Sheriff Crane wore a black cape and tall hat, the night dark behind him. “Have you seen Birdy? She hasn’t returned to that hovel she lives in.”
I shook my head, not wanting to say the lie aloud.
Sheriff Crane’s gaze drifted over my shoulder to the staircase, then back to me. “Looks like Mr. Oliver was murdered, like you said, Valentine. I hope you won’t make the mistake of getting involved.”
“I’m already involved. He died right in front of me.”
His eyes narrowed. “That woman is a troubled soul. We found cartloads of stolen goods at her place.”
“She doesn’t understand personal property.”
“An excellent reason to lock her up.”
“Or people could help her,” I snapped. “Collecting trinkets doesn’t mean she killed Mr. Oliver.”
“Then she has no reason to avoid my questions, does she?” He tipped his tall hat. “Please let me know if you see her. Good evening, Valentine.”
I closed the door, then hurried to the window to watch as he walked away—his feet landing on the path where Nigel Blackshaw had bled and died.
9
I spent Sunday trying to coax Birdy into talking, without success. Any mention of Mr. Oliver sent her running to the burned room to hide in the wardrobe, rocking back and forth. Only the promise of favorite foods could coax her out, which kept me busy in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning up.
Then I made the mistake of trying to convince her to take a bath, which brought out her fear of drowning. I was relieved when she found mouse droppings in the cellar, which gave her something else to think about. She spent the remainder of Sunday repairing my old mousetraps, then baiting them and placing them throughout the house, even climbing the rickety ladder to the attic.
When I left the house on Monday morning, Birdy was still asleep, curled inside a pile of blankets on the floor next to my bed.
At school, no one seemed upset that the man who’d conducted their weekly devotionals was dead, only fascinated by the part I’d played. I saw their sly glances and heard their eager whispers.
She was with him when he died.
She’s friends with the mad lady who killed him.
When they tired of Mr. Oliver’s mysterious death, they began hushed retellings of my mother’s infamous tale, no two versions the same. The most common story had always been that she’d killed Rowan’s father because she owed him money. But Lucy Meriwether always included an illicit romance—my mother obsessed with Rowan’s father, begging him to run away with her, then killing him when he’d refused. And some said she’d been insane and set the house on fire, even though the fire had happened years earlier, before I was born.
I’d heard all the stories before, never knowing which was true. And now, according to Mr. Oliver, none of them were. I was angry at myself for not seeking the truth earlier. But I’d been young when it happened and wanted to forget. I’d wanted everyone to forget.
But Sam was right: the new death dredged up the old.
Thankfully, it started snowing midmorning, drawing everyone’s attention to the windows, and by the time school ended, Drake Academy was draped in billowing white. As the girls emerged from the schoolhouse, a pack of boys attacked with snowballs, sending everyone screaming. Some of the girls fought back at once; others ran for the safety of their dormitory. I avoided the battle, skirting around the edge, then walked behind the school stable and entered the woods—
And inhaled a cold, clean breath. I always loved the solitude of the woods, but never more than today. Snow powdered the trees like sugar, and my breath steamed in front of me. I slowed my steps, allowing myself a moment to enjoy the first snowfall of the year. In a week, I would loathe the icy slush, but right now, the world looked magical.
I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me and glanced over my shoulder, but I couldn’t see anything through the tangle of trees.
Apprehension crawled up my spine. Whoever had killed Mr. Oliver knew that Birdy had seen them, which put her in danger. And everyone knew that I was her friend, which might put me in danger too. I quickened my steps, glancing back, but the footsteps quickened as well.
When the trail bent sharply, I stepped off the path and stood still behind a large tree, my heart racing. And, a moment later, Rowan Blackshaw walked by.
I drew a surprised breath. Rowan never walked in these woods; his house was the other way. But there was no mistaking those straight shoulders and that distinctive stride. He went five or six steps before realizing I’d disappeared, then stopped and swung around, searching—
And saw me.
