Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  Silence falls, as if the night holds its breath. I rest my head against cold glass …

  And awake to the crunching wheels of a carriage. And then a wagon. I watch as two men carry Mr. Blackshaw to the wagon and spread a blanket over his face, then they return to the house and escort Mama to the carriage. As she walks, she turns and looks up at my window, and for a moment our eyes meet across the distance.

  The last time I will ever see her alive, although I don’t know that at the time.

  But she knows.

  6

  When I awoke the next morning, I felt a moment’s warm contentment, knowing Mama was downstairs in the kitchen, kneading dough at the table like Mrs. Henny had taught her. I listened for her gentle movements and the hum of her voice.

  Then cold truth fell.

  It was always this way after the dream. Throbbing silence where Mama used to live.

  I forced myself from the warm bed and changed into a simple dress for weekend chores. A sheen of ice coated the window; winter had finally arrived. I pulled on my wool petticoat and wrapped myself in my thickest shawl—a shawl I’d knitted myself with yarn Sam had given me for my birthday. I washed up, then attempted to brush out my long mane of honey-brown curls.

  In the mirror, I saw my mother’s face—more from rumor than memory. “Spitting image,” Mrs. Utley murmured to her husband when I shopped at Utley General Goods. Not the playful prettiness of Lucy Meriwether or the delicate loveliness of Philly Henny, but the sort of beauty that sparked rumors and made other women distrust you. Full lips that Lucy whispered were tinted. Long curls that unleashed themselves in the slightest breeze. I watched the other girls at school and tried to behave like them. Sit and walk like them. I longed for their poised, respectable prettiness.

  But even in this, I couldn’t escape Isabella Barron Deluca.

  My sewing teacher, Miss Dibble, said my eyes were softer than hers, my personality more thoughtful. She said my mother had been popular and full of fun at my age. No one had ever accused me of that.

  The house was so quiet, I knew Father was gone. I crossed the hall and peered into his room, hoping to see some indication of where he’d gone the night before, but of course there was nothing. And no reminders of my mother either, though I couldn’t help searching. No silver hairbrush on the dressing table. No scent of her powder. Just Father’s razor, a bottle of hair oil, and the smell of leather boots.

  Where did Father go last night? To fix things, he’d said. Maybe he’d gone to see Mr. Oliver. Or the person who’d said my mother was innocent. He’d been surprised that they’d spoken up after all these years, but not that they existed. He knew their identity.

  And he hadn’t seemed surprised by their claim that my mother was innocent.

  I descended to the kitchen, my head swollen with thoughts. Today, I didn’t even have school to distract me; seniors didn’t have classes on Saturdays. I stoked the fire into a roaring blaze, and the room slowly warmed. I made porridge.

  The fire had terrified me when I was six, with its snapping heat. But I’d had no choice but to learn its fickle moods and hungers, and within a year of my mother’s death, I’d been stoking and feeding and tending its flames with a confidence beyond my years.

  Step by step, I’d learned to survive without a mother.

  I forced myself to eat, then I washed up and swept the kitchen floor. The bristles scraped across the wooden floorboards, past the same old stains.

  And my thoughts scraped with them.

  You say nothing to the priest. You say nothing, and I fix this.

  Father wanted me to keep quiet and forget that night.

  Because I’d seen something I wasn’t supposed to see. Because I knew something I wasn’t supposed to know.

  What did I see? What did I know?

  My arms swung in steady rhythm.

  If my mother was innocent, it must have been Father who fired the gun. I’d seen him trying to take it from her. But I found it impossible to believe Father would kill a man, then say nothing as Mama hanged for his crime.

  Except to save his own neck.

  But then, why did she confess?

  Because she felt responsible. Because the argument had been hers, not Father’s. Nigel Blackshaw was her childhood friend, not his.

  My heart beat faster and the broom swept harder, dirt and crumbs flying ahead of the bristles.

  Mr. Oliver said he didn’t know who’d fired the gun; he wasn’t told.

  My arms stopped, and the broom halted.

  But Mr. Oliver knew this secret witness who claimed to have been there. I would convince him to give me their name, then I would talk to this person and learn the truth.

