Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  My gaze shifted deeper into the room, where the students gathered, and my heart lifted at the sight of Rowan in the far corner, studying a painting on the wall. He bent at the waist to see it better, then straightened, his head tilting, seeming unaware of the party going on behind him.

  He did the same thing at school: stared at the cornice over a doorway as students flowed around him; studied the portrait of the school’s founder, Isaac Drake; stood outside Rochester Hall by himself, looking up at the roof. When Jack Utley had broken a newel on the staircase last year, Rowan had hovered over the carpenter as he’d worked, asking questions. Which was strange behavior for a seventeen-year-old, and yet somehow normal in Rowan Blackshaw.

  Philly Henny approached him, and he turned, allowing me to admire his handsome profile. He was perfectly dressed, as usual, wearing a dark blue jacket and white neckcloth. He leaned closer to Philly to hear what she was saying and gave an easy laugh.

  A knot tightened in my stomach.

  I’d always thought Rowan would end up with Lucy Meriwether, with her successful father and sociable mother, but lately, he seemed more drawn to Philly. And I couldn’t blame him. She’d grown into a beauty with a graceful demeanor and shy smile.

  Tonight, she wore a peach-colored dress that looked nice against her porcelain skin and strawberry-blond hair. Mrs. Henny had little means, but Philly never lacked for anything—or lifted a finger, to my eye. But Mrs. Henny was too in awe of her own daughter to expect any work of her. She’d pleaded with the Lord for twenty years before her precious Philomena arrived, and her husband’s death soon after had only magnified the value of the blessing.

  Philly shouldn’t have been here, I realized; she wasn’t an honor student. But she was Lucy’s best friend, and this felt more like a Meriwether party than a school event.

  Lucy leaned against the nearby piano, holding a wriggling black puppy, surrounded by three boys. Lucy wasn’t as beautiful as her mother but carried herself with a confidence that drew attention, and her blue gown showed more bosom than most mothers would have allowed.

  My gaze drifted back to Rowan—and I caught my breath.

  He’d found me, his attentive eyes sliding down my ivory dress, then slowly rising again. He realized I was watching and looked a bit embarrassed, giving me a small smile.

  I inhaled, knowing I should join him. But the thought of crossing the long room made my heart patter like a bird in a cage.

  Lucy’s little brother knocked into me as he ran past, and his mother grabbed his arm. “It is her puppy,” Mrs. Meriwether told him in a harsh undertone. “I will not have the two of you fighting.” But he broke free and ran toward Lucy.

  Mrs. Meriwether sighed. Her eyes settled on me, then widened as they took in my pulled-up hair and ivory dress. “Why, Valentine! How lovely you look!”

  “Thank you. It’s a wonderful party.” My eyes drifted back to Rowan, but he was no longer there. Instead, Lucy stood next to Philly, the two of them staring at me, whispering.

  Mrs. Meriwether waved a graceful hand. “There’s too much food, as usual. Have you been to the buffet yet?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Oh, you must! We’ll be eating ham for weeks!” Mrs. Meriwether took my elbow and steered me into the dining room, rattling off the names of dishes as she handed me a plate. Then she spun back toward the drawing room.

  I stared across the elegant spread, knowing I couldn’t eat a bite.

  “Josephine Blackshaw,” a crisp, masculine voice said, and I looked up to see Lucy’s father on the other side of the table—a handsome man with a short, dark beard—speaking to a man who had his back to me. “She’ll monopolize the governor all evening, of course. No one else will get an opinion in edgewise.”

  The other man gave a low, gravelly chuckle—a tall man with iron-gray hair. And I realized it was Judge Stoker—the man who’d sentenced my mother to hang. “Is she still harping about that Declaration of Society?” he asked in a growling voice.

  “Declaration of Sentiments,” Mr. Meriwether corrected dryly. “I know it well from my wife.”

  “Careful,” Judge Stoker warned. “She’ll be demanding control of her trust, if you’re not careful. You’ll find yourself the proud owner of several dressmaking shops.”

  The two men laughed.

  “This is a far cry from the usual stale cake and cold tea,” Rowan’s low voice murmured near my ear.

