Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  The women on the sofa turned into statues, their eyes shifting to the window.

  Mrs. Blackshaw turned slowly, her spine straightening, her eyes narrowing as they settled on me. She made no attempt to hide her dislike; everyone in this room knew she had reason for it.

  My heart sank.

  “Valentine!” Rowan called from the back of the hall, his voice ringing with false surprise. He came toward us, hiding a smile. He gently prodded me a step deeper into the parlor. “Do you see who’s here, Grandmother? Valentine can help with the sewing.”

  No one was fooled—least of all Mrs. Blackshaw, whose lips curled in distaste. “How fortuitous that she happened to call at the appropriate hour.”

  Philly emerged from the kitchen, her lovely eyes widening when she saw me. “Valentine, what are you doing here?”

  “Borrowing cider,” Mrs. Henny said, looking uneasy.

  “But she can help with the sewing,” Rowan insisted.

  “There’s no need,” Mrs. Blackshaw said coolly. “We have plenty of hands for the work, as you can see.”

  “Plenty,” Mrs. Utley agreed tartly. Her eyes darted, relishing the scene. Tomorrow, everyone who entered Utley General Goods would hear about the Deluca girl trying to impose herself where she wasn’t wanted—followed by a quick retelling of my mother’s crime.

  But Rowan still clung to hope. “Valentine can probably sew faster than any of you. She sews for Mr. Dibble.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw smirked. “Well, then, her talents are better spent there, where she can earn a little income. I hear that her father has been out of town. For quite a while, apparently.”

  Rowan’s hope drained away. “Grandmother,” he warned.

  “Return to the kitchen, Rowan, and help Philomena with her schoolwork. Valentine will wait outside while Mrs. Henny gets the cider. And the rest of us can get back to work.”

  “Back to work,” Mrs. Utley repeated curtly.

  Rowan looked at me, his eyes full of apology.

  “I’ll wait out front,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. I turned and left the house.

  Outside, I drew cold breath into my lungs. But my body burned with humiliation. I walked down the Hennys’ front path and stopped at the road, folding my arms across my chest.

  I’d been a fool to expect anything different.

  Mrs. Henny scurried from the cottage, holding a jug. “Don’t bother to repay it, of course. It’s my gift.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Henny.” I took the cider—which I didn’t need.

  She placed a gentle hand on my arm. “I’ll speak boldly, Valentine, since you don’t have a mother to advise you.” But her voice wasn’t bold at all, barely more than a whisper. “I have seen Rowan visiting your house. You must realize, if word gets out, you’ll be ruined. Those sorts of rumors might leave the boy unscathed, but never the girl.”

  My chest tightened. She was right, of course. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  She sighed. “Oh, Valentine, I fear you set your sights too high. A boy like Rowan likes to rebel a little at his age, to break the apron strings. But he’ll be sensible when it comes time to make a serious alliance.”

  I swallowed, unsure if I agreed or disagreed.

  “The Frye boy is clearly smitten. I think the two of you are very well suited.” She patted my arm and returned to the house.

  Even Mrs. Henny could see what I knew to be true.

  I wandered home and wearily climbed the staircase. It was still early, but I felt silly wearing the dress I’d put on to impress Mrs. Blackshaw. I changed into my nightgown and climbed into the deep window well to stare into the dark night.

  Across the road, the Hennys’ door opened, and Rowan came out. I quickly blew out my candle and watched as he strode toward my house. He disappeared down the carriage drive, and a moment later, I heard his heavy knock on the kitchen door. But I remained where I was, hugging my chest. Mrs. Henny had been right about unchaperoned visits, especially when I was in my nightgown.

  But mostly, I wanted him to feel as rejected as I did.

  Rowan returned to the road, stopping in front of my house. I thought he might look up and see me at the window, but he stared at the dark walkway below, where his father had died.

  Mrs. Blackshaw emerged from the Hennys’ house, pulling a cloak over her shoulders. She walked to the carriage and realized he wasn’t there. “Rowan?” she called sharply. She turned and saw him near my house and crossed the road.

  I carefully opened the window a few inches, and cool air washed over me.

  “Come away, Rowan. You’re behaving like a lovesick puppy.”

  Rowan’s voice bristled. “You dare to lecture me on behavior? I’ve never seen such rudeness. You should knock on her door right now and apologize.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw spoke with cool composure. “You’re the one who put her in that situation, where you knew she wouldn’t be welcomed.”

