Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  My rustic existence intrigued him. He asked questions as I made soap out of ashes and watched as I darned a sock. I purposefully waited to kill a chicken until he was there, showing off a little as I popped its neck and chopped off its head, then hung it to bleed. Rowan watched in fascination, then helped with the plucking, trying to not grimace.

  For a while, he took charge of the fire, determined to help. But he added too many logs, wasting them. Or got lost in some book, letting it burn out. “Sorry,” he apologized, jabbing at a smoking log with the poker.

  “That wood is too green. Here, I know how to coax it.”

  Rowan watched, trying to learn, but after a few days went back to his newspapers and schoolwork.

  At least, I assumed it was schoolwork. I’d never paid much attention. But one evening, I crept closer and saw that he was sketching. “That’s Feavers Bridge,” I said, surprised.

  Rowan looked up, quickly covering the drawing—then he relaxed, tipping the notebook so I could see it. “No, it’s Feavers Bridge as I would have built it. Better supports. Nicer to look at.”

  “It’s amazing, Rowan. I didn’t know you could draw like that. Is that what you’re always doing over here?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. He turned the page, watching my face, and I saw a sketch of Drake Academy, viewed from down the road. On the next page, he’d drawn three doorways—so different from one another, they must have come from different buildings. In the bottom corner, he’d sketched a lazy dog, almost comical in style.

  “Is that the Duncans’ dog?”

  “That’s right.”

  I sat next to him and reached for the notebook, and after a moment’s playful tugging, he let me have it. I turned to the next page and saw a sketch that confused me at first—squares and rectangles with math equations. He’d scribbled notes along the edge. Widen hall. More windows? A floor plan, I realized.

  The next drawing showed the dining hall at Drake Academy, complete with students eating lunch. I smiled at Rowan’s interpretation of Jack Utley; he’d gotten the expression just right.

  “You’re an artist, Rowan. How come I never knew that?”

  “I’m good at hiding it.”

  “Why? You have real talent, nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “It’s just for fun.” He hesitated, then added, “I wanted to be an architect for a while. I was obsessed with it, reading all these books. I wrote letters to famous architects, trying to get an apprenticeship.” He gave a soft laugh. “Most of them never wrote back.”

  I thought of all the times I’d caught Rowan studying things with those intense eyes of his—porticos and window casings and rooflines. He loved his drafting class. “You would be a wonderful architect.”

  “It was just an idea for a while. I’ve decided to go to Yale, then get an apprenticeship at a law firm and pass the bar. That’s the most logical path for running for political office.”

  I turned the page and saw an impressive building I didn’t recognize.

  “I designed that one,” he said, his head close to mine.

  “It’s amazing, Rowan. Are you sure you don’t want to be an architect?”

  He shrugged. “Like my grandmother says, it’s legislation that changes the world, not pretty buildings.”

  Which might be true, but hearing Rowan say it made me sad for some reason. I turned the page and saw a sketch of an old man in rough clothes leaning on a shovel. The weariness in his eyes tugged at my heart. “That’s our gardener, Wilcox,” Rowan said.

  “What do you enjoy more, drawing people or buildings?”

  “Both, I guess. I used to nag my grandmother about going to Europe after graduation. I had this vision of roaming through ancient cities with a knapsack on my back. Sleeping in haystacks. Sketching castles and cathedrals. I thought I might meet some great artist and study under them for a while. Go to Amsterdam and Paris. No plan, just wandering where my feet took me.”

  I liked the image of Rowan roaming Europe with a knapsack on his back. “You couldn’t convince her?”

  He gave a short laugh. “I convinced her too well. She wanted to come. She arranged for us to stay with some woman she knows in London. She kept talking about the abolitionists she wanted me to meet and the meetings we would attend. And I realized our visions of Europe were very different. So, I told her I’d changed my mind.”

  “I think you should go, Rowan. Just take off by yourself and do it.”

  He flashed a wry smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Why not? You could go to Boston after graduation to visit your relatives, and just … get on a ship.”