  I looked up to find him only inches away. I drew a breath. “Oh. Hello.”

  “Hello,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth sliding up. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show up, but it was worth the wait. You look nice, Valentine.” His gaze drifted over my bared shoulders.

  I bit my lower lip. “Thank you. I’m a bit nervous, to be honest.”

  “Don’t be. It’s just school people.”

  “And the governor.”

  He shrugged. “My grandmother will keep him occupied.” He nodded at my plate. “I interrupted you.”

  “Actually, you saved me. I don’t think I can eat a thing.”

  “You have to eat something or Mrs. Meriwether will never invite you back.” He scanned the table. “How about some cake?”

  I glanced at the enormous white cake on the stand. Below it, I saw the simpler desserts. “I heard her say that the mincemeat is good.”

  “Mincemeat it is, then. I’ll join you.” Rowan slid a slice of pie onto my plate, then grabbed another plate for himself. “A fork for you. A fork for me. I never get anything like this at my house. My grandmother thinks sugar weakens a man’s character.”

  At the mention of Mrs. Blackshaw, my gaze darted back across the table, where I found Judge Stoker watching me with a keen expression. He had a craggy face with a perpetual scowl and piercing eyes.

  A shiver ran through me. Did he think of my mother every time he saw me, the way I did when I saw him?

  Lucy’s father downed his cup of tea and handed it to a servant. “We’ve done our duty, Ezra. Time for cards and a pipe. I’ll find Barnes and Alders and meet you in the study.” He exited the room.

  But Judge Stoker’s fierce gaze remained on me. I half expected him to say something, but he only nodded curtly before following his friend.

  My heart drummed. Judge Stoker knew the facts about my mother’s trial that I’d never bothered to learn. He might know something useful.

  He might know she was innocent.

  My thoughts raced. Maybe Judge Stoker was the person who’d confided in Mr. Oliver. Then, he’d worried the entire town would find out that he’d hanged an innocent woman, so he’d silenced him.

  “One tiny bite,” Rowan coaxed.

  I obeyed, hardly tasting it.

  “Tea or hot chocolate?” Rowan asked.

  I swallowed. “Neither, honestly.”

  “Me neither. Let’s join the others.” Rowan took my plate and handed it to a passing servant.

  I followed him into the drawing room, my mind still on Judge Stoker.

  Rowan led me toward a circle that had formed in the center of the room, where Lucy, never shy of attention, sat on the Persian rug in her billowing blue dress, playing with the black puppy as the women on the surrounding sofas and chairs watched and laughed.

  The puppy scampered toward the edge of the circle, and Rowan scooped it up. “Come here, you little fur ball.”

  “Princess,” Lucy corrected tartly. Her blue eyes flickered from Rowan to me, then she stood and came toward us.

  The puppy wriggled eagerly in Rowan’s arms, making him laugh. “She’s grown since your birthday, Lucy. I think you’re spoiling her.”

  “As all Meriwether girls deserve,” she said airily. Her gaze settled on me. “Hello, Valentine. What a lovely dress. I haven’t seen sleeves like that in ages.”

  Her own sleeves were narrower, I noticed. My mother had worn this dress more than a decade ago. I decided to ignore the veiled insult. “It’s nice of your family to host.”

  “Well, the
Honor Tea is rather drab, to be honest, compared to my birthday party two weeks ago.” Another subtle stab, since I hadn’t been invited. Her voice rose, sweet and clear. “I’m so glad Mr. Foley allowed you to be an honor student, Valentine. After all that talk of cheating last year. When you got caught, I hoped you would mend your ways. And apparently you have—because here you are!” She smiled brightly.

  I straightened, hardly believing what I’d just heard. I glanced around and found people watching. My face warmed. “You know I don’t cheat,” I seethed. “I work harder than anyone.”

  “Oh, Valentine,” Lucy said kindly, tipping her head. “We all understood why you did it. It can’t be easy, with your mother and all. But cheating isn’t the answer. It was decent of Mr. Foley to forgive you.”

  “Stop it,” Rowan ordered in a low voice, handing her the puppy.

