Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  Rowan’s expression shifted, suddenly cautious.

  I drew a breath. “I like walking with you, Rowan. Quite a bit, actually. But Sam often stands at the side door in the mornings, watching for me. He works long hours, and it’s one of the few times we get to see each other. And … I just think it’s best if he doesn’t see us together.”

  “Ah.” Rowan hadn’t moved, but the distance between us suddenly felt greater. “From what you told me … I thought the two of you weren’t…”

  “We’re not,” I said, my face warming. “At least, not completely. But we’ve been friends for a long time, and I don’t want to hurt him.” I wasn’t sure how to explain it. “Sam is important to me—and now, you’re important to me too—and, I just don’t know how to walk across campus with you without hurting him. So, I thought … maybe we shouldn’t…” My voice faded. The words sounded like a rude dismissal after Rowan’s thoughtfulness. “At least, not at school,” I finished lamely.

  He pulled on his mask of good manners. “I understand. I’ll avoid you at school, if that’s what you want.”

  “It isn’t what I want—not really. But I do think it’s best.”

  “Of course,” he said politely.

  I’d ruined everything. But I wouldn’t take it back, if I could. In this, at least, I’d been honest with Rowan.

  He tipped his head toward the school. “You can leave this way, like usual, and I’ll go through the trees and come out on the road.”

  “I only meant at school, Rowan. You won’t avoid me completely?”

  He flashed a wry smile as he turned away. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  My eyes followed him into the trees, admiring the gentle sway of his back. His straight shoulders and slim waist. The leather strap of his satchel angled across the fashionable cut of his coat.

  He turned to look back and caught me watching. “Oh, and I’ll let you know if Sheriff Crane knows anything about your father.” His lips tilted, suddenly playful. “Not at school, of course. Maybe I’ll write a letter.”

  I laughed weakly as he disappeared into the trees.

  * * *

  For all my trouble, Sam wasn’t standing at the side door, watching for me. One of the scullery maids wandered past and, when I asked, told me he’d been sent into town for supplies.

  At least he wasn’t avoiding me on purpose.

  I made my way to the girls’ schoolhouse, across campus.

  Yesterday, as the story of Lucy’s insult and apology had spread, she’d become quiet and sulky. But everyone else had suddenly become talkative, reaching out to me with friendly sympathy.

  And today, that continued. In Latin, Jane Stiles insisted I sit in her study circle, saying my pronunciations were the best; in history, Tall Meg asked me how to spell Constantinople; and in my literature class, Hannah Adams leaned toward my desk to tell me she liked the poem I’d just read aloud. Even Philly cast me a nervous smile as we entered sewing class at the end of the day.

  Everything had changed.

  Or maybe I was the one who’d changed.

  A year ago, Hannah Adams had accused me of being aloof—which was so ridiculous, I’d just rolled my eyes and turned away. But suddenly, I saw that sitting in the back corner of every class and never talking to anyone was aloof. I’d been so sure of their rejection, I’d rejected them first.

  But now, I’d been given a chance to transform myself, and I intended to take it.

  In sewing class, instead of sewing quietly by myself, I crossed the room and offered to help Hannah Adams mark the hem of the cotton dress she’d been sewing all year and had finally finished. She looked surprised, then smiled and handed me her pincushion, stepping up onto the hemming stool.

  “I don’t know where I could have put them,” Miss Dibble muttered, shuffling through dress patterns on the cluttered table. Today, her scissors had been hidden by Tall Meg in the potted plant on the windowsill.

  Hannah stifled a giggle, looking down at me as I marked her hem. And I grinned back, feeling like part of the joke for the first time.

  * * *

  That evening, as I washed up after dinner, Sam knocked and entered without waiting, like usual. I turned slowly, drying my hands on a dishrag, preparing myself for his jealousy and hurt feelings after seeing me with Rowan at the assembly.