He looked embarrassed for a heartbeat, then shrugged, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “You caught me,” he admitted. “I was trying to catch up. I wanted to talk to you without other people around.”
My heart stuttered into a faster beat. Rowan and I had known each other since grammar school but rarely spoke beyond asking each other’s pardon in a crowded doorway. And here I stood, hiding behind a tree. I flushed, stepping back onto the trail.
“About what?” I asked.
He came closer, his gaze sliding down my blue cloak, then back to my face. Rowan studied everything with that keen attention, but it was always disconcerting when he directed it at me. As if he could see every part of me, down to my tattered shift.
Contempt, I reminded myself.
Only, in the feathery fall of snow, it didn’t look like contempt. At the back of his eyes, I saw a piercing interest that made me want to hold perfectly still.
Rowan looked impeccable himself, as always. Charcoal-gray coat, perfectly tailored. Black boots shining against the snow. The only untidy thing about him was his dark hair. It always started the day perfectly combed but ended up like this, tousled and wavy. Which I liked. A weakness in his otherwise exquisite armor.
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry about Mr. Oliver. It must have been hard, being there when it happened. I’ve never actually seen anyone—” He halted, not wanting to say it.
I saw his father die.
“Do you think the rumors are true?” Rowan asked. “That he was murdered?”
Was that why he’d followed me, to get the gossip firsthand like Miss Dibble in sewing class?
No, his blue eyes looked concerned. And it dawned on me that he’d endured the same gossip as I had today, his father’s name whispered alongside my mother’s. Which made me want to be honest. “I think his tea was poisoned. That was his dying word—poison.”
“Maybe it was an accident. He just drank the wrong thing.”
“No. Someone took the tea tin so it would look like a natural death. They didn’t plan on me showing up. Or Birdy watching from the window. She saw someone but won’t tell me who it was. She’s too upset. She gets like that. She either can’t stop talking about something or won’t talk at all.” I realized I was babbling myself and stopped, embarrassed.
But Rowan had listened carefully to every word. “So, you don’t think Birdy did it?”
“No,” I said flatly. “She never lies. She’s not … clever that way.”
“So, the sheriff has it wrong,” he said, not doubting. “Mr. Oliver was murdered, but not by Birdy.”
The tightness in my chest relaxed. “You believe me.”
He shrugged. “You were there. And you know Birdy better than anyone. It’s just hard to imagine why someone would want to kill Mr. Oliver. He was a nice man.”
I wanted to tell Rowan the rest—that my mother might have been innocent. That someone else had murdered his father. That Mr. Oliver had been poisoned because he knew the truth. But it would sound mad.
Rowan’s lips tilted. “You get that secretive look on your face I can never read. Like you’re thinking some clever, mysterious thing. It makes me curious.”
I gave a short laugh. “Me? You’re the one who’s impossible to read. I can never tell what you’re thinking.”
“Nothing mysterious. Just Euclidian geometry, lately. Or maybe magnetis
m. I’m a bit obsessed.”
“Sounds mysterious to me.”
“Congratulations on the award, by the way. I guess that means you’ll be at the Honor Tea this year.”
“I suppose so. I’m nervous,” I admitted. I still had no idea what I would wear. Miss Dibble had brought in a couple of her old dresses for me to try on during sewing class, but they’d been too short.
Rowan shrugged. “It’ll just be local people if this snow keeps up. No one will travel.” He held out his hand to catch a snowflake. His hair was dotted with white, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. He wore a red knitted scarf that looked nice against his dark hair.
As I admired him, his mood seemed to sober. His blue eyes lifted to meet mine in a steady gaze. “I don’t blame you for what your mother did, Valentine. I hope you know that. I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time.”
I drew a cold breath, not sure what to say.
Never contempt, then.
“Sometimes—” His voice dropped. “Sometimes I get the feeling you think less of yourself because of what she did. Or worry that other people think less of you. But I’ve never felt that way.”
“I’m glad,” I managed.