  Lucy’s blue eyes moved to him, full of sincerity. “You never heard about it, Rowan, but all the girls knew. Like I said, we understood.”

  Philly and Jane Stiles stood behind Lucy, their eyes wide. They knew there hadn’t been a cheating scandal, and yet said nothing.

  My temper flared. “Does that make you feel better, Lucy? Smearing my name with lies so no one will know that I might actually be smarter than you? Me—of all people!”

  Lucy’s eyes tightened, but she kept her voice smooth. “Oh, Valentine, there’s no need for rudeness.”

  I opened my mouth, but closed it again, seeing that arguing back had only drawn more attention. On the sofa, a woman whispered to the governor’s wife. And across the room, Mrs. Blackshaw had turned, her face tightening at the sight of Rowan standing next to me.

  I could think of nothing to do except turn and walk away, my spine rigid, my face flaming. Behind me, Rowan growled something at Lucy.

  What a fool I’d been to come to Lucy Meriwether’s house wearing an old-fashioned dress, thinking I would be welcomed. Lucy hated the way I outscored her on exams. Glowered when teachers praised my recitations over hers.

  And she hadn’t liked the sight of Rowan giving me attention.

  I found my cloak in the alcove and left through the front door, pulling it on as I marched down the front path. It wasn’t until I was two houses away that I felt cold slush on my feet and remembered the boots. I stopped and looked down, groaning in frustration. The beautiful velvet shoes were ruined.

  “Valentine, don’t go!” Rowan called, trotting to catch up. “No one believes her!”

  I sighed, shaking my head. “I won’t go back, but I left my boots on the front porch, behind a column.”

  “I’ll get them.” He ran toward the house and returned a moment later, wearing his coat and holding my boots.

  I tried to switch shoes while standing and nearly fell over.

  Rowan grabbed my waist to steady me, then knelt in front of me. “Here, let me do it.” His palm slipped around my ankle. He removed one of the velvet shoes and gently slid my stockinged foot into a boot. Then he did the other. I nearly lost my balance and had to lean on his shoulder as he tied the laces. He stood, tucking a wet shoe into each of his coat pockets. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  “Go back to the party, Rowan. I’m fine.”

  He didn’t reply, just started walking toward my end of town, buttoning his coat.

  12

  The night had deepened, the moon glowing silver. Our feet made side-by-side crunches in the snow.

  “Lucy is just jealous,” Rowan said.

  I hugged my chest. “Yes, I have so much to envy.”

  “You’re prettier than she is. You just walk into a room and every head turns.”

  A flutter ran through me. “Not for the right reasons.”

  “Sometimes the right reasons,” he said quietly. He held my gaze a moment, then looked back at the path in front of us. “No one in that room believed her, Valentine. She’s just … Lucy.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw had probably believed her.

  “You should go back, Rowan. Your grandmother will wonder where you are.”

  But he kept walking, his hands in his pockets. “You’re saving me. She expected me to spend the entire night trying to impress Governor Stiles so he’ll help me get into a good law apprenticeship.”

  I glanced at him, surprised. “Law? What about the bank?”

  “Mr. Pinchery runs that. She has bigger plans for me. Lawyer. Senator. Maybe president of the United States. I’ll abolish slavery and give equal rights to women—all before I’m thirty, of course.” He cast me a wry smile.

  I remembered what Mr. Meriwether had said to Judge Stoker. “What is the Declaration of … something?”

  Rowan’s eyebrows lifted. “Declaration of Sentiments? It’s a document demanding rights for women. A list of their grievances. My grandmother was one of its signers. Why do you ask?”

  “I heard some men talking about it at the party.”

  Rowan gave a dry laugh. “Nothing good, I’m sure. Most people think it’s absurd. Or ungodly.”

  Our arms brushed as we turned the corner onto a street lined with shops, and by some unspoken agreement, we both slowed our pace. “What sort of grievances?” I asked.

  “I hardly know, to be honest. She holds a lot of meetings at our house.”

  “She thinks women should vote?”