  He took the sketchbook and closed it. “Drawing a bunch of old castles seems like a waste of time when I think about the things that really matter in this world. There are laws that need changing, and someone needs to change them.”

  It sounded like something Mrs. Blackshaw would say.

  “Your grandmother can’t expect you to change the world by yourself, Rowan.”

  “No, but I can get inside the places she can’t go. She works day and night, writing letters and holding meetings, but the men in power don’t listen or care. They only see a gnat that needs swatting.”

  I smiled dryly. “I doubt anyone sees your grandmother as a gnat.”

  “You’d be surprised. There are men who drive miles to put their money in another bank, just so they won’t have to do business with a woman. They think it’s against God’s law.” Rowan slid the sketchbook into his satchel. “So, yes, I think I would be a good architect. Maybe even a great one. But when I think about all the things I could do with my life, it doesn’t seem very important.”

  “Does your life have to be important?”

  “No—not my life, but the difference I could make.” He cast me a cautious look. “I’m blessed, I know that, and I don’t want to waste it. I’ve been born into privilege, but raised with progressive ideas. That puts me in a unique position to do some real good with my life. Oh, that reminds me.” He shuffled through the newspaper on the table. “I found an article about Alvina Lunt.”

  I sat straighter. “What does it say?”

  “She’s helping a man in Boston get funding to build a school for people like Birdy. Here it is.” Rowan slid the page toward me.

  I eagerly scanned the article.

  “Have you had any word of Birdy?” Rowan asked quietly.

  My chest tightened. I’d tried to bury that heartache along with everything else. “No, nothing.”

  His eyes settled on me, softening. “I sketched her once. I’ll see if I can find it and give it to you.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I’d better go.”

  “Another dinner party?” I teased.

  “Reformers’ meeting.” His lips tilted as he stood. “I just can’t remember what we’re supposed to be reforming.” At the door, he paused to look back. “Oh … and I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone about my artwork, if you don’t mind. Or about wanting to be an architect.”

  “You don’t need to hide it, Rowan. Your work is good.”

  “Like I said, it was just a silly dream for a while.”

  After he left, I read the article about Alvina Lunt and tucked it away in my keepsake box.

  19

  Spring finally arrived, dripping during the day and freezing at night, creating icicles that crashed from roofs. Across the road, Mrs. Henny started working the muddy ground of her garden, and in town, farmers stood on street corners, debating the best week to plow.

  My mood warmed with the weather.

  Knowing about Rowan’s art changed something between us, opening a door I hadn’t even known was closed. He brought blueprints and spread them across my table, pointing out angles and calculations, trying to explain how a flat drawing represented a three-story building.

  “I never knew it was so complicated,” I admitted. “I thought you just laid out bricks. But it’s like a dress pattern, isn’t it? Someone has to imagine it first—someone with a mind li
ke yours.”

  Rowan stopped hiding the fact that he was drawing all the time, and I tried to not mind the fact that he was always studying the imperfect details of my life. He sketched the sagging curtain at the window and chipped crockery on the shelf. He sat on the chopping block behind the house to draw the chickens.

  “Don’t move,” he cautioned one evening as I stirred corn bread batter. I looked up to find his eyes rising and falling across the table, his pencil scratching. “I said … don’t … move,” he scolded. “Tilt your head back down. Just a little.”

  I obeyed, one hand frozen on the spoon, the other at the edge of the bowl. “How am I supposed to make corn bread if I can’t move?”

  “This won’t take long.”

  I stood as still as I could, but suddenly, my entire body itched.

  “Relax,” he chided. “This is supposed to be a touching scene of domesticity, not Girl Facing Firing Squad.”

  “This batter will be ruined if I don’t get it on the fire. It won’t rise properly.”

  “The chickens didn’t complain this much.”

  “Draw the chickens, then.”

  His lips tilted. “I’ve decided you’re prettier.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Hush, I’m drawing your mouth.” His pencil scraped across the paper, his intense eyes rising and falling.

