was deserted today, even the animals put away.

  It wasn’t until I rounded the next bend that I saw Sam’s mother, Mrs. Frye, sitting on a stool in front of the log cabin, plucking a chicken with her strong, bony hands. I hugged the far side of the road, hoping to pass unnoticed, but the dogs barked and jumped against their ropes, and she looked up.

  “Sam ain’t here, so keep walking!” Mrs. Frye called out. She was a gray wisp of a woman, worn down by too many years with a mean husband and six wild sons.

  “Maybe she’s looking for me, Ma,” a boy’s voice called out, and I noticed Sam’s older br
other Jep walking toward me on the road, carrying an ax. He waited until I was closer before saying in a low tone, “You wanna visit the hayloft, Rat Hair? Make sure the roof ain’t leaking?” He’d invented the nickname back in grammar school, before I’d figured out how to tame my curls, telling everyone I kept a pet rat in it.

  I walked wide to go around him, my heart racing.

  The Frye boys had been the worst of my tormentors when I was younger, chasing me in the school yard, then following me home through the woods. They’d tied me to trees and stolen my mittens. They’d all looked the same with their straw-colored hair and devilish grins; only their heights distinguished them. But over time, I’d noticed differences. Like Jep being the ringleader, even though he wasn’t the oldest. And Sam never participating in his brothers’ torments, only watching uncomfortably.

  When I was about ten, I’d found Sam alone near the creek, hunched and crying, trying to wash a bloody cut on his forehead while cradling a bruised wrist. Everyone knew that his father was a brute. Or maybe one of his brothers had done it. Without a word, I’d dipped my skirt in the creek and dabbed his forehead, then I’d told him to come home with me so I could bandage his wrist. And from that day on, we’d been best friends.

  Much to his mother’s dismay. Sam was her favorite son, and she had high hopes for him. “My Sam is a good boy!” she called after me. “You leave him alone, you hear?”

  I hurried on without responding, knowing she didn’t see the truth—that her sons were considered even lower than I was for the trouble they caused.

  As soon as I’d left the Fryes’ property behind, Birdy materialized. “She don’t like you ’cause you’re pretty.”

  “She doesn’t like me because my mother was a murderer,” I corrected. I drew a weary breath, and when Birdy continued with the alphabet, I remained quiet.

  Not far from the Fryes’ land, we entered the main part of Feavers Crossing—which bustled today, now that the rain had stopped. We wove our way around muddy hems and rolling carts, knowing every rut in the road. The town flourished because of the bridge, which was the only way to cross the river for many miles. Some of the buildings were small and simple, built by the earliest settlers. But others were broad and stately—like the new inn, built for all the parents who arrived twice a year to drop off and pick up their students at Drake Academy.

  Birdy looked longingly at the Beasleys’ old stone house as we passed. “Can we stop and see the baby, Valtine?”

  “No, Birdy. You stay away from that baby.”

  “I like babies.”

  “I know you do, but you can’t touch them. They don’t belong to you.”

  A few years ago, Betty Cooper had entered her kitchen to find Birdy standing over the bassinet. Everyone had been in an uproar, insisting she be driven out of town. Sheriff Crane had locked her up for a few days until things settled down, mostly for her own protection.

  “You stay away from the Beasleys, Birdy. You promise?”

  “Promise,” she said, but we both knew it was a meaningless vow.

  As we neared the yarn shop, her steps slowed again, her eyes darting down the alley. “Miss Jane started a new sweater. You wanna watch, Valtine?” The alley window gave a good view of Miss Jane behind the counter.

  “You can’t go looking through people’s windows, Birdy. I’ve told you. It isn’t decent.”

  My gaze drifted across the street to the bank owned by Rowan’s family—an imposing building with dark, fancy windows and a golden doorknob. Rowan’s father had run Blackshaw Bank before my mother killed him. Now, his grandmother ran it. And soon, Rowan would take over.

  We passed more shops, then entered an older, quieter part of town, centered around the Reverend Mr. Oliver’s church. There were newer churches in Feavers Crossing—white buildings with tall steeples—but I liked Mr. Oliver’s best, with its arched windows and mossy stones.

  Beyond the stone church, we came to the graveyard Birdy and I both knew so well. The shortcut I took to Drake Academy entered the woods at the back of the graveyard, so I had reason to cross it daily. But I tended to linger. Even today, with chores waiting, I followed Birdy under a low-hanging branch and entered the uneven rows of headstones and crosses.

  Some of the graves were new and well-tended, but others looked ancient, their markers blackened by age. The ground sagged and headstones tilted. At the back of the graveyard, the woods continually encroached, limbs reaching, vines creeping.

  “John Slack!” Birdy cried as she wove her way around the graves. “Nellie Mortimer!”