  But he wore a huge grin, looking like the eager, straw-haired boy I’d grown up with. He pulled out a chair at the table and plopped himself on it, spreading his arms wide. “I just hauled away my last pig carcass and hung up my apron. I’m done being a kitchen slave!”

  I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “I got a new job—a better job! And you’ll never guess where.”

  An uneasy feeling slid into my stomach.

  “Hale Glass! When I got home, Ma was all excited because the manager had sent a note saying I should come right away, that he heard I was a good worker. I got there just as he was leaving. One look, and he hired me. Said he needs someone strong to carry the heavy glass. I’m going to drive a delivery wagon, like your pa. It’s almost twice the money.”

  My fingers curled around the dishrag. Within a few hours of our conversation, Rowan had solved the problem. I didn’t know if I should be alarmed or impressed.

  He was more like his grandmother than I’d known.

  Sam lifted his hands, still grinning. “Happy for me?”

  My emotions darted. Part of me was happy; Sam had a better job, and I’d no longer have to look over my shoulder every time I talked to Rowan. But another part of me resented the way he’d so easily manipulated Sam’s life—and mine. I hoped Sam never found out who’d recommended him for the job.

  “I’ll miss you at Drake,” I said, which was true. Finding Sam waiting in some hidden corner had always been the best part of the day.

  His face sobered. “I know. But when I heard the money, I couldn’t refuse. And it’s better work. I won’t have to carry stinky fish anymore. And I’ll get to travel and see new places. I’ve never been much of anywhere.” He paused, then added, “I’ll be working with your pa, I guess.” Sam had never liked my father much because of the way he neglected the house—and me.

  “Actually…” I lowered myself to the chair across the table from him. “I think you’re taking his job, Sam.”

  His expression turned wary. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you at Christmas—he’s gone. You said he was on Grover Street, but I went there, and Molly Gillis hasn’t seen him either. She went to Hale Glass, and they said he hasn’t been to work in weeks. So, if they’re looking for a new deliveryman, that’s why.”

  Sam frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Where did he go?”

  I released a weary sigh. “I have no idea. He could be sick or hurt, or even dead. He’s just … gone.”

  Sam sat straighter. “But that’s terrible. What are you going to do?”

  “What can I do, except keep going to school and hope he walks in the door? I counted my money, and I have enough for a while. I’ll find work after I graduate.”

  “But—” Sam’s gaze slid to the doorway that led to the rest of the house. “You can’t live here by yourself, Val.”

  I gave a weak smile. “Haven’t I always, more or less? I don’t think my neighbors will even notice he’s gone.”

  Sam considered that. He settled his hands on the tabletop, his fingers slowly drumming. “You could stay with us, I guess. Pa would be happy to kick out half my brothers.” His green eyes flickered to mine. “But I don’t think you want that.”

  “No,” I murmured.

  His fingers rubbed across the worn surface of the table. One finger paused on a dark knot in the wood and slowly circled it. “I could stay here, if you want. Sleep downstairs to protect you. Just until your pa gets back.” His finger paused, awaiting my answer.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said gently. “But thank you, Sam.”

  His hand closed into a fist, then opened wide, his f
ingers splayed. He frowned at the table. “Is something going on between you and Rowan Blackshaw?” he asked in a low voice.

  My heart beat faster. I wanted to be honest but wasn’t sure of the answer. “Maybe a little,” I admitted. “We’ve become friends, lately.”

  A muscle in Sam’s cheek tightened. “Is that why you won’t kiss me? Because you’re kissing him?”

  “No, Sam, nothing like that. But … I do think it’s one of the reasons I don’t feel ready for it.”

  His eyes finally lifted to meet mine, tight with emotion. “Don’t make a fool of me, Val. If you want me to go away, just say so, and I’ll go away. But don’t make a fool of me.”

  My throat swelled. I reached across the table and tucked my fingers around his. “I can’t give you what you want right now, Sam, or make any promises, and I know it’s not fair to make you wait. But I don’t want you to go away. Please … don’t abandon me now when I need you most.”