  I held my breath, suddenly overly aware of my own mouth—and Rowan’s focus on it. I wished he hadn’t caught me with my lips slightly parted. I fought an urge to lick them.

  “Breathe,” he advised quietly.

  My chest rose and fell.

  “So, Valentine…” He kept his gaze on the sketchbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I was just wondering … if you’ve done much sledding lately.”

  My gaze darted across the room to where the red sled leaned against the wall.

  All winter, I’d managed to keep Sam and Rowan in different corners of my life. When Sam was in town, he came for supper, filling my kitchen with his big grin and appetite. He seemed content, for now, preoccupied with his new job, no longer pressuring me as he had at Christmas.

  And when Sam was out of town, Rowan came to visit.

  I couldn’t deny that my feelings for Rowan were more powerful, filling every inch of me. But sometimes, when our eyes met, the quiver in my belly felt more like fear than hope. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d someday learn what I’d done—that his grandmother would learn—and it would all end in crashing heartache.

  So, I selfishly clung to both of them, knowing I couldn’t reject Sam, then expect him to pick up my shattered pieces when Rowan was gone.

  “I guess your silence is my answer,” Rowan said quietly, his pencil scraping. “No need to look so guilty. I just wondered if anything had changed.”

  Yes. My heart has turned to brittle glass.

  “No, nothing has changed.”

  “Well, you can move now. Want to see my masterpiece?” He lowered his pencil and handed the sketchbook across the table.

  I took it from him and caught my breath. With only a few hastily drawn lines, Rowan had captured my essence exactly—only lovelier. My long curls looked romantic, not unruly. My cheeks looked flushed from the fire, my hands graceful on the bowl and spoon. “Oh, Rowan, it is a masterpiece.”

  “Only because of the subject.” He came around the table and stood behind me. “I didn’t get your hair quite right.” He reached around my waist and touched the drawing where my hair looked a bit smudged. “Hair is always the hardest, especially yours.”

  I tilted my head, making room for him at my shoulder, and he lingered there, his arm resting along my side, his chest warm against my back. “I love it,” I murmured.

  “Then, it’s yours,” he said softly, his breath brushing my neck.

  I closed my eyes. If I moved at all, he would do the rest. I felt him wanting it, his lips poised above my skin, his heart only inches from mine. But my body swayed with uncertainty.

  Even this close, I felt the lie between us.

  Rowan moved away, leaving cold air behind. He found a paring knife on the table and carefully sliced the page from the book.

  “I’ll treasure it, Rowan.” I avoided looking at him as I took the drawing.

  He leaned back against the table. “I’ll do a proper one, sometime, if you hold still long enough.”

  “No, I want this one.” I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The way my eyelashes brushed my cheek as I looked down. The shadowed fullness of my lips. “No one’s ever drawn me before.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Are you sure you want to be a politician, Rowan? I think this is what you’re supposed to do with your life.”

  “What, draw pretty girls?”

  “I’m serious. I think you should go to Europe, like you wanted.”

  “I want a lot of things,” he said quietly. “I’m told some of them aren’t very practical.”

  I ran my fingertip across the soft swirls of my hair in the drawing. “You can’t abandon a dream just because someone tells you it’s wrong.”

  “You mean—?” He waited for me to look up and meet his eyes. “You think I should listen to my heart, Valentine?”

  I felt that familiar swooping sensation, everything rising inside me … then falling … and falling. I had to swallow before I could speak. “I hope you do, Rowan, when the time comes.”

  He smiled slowly, holding my gaze. “Don’t worry, Valentine, I’m a very good listener.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Rowan wore a mischievous grin as we met in the woods.

  “What?” I demanded as he fell into step with me.

  “Did you know that most of the flags in Feavers Crossing only have twenty-seven stars, but ought to have thirty?”

  My eyebrows rose. “I didn’t, actually.”

  “A sewing circle has been formed to make new ones, and they’re meeting at the Hennys’ house tonight at seven o’clock.”