  Years ago, I’d tried teaching her to read with the headstones. It hadn’t worked, but she still remembered a few names. And I remembered them all, without meaning to. I touched the crumbling pillar of George of Surrey as I passed. Died 1727. Aged 43 years.

  Today, the graveyard looked even more forlorn than usual after the rain, the headstones weeping, the shadows deep and damp. A large crow cawed from the top of an old stone cross, then took off in a rush of black wings.

  My gaze slid to a small, neglected plot of land in the distance, on the other side of a stone wall—unhallowed ground, where they’d buried thieves and savages when the settlement was new. Now, the town buried criminals near the jailhouse, but Mr. Oliver had suggested my mother be buried here, closer to our house.

  Father and I never went near it.

  The headstone of Isabella Barron Deluca stood out among its humble neighbors, chiseled of fine white marble, refusing to show its neglect. I’d once asked Father how he’d afforded such a fine headstone, but he’d only shaken his head.

  I followed Birdy to the grave of the old woman who’d taken her in as a child: Ida Howe, 1775–1842. The storm had knocked a large branch across the headstone, and the two of us dragged it away, soaking ourselves in the process.

  “Damp day!” a cheerful voice called, and I turned to see the Reverend Mr. Oliver approaching, his gray hair fluttering in the breeze. “Congratulations on your award, Valentine! Quite an accomplishment!”

  Beside me, Birdy tittered. She had a schoolgirl infatuation with the rector, which he was too absentminded to notice. I reached for her hand.

  “Don’t run,” I urged softly. But she pulled free and darted toward the woods, disappearing down the trail.

  Mr. Oliver’s kind eyes followed her. “It’s good of you to help her, Valentine. She bolts whenever I come near. Is she in need of anything?”

  “Her roof leaks, but I’ll get Sam to fix it.”

  A clattering noise drew our attention to the road, and I saw Sam’s father, Mr. Frye, scowling and muttering as he cleaned up a dropped box of tools.

  “He’s repairing a window,” Mr. Oliver said in an apologetic tone. “I just scolded him for snooping in my art studio, so he’s in a bit of a temper.”

  Mr. Frye worked odd jobs in the winter, when his farm was frozen. “It’s good of you to give him work,” I said. Many wouldn’t; things tended to go missing. Sam had the steadiest job in the family, working at Drake Academy.

  “I was quite touched by your award this morning, Valentine. You’ve accomplished quite a bit with … well, little assistance from your father, to be honest. It speaks well of your character.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Oliver seemed to hesitate, then shifted closer, his voice dropping to a somber low. “I have something to tell you, Valentine. I’ve debated whether I should or not. Some truths are best kept hidden. But after seeing you on the stand this morning, I’ve decided you deserve to know.” He drew a breath for courage. “I’ve been told, quite recently, that your mother was wrongly convicted. That she was … well … innocent.”

  I stood perfectly still, confused, my heart beating faster.

  “A dreadful mistake,” he said gently.

  I shook my head, knowing he was wrong. No one knew better than I that my mother was guilty. “What did you hear?” I asked.

  “Not much. They wouldn’t tell me who fired the gun, but they insisted it wasn�
��t your mother.”

  “Who? Who told you?”

  “Ah.” His eyes wrinkled, apologetic. “I can’t say, I’m afraid. But they were there that night and saw everything.”

  I felt faint with surprise. “My father?”

  “No, no, not your father—”

  “Then they lied. Because no one else was there.”

  “This person wouldn’t lie, Valentine. They spoke to me in a moment of genuine distress. They’ve been haunted by that night for more than a decade. An innocent woman hanged! Nothing can bring your mother back, of course, but if she was innocent—if she did not do that heinous thing—I think you deserve to know.”

  “My mother was guilty, Mr. Oliver. She confessed.”

  “But if that confession—”

  “I saw her do it.” My heart thundered in my chest. “I saw her shoot Nigel Blackshaw.”

  The rector’s eyes widened, startled. “Is that true, Valentine? I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Because no one knows. Because no one ever asked.” I stepped back, already wishing I hadn’t told him. I’d spent eleven years trying to forget that night. “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

  “No, of course not. Goodness.” His expression softened. “You were very young. Perhaps you misunderstood what you saw—or have forgotten—”

  “My mother fired the gun. I don’t know what you heard, or from whom, but they were mistaken.” It felt wrong to insist upon my own mother’s guilt, but I’d accepted it long ago. I took another step back, my throat tightening with emotions I didn’t want to feel. “I have to go.”

  “Yes, forgive me. I can see that I’ve upset you, and that wasn’t my intent. I only hoped to reassure you. To help you reconcile your feelings toward your own mother.”

  I gave a weak laugh as I turned, wishing more fervently than he knew that such a thing were possible. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her marble headstone.

  “Valentine!” Mr. Oliver called after me. “Can we discuss this further?”

  But I didn’t turn back.

  And that was the mistake that started everything.