  His fingers tightened around mine. “I’ll never abandon you, Val, you know that. But if you decide it’s Blackshaw you want, you got to tell me. That’s all I ask. Don’t lie and keep secrets. You promise?”

  I blinked back tears, knowing the promise itself was a lie. But I said it anyway. “I promise, Sam.”

  18

  January snow hardened into February ice. Then February ice softened into March slush. Which hardened again in a frigid storm that buried Feavers Crossing in piles of deep snow, closing roads and felling trees.

  It was the bitterest winter in memory.

  And Father hadn’t returned.

  When Miss Dibble heard about Father’s disappearance, she arranged for me to take in some sewing for her brother, who owned the nicest tailoring shop in town. A few times a week, I walked to Mr. Dibble’s Fine Apparel to pick up a bundle and drop off the work I’d completed. Hems and buttons, mostly. Simple work for little money. But it was enough to keep my money jar from emptying.

  At school, I snuck food into my pockets—rolls and apples and oranges—and sometimes Mrs. Henny crossed the road with chowder or stew, claiming she’d made more than she and Philly could eat.

  Sam never arrived without a couple of potatoes or onions. He loved his new job at Hale Glass, talking eagerly about the places he visited and the men he worked with. I didn’t see him as often, but when I did, it felt like old times, our laughter coming easily.

  Sometimes a basket appeared on the back doorstep, and my pulse quickened as I pulled back the cloth to find a small ham or turkey.

  Rowan continued to meet me in the woods in the mornings. I slowed my pace as soon as I saw him leaning against the boulder, forcing him to straighten and come toward me. Because I liked watching him walk—long legs and graceful stride. And I liked the old satchel he always carried, because he seemed to treasure it even though it looked out of place against his perfect attire.

  Some days, we barely spoke as we walked, comfortable in silence. Other days, we talked over each other, debating some point of philosophy or whether soft bacon was better than crunchy. I told him about Alvina Lunt and her fight to help people who couldn’t help themselves and how I hoped to meet her someday. And he told me about a group of French scientists who’d developed a new system of measurement. For days, he talked of little else, and I pretended to understand it all—the various units of mass and length and why it mattered if everyone called them the same thing.

  I stole glances at him as he talked, mesmerized by his low voice and masculine profile, my gaze lingering on his mouth as he rattled off the names of German mathematicians with perfect pronunciation. He knew about art and politics and Egyptian artifacts. His favorite class was drafting.

  “I don’t even know what it is,” I admitted. Girls didn’t take it.

  “Mechanical drawing. Engineering. You have to draw things out with precise calculations. It’s both creative and mathematical, which I like.” He cast me a sly smile. “I’m pretty good at it, actually. Better than most of my class.”

  Which didn’t surprise me. Rowan paid attention to detail.

  But he hated writing assignments, always leaving them to the last minute. One morning, he asked if he could come by my house after school to get help with a poem. “I know it’s not proper without a chaperone, but I’m desperate.”

  I looked up, amused. “Is that why you just leave baskets and never stay to visit? Because of propriety?”

  “I don’t want to impose. Or presume.”

  I almost said something about Sam’s frequent visits, but caught myself. “Come around to the back door and no one will know—or care. No one expects propriety of someone like me.” I felt a twinge of guilt as I said it, like I always did at the thought of my mother’s hanging.

  The secret still lurked, but I was getting better at ignoring it.

  Rowan looked pleased. “All right, I’ll come today.”

  I hurried home after school to pull down the laundry I’d left drying in front of the fire. Then I swept the floor and quickly tidied up the clutter. He knocked, and my heart skittered with nervous excitement as I opened the door.

  But Rowan seemed relaxed as he entered. “Prepare yourself for some appalling poetry,” he warned as he sat at the table. He opened his satchel and pulled out a notebook.

  “I can’t promise to be much help,” I said. “But I’m better at poetry than math equations.”

  But, as it turned out, Rowan didn’t need much help, except for the occasional word suggestion. He became absorbed in the task, crossing off and starting again, muttering under his breath.