  My chest rose and fell. Suddenly, it all made sense. Mama, who’d held me on her lap and kissed my forehead: innocent. Father, who scowled more than he smiled: guilty.

  You say nothing, and I fix this.

  Father wanted me to remain ignorant and quiet, so no one would know what he’d done. But I would talk to Mr. Oliver and find this secret witness. I would learn the truth.

  Today.

  This morning.

  Now.

  * * *

  Morning fog cloaked the road, hiding my neighbors’ houses. All I could hear were my own crunching footsteps and cold breaths. I tightened my knitted shawl, burying my hands in it, trying to not think, trying to not doubt.

  What would I do if I learned Father was the one who had fired the gun and said nothing as his wife hanged for his crime? Would I tell Sheriff Crane? If I did, Father might be arrested and tried for murder—maybe hanged. Was that what I wanted? Was that what he deserved?

  I would be fully orphaned, haunted by a second hanging.

  But it would clear my mother’s name.

  Mama, innocent.

  Clearing her name wouldn’t bring her back, but it would free my memories and allow me to love her.

  In truth, I barely remembered her. I’d been too young when she died and had heard too many stories since, memory blurring with rumor.

  “I grew up with Isabella Barron,” Mrs. Utley told her customers at Utley General Goods. “And she was very spoiled. Very flirtatious.”

  Mrs. Duncan blamed it on my grandfather. “His wife died, and he let those twins run wild. Too much freedom. Not enough work.”

  But Miss Dibble spoke glowingly of all the Barrons—especially my mother’s twin brother, Daniel. According to Miss Dibble, Daniel had been quieter than my mother, but smart and adventurous—and attractive. Her eyes misted whenever she spoke of him. But Daniel had died in the fire when he was seventeen. They’d found his body on his bedroom floor, overcome as he tried to get out.

  After that, everything had changed.

  My mother went to New York City to escape the grief. And my grandfather, left alone, fell into despair. The workmen who came to repair the burned rooms were told to go away. Servants complained of not being paid. Silas Barron invested foolishly, and by the time he died of lung fever a few years later, most of the money was gone.

  “We were all surprised when Isabella returned to Feavers Crossing,” Miss Jane told her knitting club, her needles clicking. “Nothing for her here except that big, empty house. But she moved into it with that foreign husband and the baby.” I was the baby. “None of us knew what to think when we saw her again, so visibly unhappy. So poorly dressed. Not the same girl at all.”

  The evil turning of Isabella Barron, as Mrs. Utley called it, not long after my birth.

  My mother didn’t go to church after returning to Feavers Crossing (according to Mrs. Duncan); neglected her appearance (murmured by Lucy’s mother, Mrs. Meriwether); rejected attempts at friendship (sniffed by Miss Dibble); and then murdered her childhood friend Nigel Blackshaw.

  Only, she might not have murdered anyone.

  I passed the graveyard, shrouded in mist, and approached the old stone church. I wasn’t sure if the door would be locked on a Saturday morning, but it opened easily, and I walked inside to t
he frigid foyer, then farther inside to the echoing chapel. But no one was there.

  I left and walked across the road to the two-story rectory where Mr. Oliver lived. The door hung ajar, which meant he must be about. My heart beat faster, knowing I might soon know the truth. “Mr. Oliver?” I called.

  I heard movement inside, followed by a crashing sound—dishes breaking.

  I stepped into the small parlor, alarmed. “Mr. Oliver?” The room was deserted, so I moved deeper, peering through the kitchen door on the right.

  The rector lay on his side near the table, a chair toppled behind him. I cried out and hurried forward, dropping to the floor, rolling him onto his back. Blood streamed from a gash on his forehead, and I saw blood on the tile floor; he’d hit his head when he’d fallen.

  He released a strangled sound at the sight of me, his eyes widening. But the rest of him appeared unable to move. White spittle clung to the corner of his mouth.

  Panic rose. “Oh, Mr. Oliver, I’ll … I’ll go for help.” But when I started to rise, he gave a feeble moan of protest, and I sank back to his side, knowing I couldn’t leave him this way.