He turned his head to look into the bare winter trees. “I remember back in grammar school. The Fryes used to tease you about having messy hair, and I knew it was because you didn’t have a mother, the same way I didn’t have a father. That we shared that horrible event.” A muscle in his jaw tightened and released. He turned to look back at me, his blue eyes intense. “I wanted to talk to you about it. But I just stood there, doing nothing while the Fryes chased you. I’ve always felt guilty about that. I should have stood up for you, Valentine. I should have been your friend.”
I swallowed against a tight throat. “That was a long time ago.”
“I hope we can be friends now.”
“Of course,” I said.
A sound made us turn, and I saw Sam striding toward us on the trail. My heart sank. Sam had never liked Rowan, calling him a privileged pup.
“Speaking of Fryes,” Rowan muttered.
“Sam is different,” I said under my breath.
But he looked like any other Frye as he stalked toward us, glowering, filling the trail with his impressive height and breadth. “Lose your horse, Blackshaw?” he called out as he neared. “It’s back at the stable.”
“Just out for a stroll in the snow,” Rowan said evenly.
“Plenty of snow back there,” Sam said. He stopped close to me, his large hand closing around mine.
Rowan’s eyes lingered on our clasped hands, then lifted to my face. “I guess that’s it, then. I’ll see you at the Honor Tea, Valentine.”
“Goodbye,” I said faintly. I watched as Rowan strode back toward the school. He was as tall as Sam, but leaner, his coat perfectly cut for his broad shoulders and slim waist. His legs moved easily, almost gracefully.
“Arrogant ass,” Sam muttered, watching him go.
I waited until Rowan had disappeared around the bend, then pulled my hand from Sam’s. “I hate it when you act like that,” I fumed.
“Like what?”
I didn’t answer, but we both knew the answer: like a Frye. I folded my arms across my chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“I saw him following you.” Sam’s gaze shifted from where Rowan had disappeared to me, his green eyes narrowing. “Did the two of you plan to meet out here?”
“Don’t be stupid.” I started for home.
But Sam came along. “What were the two of you talking about?”
I thought of all that had passed between Rowan and me, too personal to share. “The Honor Tea.”
“That’s all?”
I resisted the urge to glance back to where Rowan and I had just stood. “He wanted to say that he was sorry about Mr. Oliver. It’s all anyone could talk about today.”
“Oh.” It was a reasonable answer, and Sam’s bravado melted. “Don’t be mad. I just saw him following you and wanted to make sure you were okay. I don’t like the way he watches you.”
I looked up, startled that Sam had noticed. Which meant Rowan’s attention wasn’t my imagination. “Well, I’m fine, as you can see.”
“Is Birdy still at your house?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to argue about that either.”
“Neither do I.” Sam took hold of my arm and gently pulled me to a stop. “I’m sorry for what I said about her, Valentine. If you say she didn’t do it, I believe you.”
“Thank you,” I said, mollified.
And the argument was over. That’s how things were with Sam and me. He had the Frye temper that flared hot but was easily doused. “Has she told you anything?” he asked.
“Nothing. If I mention Mr. Oliver, she starts rocking. I don’t think she can accept that he’s dead.”
“It is hard to believe,” Sam said. His green eyes shifted. “I don’t suppose there’s any gingerbread left?”
I gave a soft laugh. “If not, I’ll make more. I have enough ginger.”
“Then I’ll be there as soon as I get off work.” He took a few steps backward, still looking at me. “You should wear a bonnet like a proper young lady. You have snow in your hair.”
I brushed at it, grinning. “So do you. And your nose is running!”
Sam sniffed and laughed as he turned away. I watched as he trotted down the trail—strong and steady and hardworking, with a heart as golden and soft as butter. Sam would do anything for me, and we both knew it.