  “Nothing that extreme. She’s mostly interested in property rights—women losing their money when they get married.” He glanced at me and must have decided I was interested. “My grandmother was only twenty-three when my grandfather died, but she’s never remarried because she would lose control of her money. That’s the law. It would go to her husband—all her businesses and investments. She’d have no legal voice. And, if you know my grandmother, she likes having a voice. So, she never remarried and kept her money.”

  “That’s horrible—not that she didn’t remarry, but that she can’t remarry without losing what’s rightfully hers.”

  Rowan laughed. “Oh, no! I’ve converted you. You aren’t going to start attending meetings at my house, are you?”

  I smiled wryly. “I don’t think your grandmother would welcome me.”

  He didn’t dispute it.

  We passed a hat shop, where the upstairs rooms glowed with candlelight and merry music skipped off a fiddle. I smelled something savory that made my stomach tighten. “I’m finally hungry,” I admitted.

  “Good. That means I don’t make you nervous.”

  I glanced up, and we shared a quiet smile.

  We turned another corner, and I saw Blackshaw Bank in the distance, its fancy windows darkened for the night.

  “Your grandmother won’t like that you’ve walked me home,” I said.

  “No,” he admitted.

  I kept my head bowed, watching as our feet landed in slow rhythm. “I know she hates me, Rowan, I just don’t know why. I’m not the one who killed your father.”

  I felt his eyes settle on me. “It’s not about you; it’s your grandfather Silas Barron. You know about the two of them?”

  I shook my head. Twice a year, I dusted my grandfather’s enormous desk, but I knew little about him except that he’d raised my mother and her twin brother alone, then invested foolishly and lost his money. “He died before I was born.”

  “He jilted my grandmother at the altar. She never talks about it, but the cook told me. A month before the wedding, a new girl moved into town, and he decided he loved her instead. So, he just didn’t show up. My grandmother was left standing there in her wedding dress, with a chapel full of guests. She was humiliated. That’s why she hates the Barrons so much—even before your mother killed my father. And you’re a Barron.”

  I frowned, remembering Mrs. Blackshaw’s vicious cuts across my face. “She hates me because she was embarrassed forty years ago?”

  “He broke her heart. A year later, she married my grandfather, but he was about sixty, so I don’t think it was a love match.” Rowan looked through the dark windows of the bank as we passed. “According to our coo
k, you look like your mother—who looked like her mother, the girl who stole him away. So, the old wound can’t heal.”

  “I never knew any of this.” Rowan knew things about my family that I didn’t know.

  We took a few strides in silence, then he asked in a low voice, “Did you know I was there the night my father died?”

  I stopped walking, a chill running through me.

  The witness who talked to Mr. Oliver.

  Rowan stopped as well, turning, his face illuminated by silver moonlight. “I was in the carriage. My father told me to wait while he went up to the house.”

  My heart hammered in my chest. I hadn’t noticed the Blackshaws’ carriage, but it must have been there. Mr. Blackshaw wasn’t the sort of man who walked around town. But my mind reeled at the thought of Rowan being a witness to that night. Because the witness had poisoned Mr. Oliver. Either that or my father had done it.

  Please, oh, please, don’t let Rowan be the witness.

  “What did you see?” I asked carefully.

  “Not much.” Shadows darkened the masculine angles of his face. “It was late, and I must have fallen asleep. I think the gunshot woke me, but it’s just a vague memory. I didn’t even know my father was dead until the next day. I remember Sheriff Crane driving me home. Only he wasn’t the sheriff back then, just a watchman. The next morning, my grandmother woke me and told me my father was dead. That an evil woman had shot him. There was a funeral … and life went on.”

  He looked away, his jaw tightening. “We never spoke of it again. My grandmother talks about how wonderful my father was—I hear plenty of that—but nothing about his death. So, I’ve never known why it happened.” He looked back at me, his eyes glistening in the moonlight. “Do you know why your mother shot him, Valentine?”

  I shook my head, feeling hollow. I was no longer sure that she’d shot him at all, but I hesitated to tell Rowan that. My thoughts felt scattered and confused. I wasn’t sure how much to say. “Rowan … did you talk to Mr. Oliver about that night? About being there?”