  I saw a broken teacup and saucer behind him. He’d been having his morning tea when he collapsed. A heart attack. Or stroke.

  His eyes held mine, begging for assistance. Whatever the cause, his condition seemed dire. Fear crawled up my throat. “What can I do for you?” His face was pale, his lips purplish. His breathing seemed labored. “I … I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, so I grabbed a tea towel off the table and wiped his brow, then cleaned the spittle from his mouth.

  It should be Mrs. Henny here, with her nursing skills, not me. “Is … is it your heart? Is there medicine I can get for you?”

  I heard movement and looked up to see Birdy in the back corner, cowering in the doorway to Mr. Oliver’s art studio, half-hidden by the doorframe.

  Relief poured through me. “Birdy! Run for help!”

  But she didn’t move, her eyes riveted on Mr. Oliver. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just touched him.”

  My heart dropped. “What happened, Birdy?”

  She didn’t reply, tugging at the green knitted cap on her head, pulling it lower.

  “Run for Dr. Wellington!” I ordered. But she didn’t move, and I saw that she was useless. “All right, I’ll go. You stay with Mr. Oliver.” But when I started to rise, the rector moaned, and I sank back to the floor.

  “Paaa…,” he breathed, and I saw that he was trying to tell me something. Blood flowed from the gash on his forehead.

  I leaned closer, my heart drumming in my chest. “Do you need medicine? Tell me—” His eyelids fluttered closed, and panic filled me. “Mr. Oliver!” I shook his shoulders, then whimpered in relief when his eyes snapped open, unfocused at first, then widening with dread.

  He knew he was dying.

  A helpless sob filled my throat. I could do nothing.

  Except comfort him, I realized, the way he’d comforted so many in their final hours. “I’m here,” I told him, forcing my voice into a calm low. I placed my hands on either side of his face, wanting him to feel my touch. “I won’t leave you, Mr. Oliver. I won’t leave you.” His skin felt clammy. I should pray, I thought, a tear sliding down my cheek. “Our Father who art in heaven,” I whispered. “Please, God. Please help Mr. Oliver.”

  “Paaa,” the rector breathed, his watery eyes clinging to mine, begging me to understand.

  “What?” I whispered. I held his cold cheeks and felt his life sliding away beneath my hands, his face sagging, his body relaxing.

  But he rallied long enough to tell me what he needed to say. “Paa … son,” he sighed with his final breath.

  Poison, I realized with a start.

  And his spirit left him.

  7

  I held Mr. Oliver’s limp head in my hands, weeping and apologizing, wishing his eyes would at least close in rest. But they stared at something I couldn’t see.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I should have done more to save him. More than just watch him die.

  Birdy moved cautiously into the kitchen, still keeping her distance. “Is he sleeping?”

  I shook my head, my heart heavy. “No, Birdy. He isn’t sleeping.”

  She gave a moaning sob. “He got sick and dropped the cup.” She lifted a hand toward the window, where she must have been watching; she spied through Mr. Oliver’s windows more than any others. “He got sick, so I came inside.”

  “Poison,” Mr. Oliver had whispered with his final breath.

  My gaze darted to the broken teacup and saucer, then up to the table. I saw two slices of toast on a plate, not yet bitten. And behind the plate, a bright blue tea tin—a unique container with scrolled, foreign lettering. Not ordinary tea. Did it make Mr. Oliver sick because it was unfamiliar? Mrs. Utley claimed to be allergic to all foreign foods.

  Or had someone laced it with poison, knowing he would drink it in the morning?

  Birdy released a keening wail. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just touched him.”

  My attention shifted to her. “What do you mean, Birdy? How did you hurt him?”

  “He couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk. So, I touched him, and he fell off the chair. He hit his head.” She touched her forehead in the same place he was injured. “Did I kill him, Valtine?”

  “No,” I said. The head wound wasn’t serious enough to have killed him. He’d gotten sick before falling off the chair. My gaze returned to the blue tea tin. Yesterday, Mr. Oliver had told me my mother was innocent, and now he lay dead. Did someone silence him?

  I fix this.