10
I emerged from the woods behind the graveyard, my footsteps muffled by the snow. The headstones looked ghostly draped in white, bits of old stone peeking through. I walked between Angus Moore, who’d died in 1788, and Samuel Bagley, whose dates were missing—and a chill ran through me at the realization that Mr. Oliver would soon lie buried with them. That I would walk past his grave every day on my way to and from Drake.
I paused next to the forlorn-looking angel who guarded Mary Brinker—died age sixteen—and stared across the road. The rectory had already taken on the shadowed look of an abandoned building. As if the rooms Mr. Oliver had inhabited had died with him.
Someone had murdered him. Someone I most likely knew. Perhaps even Father.
Or the person who’d told Mr. Oliver that my mother was innocent.
My heart beat faster. Mr. Oliver had been known for the scribbled notes he wrote in an attempt to organize himself; they’d fallen out of his pockets and cluttered his desk. He may have jotted something down about this secret witness; he’d said it was recently. I glanced up and down the road, then quickly crossed to the rectory and slipped inside.
I stood still just inside the door, my pulse racing. The curtains were closed, the parlor dark and empty. All I could hear were my own nervous breaths.
I moved to the desk in the corner, trying to not think about the empty chair and cold hearth and the mantel clock that wasn’t ticking because no one had wound it. I shuffled through papers—notes for sermons, mostly—and opened drawers. I found an appointment book with a few scrawled notations, but Mr. Oliver didn’t seem to have used it much.
I heard men’s voices on the road and froze, listening. But they moved on.
I searched the bookcase next, thumbing through books and opening trinket boxes. Then I hurried up the narrow staircase. But a thorough search of Mr. Oliver’s bedroom revealed nothing either.
Except a letter from Mrs. Henny hidden in his sock drawer, dated two years earlier: her polite refusal of his hand in marriage. I was surprised. I hadn’t known the rector felt that way about Mrs. Henny. Although, in hindsight, it seemed obvious. He’d often sat on her doorstep, reading aloud while she worked in her garden. But she’d rejected him. I refolded the letter and slid it into my cloak pocket, not wanting anyone to find it when they cleaned out his things. Not wanting Mrs. Henny to know that he’d cared enough to keep it.
I descended the staircase and forced myself to enter the kit
chen. The blood on the floor had browned. I stared at it, a lump filling my throat. The only thing I could do for him now was find his killer. I opened the cupboards and searched every shelf, more carefully than I had the day he’d died.
The muffled voices reached me a moment before I heard the front door opening. I whirled around, but the only way out was through the parlor. I darted the other way, to the old storage room that Mr. Oliver had converted into an art studio. No window, I realized a moment too late. I quickly pushed the door shut behind me, but the old wood refused to close all the way, leaving a crack.
I stood perfectly still.
“I’m glad you came with me,” Mrs. Henny’s soft voice said in the other room. “I wouldn’t have wanted to come alone.”
“We’ll just find the donation list and go,” a stronger voice responded—Mrs. Blackshaw, Rowan’s grandmother.
I closed my eyes, silently cursing myself for coming here. Mrs. Blackshaw was a trustee at Drake Academy, but more than that, I admired her. She was smart and outspoken and fought for what she believed in. An article she’d written had been printed in an abolitionist magazine. She’d spoken at an important women’s convention in Seneca Falls. Mrs. Blackshaw was the last person I wanted to catch me snooping.
And she would tell Rowan.
“Is this where it happened?” another voice asked—Lucy’s mother, Mrs. Meriwether.
“No, he was sitting at the table.”
I heard the three women enter the kitchen and dared to peer through the sliver of opening.
Mrs. Meriwether’s eyes widened at the sight of the dried blood on the floor. “Oh, my,” she murmured.
Mrs. Blackshaw frowned at the stain, then looked away. At age sixty, she was still a striking woman, with a lean figure and dark hair barely touched by silver. Her gaze settled on a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. “Someone will need to clean out his things before the new rector arrives.” I doubted she’d washed a dish herself in forty years—not since marrying George Blackshaw, an older gentleman who’d died a year later, leaving her an impressive fortune.
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