  “I’m impressed by your interest in sewing circles.”

  “The thing is … my grandmother will be there.” Rowan looked across at me, his smile sly. “So, I thought … you might want to cross the road to borrow a cup of flour. Maybe offer to help. I’m sure they could use an extra pair of hands.”

  My heart lifted. Rowan wanted me to sit and sew with his grandmother, so I could get to know her.

  No, so she could get to know me—to see that I was more than just the descendent of the man who broke her heart and the woman who killed her son.

  Rowan was fighting for us.

  But the thought of sitting in a small parlor with Mrs. Blackshaw made me feel weak in the knees. “I don’t know, Rowan. I’m not good at that sort of thing. It’ll be a roomful of women I don’t know.”

  “You know all of them. Mrs. Henny and Mrs. Meriwether and Mrs. Utley—and me. I’ll be there the whole time.”

  I gave an incredulous laugh. “Sewing flags?”

  “Helping Philly with algebra. She keeps asking me, so I’ll offer to come tonight and drive my grandmother.” His voice dropped with entreaty. “Please, Valentine, it’s perfect. All you have to do is sew, and you’re good at that. If she starts talking about one of her causes, you can offer to join the committee—if it interests you, of course.”

  I bit my lower lip, fighting a smile.

  Because Rowan was right: it was perfect.

  * * *

  I changed my dress after dinner and turned in front the mirror, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. I leaned toward the mirror and pinched my cheeks.

  The good posture was for Mrs. Blackshaw, the rosy cheeks for Rowan.

  I felt like a jittery rabbit as I crossed the road. The sky had just darkened, taking spring’s warmth with it. I walked past the Blackshaws’ horse and carriage.

  I’d decided to ask for apple cider, since I had plenty of flour in the cellar, and Mrs. Henny prided herself on the cider she made from her two apple trees. I drew a nervous
breath, smoothed my dress, and knocked.

  Mrs. Henny opened the door, looking even frailer than usual after a string of winter illnesses. I expected a warm greeting from her, at least, and was surprised to see a flicker of annoyance in her eyes.

  And it dawned on me that Philly didn’t care about mathematics.

  Last fall, I’d overheard Mrs. Henny coaching Philly as they worked in the garden—how close to stand to a young man without being improper, how loudly to laugh at his jokes. Rowan Blackshaw would be a fine prize for the daughter of a timid widow who sold medicinal tinctures to get by. Tonight was Philly’s opportunity to lean close as Rowan explained algebraic equations.

  And I was an unwelcome distraction.

  Mrs. Henny forced a smile. “Why, Valentine, what a surprise.”

  “I was hoping … I was wondering if I could borrow a little apple cider for a cake.”

  She hesitated, but there was only one civil response. She opened the door wider. “Of course. Come in.”

  I entered the hall, my heart racing. We passed a narrow staircase on the right, then came to the wide opening to the parlor. I paused to look in, forcing Mrs. Henny to stop as well.

  Mrs. Blackshaw leaned over a table near the window, her back to me, smoothing a long stretch of red fabric. Her slim, regal build reminded me of Rowan. Her hair was as dark as his, but streaked with silver. “There’s plenty of red,” she said. “If we had more blue, we could make another flag.”

  “That’s the last of the bolt,” Mrs. Utley said briskly from the sofa, cutting stars from white fabric.

  “I suppose I could cut up a blue dress,” Mrs. Meriwether mused. She also sat on the sofa, lazily digging through a sewing basket.

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Alice,” Mrs. Blackshaw chided with a hint of amusement. “These are flags, not war bandages.”

  Mrs. Henny leaned toward me to say in a hushed voice, “We’re adding more stars.”

  The two women on the sofa looked up to see us in the doorway, their hands pausing in their work. But Mrs. Blackshaw remained busy at the table, her back to me.

  My stomach quivered with nerves, but I forced myself to speak up. “What a noble cause! I would love to help, if I can. I like sewing.”