  A horrified sob rose in my throat. I pressed my hand against my mouth, looking down at Mr. Oliver’s sprawled, lifeless form. Did Father do this because Mr. Oliver knew my mother was innocent? Did Father come here last night? Did he give Mr. Oliver a gift of poisoned tea?

  I shook my head, tears leaking from my eyes. It must have been a heart attack or stroke.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him!” Birdy wailed.

  “You didn’t hurt him. He fell when you touched him because he was already sick.” I had to tell someone. I gave his chest a final, apologetic touch, then rose. “Stay with him, Birdy. You can sit in the other room, if you want. I’ll return soon.”

  Outside, cold air hit my damp cheeks. I drew a weary breath, then ran toward town.

  I wasn’t sure who to tell—probably Sheriff Crane, but the jailhouse was on the far side of Feavers Crossing. So, when I saw an open door at Utley General Goods, I staggered through it.

  Mrs. Utley stood at the counter with the beekeeper, counting jars of honey. “Not open,” she declared.

  “But … but Mr. Oliver.” I drew an exhausted breath, sweat rolling down my temples. “Mr. Oliver is dead … in the rectory.”

  Mrs. Utley froze, her finger poised over the jars. “What do you mean, Mr. Oliver—” She couldn’t say it. But her husband broke into quick action, darting out the door. “Are you telling fibs?” Mrs. Utley asked sharply.

  “No,” I said, inhaling a deep breath. “I’m sorry … no.” As if it were somehow my fault. And part of me feared that it was.

  Mrs. Utley shouted up the back staircase to her son Jack to pay the beekeeper, then hurried out the door, her ample hips swaying. And as soon as I’d caught my breath, I followed.

  Word spread quickly. Two men on horseback trotted past me. Then the baker, Mr. Duncan, ran past, followed by his panting wife. The sheriff’s black carriage rolled by. By the time I reached the church, a small group had gathered in the road between the church and the rectory, whispering and wondering. Weeping.

  My own steps slowed as I neared the rectory. Suddenly, I felt out of place. But I had to tell Sheriff Crane what I knew, so I stepped through the door, crossed the quiet parlor, and entered the kitchen.

  Poor Mr. Oliver still lay on the hard tile floor, just as I’d left him, with Sheriff Crane crouched beside him, h
is back to me. A young watchman stood nearby, a notebook in his hand. In the far corner, Mr. Utley watched with his usual long, mournful face, with Mrs. Utley beside him, sniffing. But her sorrow seemed mingled with morbid fascination, her eyes darting. By nightfall, half the town would have stopped by Utley General Goods to hear the story.

  Sheriff Crane noticed me near the door. “Outside, Valentine. This is no sight for you.”

  “But … I’ve already seen it. I was here when he died.”

  The sheriff rose and turned. “You saw Mr. Oliver collapse?”

  “No, he’d already fallen when I came in. I tried to help.” Emotions tightened my throat. I kept my eyes on Sheriff Crane, avoiding the rector’s vacant stare.

  His eyebrows lifted. “You were here for breakfast? Was that a … regular thing?”

  Mrs. Utley made an indignant sound.

  My face warmed. “No, I only came because—” I halted, suddenly aware of how little I could say. If Father didn’t do this, my careless words at this moment would cause a stain that would never wash away. Suspicion would haunt both of us for the rest of our lives.

  “You look deep in thought, Valentine. I ask again, why were you here?”

  “To … to talk about school. I was honored yesterday and wanted to talk to Mr. Oliver about it. But the door was open, so I came in and found him.” I glanced around, suddenly realizing. “Where’s Birdy?”

  “Birdy?”

  “She was here when he collapsed. She said he was drinking that tea.” My gaze darted to the table, but the bright blue box with foreign writing was gone. My eyes skimmed the cluttered shelf on the wall. “Where’s the tea tin? Did you move it?”

  Sheriff Crane glanced at the young watchman, who shook his head.

  “A blue box,” I insisted. “It was there.” I turned to inspect the wash table, then I moved to the cupboard and opened it. I searched the shelves and saw two ordinary brown tea tins, but nothing blue.

  “Go home, Valentine. This has been upsetting.”