  So, I pulled on my apron and got busy with the usual chores. I fetched water; tended the fire; peeled potatoes and sliced them, then put them in a pot. I caught Rowan watching me a few times as I worked, his head bent over his notebook but his eyes turned up.

  “I like your kitchen, Valentine,” he said as I hung the pot over the fire. “It’s warm and smells good. And I like watching you cook. How did you learn how without…?”

  A mother.

  I added a log, keeping my face to the warm fire. “I guess, like they say, necessity is the mother of invention. When you’re hungry, you learn to cook.”

  “Didn’t you have a housekeeper or nanny? At first, at least.”

  I returned to the table to clean up the potato peelings. “There was a woman with red hair for a while, but she didn’t last long. I can’t imagine my father paid her very well.” I looked up with a wry smile. “Or maybe I drove her away. As I recall, I refused to speak to her and stayed in the woods all day.”

  Rowan gave a soft laugh. “That’s the little girl I remember. I used to see you in town and envy you.”

  My eyebrows rose. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s true. You’d be barefoot and on your own, and I’d be stuck in some tight suit, holding my grandmother’s hand. I saw you in a tree once, and you looked completely wild and free, like you were born there.”

  “I was probably hiding from the Fryes.”

  Rowan watched as I scooped the potato peelings into a bucket. “My nanny read me this book about woodland fairies, and the illustration looked just like you. I showed it to my grandmother, and that’s when she told me—” His voice faded.

  My throat tightened.

  I killed his father.

  “You didn’t deserve what happened to you,” Rowan said quietly. “But you made the best of it.”

  I did deserve it.

  “You’ve overcome a lot, Valentine.”

  Please, stop.

  I went to the sink to wash up and compose myself, and when I returned to the table, Rowan was gathering his things. “I’d better go,” he said. “Some mayor from a neighboring town is coming for dinner.”

  “Do you have a dinner party every night?”

  “Feels that way. It’s worse lately, now that she thinks I’m old enough to impress people.” He stood, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. “Would you mind if we did this again sometime? I mean … without prete
nding I have a poem to write?”

  My eyes darted up, widening. “You mean to say you haven’t been writing a poem all this time?”

  He grinned. “Oh, I’ve been writing a poem. I just don’t happen to need one this week. But I’m sure it’ll come in handy at some point.”

  I threw a dishrag at him.

  He laughed as he moved to the door. “See you in the morning.”

  “Enjoy your fancy dinner party,” I said.

  He paused, his hand on the latch. “To be honest, I’d rather eat potatoes with you.” He lifted his blue eyes to meet mine.

  And suddenly, I was falling through a clear sky, everything weightless inside me, my stomach swooping, my heart rising. And Rowan seemed to feel it too, holding my gaze, the two of us falling together in that endless sky. Falling … and falling.

  “Good night, woodland fairy,” he said softly. He left and the door closed.

  I pressed a hand to my chest and sank to a chair. I drew a breath.

  The sky did have an end. Someday, surely, Rowan would learn the truth. He might forgive me for killing his father, knowing it was an accident, but not for deceiving him.

  And his grandmother.

  When she learned what I’d done, she wouldn’t stop until she’d driven us apart. How long could Rowan stand against that storm? He was a Blackshaw, heir to a banking legacy, with dinner parties and board meetings and political ambitions.

  I was a killer.

  Someday, I would shatter against that impenetrable ground. Hard stone and cold reality. Broken promises. Someday, I would reach the bottom of that billowing sky.

  Good night, woodland fairy.

  But with Rowan’s voice echoing in my heart, I found it impossible to care.

  * * *

  Rowan must have known the delivery schedule for Hale Glass, because he only visited my kitchen when Sam was out of town.

  He sat at the table, bent over his notebook, stealing glances as I cooked. Or sometimes he read the newspaper aloud as I sewed buttons for Mr. Dibble.

  He tried to help with my chores, but usually proved more hopeless than helpful—which amused both of us.