  “I expected civility! Five minutes, and you would have known that you’re wrong about her.”

  “I am not wrong, Rowan.”

  “Of course not,” he snapped. “You never are.” He took a few angry steps away from her, then turned and came back. “I need you to try harder than that. She’s important to me.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw shook her head. “I won’t go through this again, Rowan. I watched your father fall into the same trap and didn’t intervene, sure he would come to his senses. I have regretted it every day since, with every breath that I take. Hate me if you must, but I will tell you the truth, and someday you’ll thank me.”

  He released a breath. “You have this twisted idea that she’s like her mother, but she’s nothing like her. Valentine didn’t kill my father!”

  My heart cowered with shame.

  Mrs. Blackshaw’s voice tightened. “Just two days ago, I saw that Frye boy leaving her house. I don’t know what lies she’s told you, but they’re still thick as thieves. She’s playing you for a fool.”

  She couldn’t have aimed at a more vulnerable spot. Rowan looked away without replying, but I could imagine his roiling thoughts.

  “You have a promising future, Rowan. A girl like that isn’t for you. She carries a heavy scandal.”

  “Scandal? That happened a decade ago!”

  “Your father died at this house,” she snapped back. “You dishonor him by even standing here.”

  “It wasn’t Valentine’s fault! And it’s wrong of you to judge her for something she didn’t do!”

  I pressed my fingers against my mouth. It warmed my heart to hear Rowan defend me with such passion. But he was wrong.

  “That girl wants to ruin you, Rowan. She despises our family.”

  “Why would she? You don’t even make sense!”

  Mrs. Blackshaw answered in a strained voice. “There was animosity between her grandfather and me.”

  Rowan shifted, his feet scraping. “I know about the wedding that didn’t happen. But that had nothing to do with Valentine.”

  “That girl learned to hate us from her mother, who learned it from her father. Isabella blamed our bank for her father’s financial failures. She told me so to my face—screamed it at me, called me a thief—then sought revenge with the only power at her disposal. She led your poor father in circles for months, promised to run away with him, then killed him. And now, her daughter seeks the same with you.”

  Rowan gave a short laugh of disbelief. “You don’t honestly think she’s going to kill me?”

  “She’ll settle for breaking your heart—or forcing you to marry her—”

  “Don’t!” he seethed. “She isn’t like that.”

  “I don’t know what she’s plotting in her devious heart, Rowan, but I know that deception runs in that family. She blames the Blackshaws for her family’s fall from grace, just like her mother did, and she’s set out to ruin you. You’ve told me yourself how clever she is.”

  “At schoolwork, not plotting revenge! Valentine doesn’t blame us for her poverty!�
��

  Poverty. Hearing that word from Rowan felt like a stab. When I was with him, it was easy to forget our different social standings. But maybe his view was clearer from the top.

  “These are important years in building your career,” Mrs. Blackshaw said with measured patience. “One false step, and your hopes are ruined.”

  “You mean your hopes.” His voice turned heavy. “I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of my life trying to impress people, lobbying for votes and swapping favors.”

  She remained unruffled. “You’re just angry. We won’t talk about it now.”

  “Being angry is what gives me the courage to tell you.” His voice strengthened. “I want to be an architect. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  “I know,” she said calmly. “And you’ll have time for that, once you’ve established yourself. That’s why I want you to meet with Senator Greely. He loves his music as much as you love your art. When I told him about you, he seemed very eager. With someone like him mentoring you, there’s no telling how far you can go. How much good you can do.”

  Rowan groaned. “You never listen. I want … to be … an architect.”

  She raised her palms in surrender. “I understand. But first, let’s talk to Senator Greely. We’ll drive to Hartford tomorrow. I’ll send a letter ahead so he’s expecting us.”

  Rowan looked away.

  She touched his arm. “I hate arguing with you, Rowan. Let’s get a good night’s sleep. Everything looks better in the morning.”

  He didn’t reply, just followed her to the carriage. He helped her inside, then climbed up to the driver’s seat and shook the reins. I watched as they disappeared into the dark.

  My head felt heavy with all I’d heard. I didn’t know how much of Mrs. Blackshaw’s story was true—about my mother blaming Blackshaw Bank and plotting revenge.

  Because I didn’t know my own mother.

  Because she’d died when I was six.

  I sat there for a while, feeling the cool night air on my face, looking down from the window at the path where I’d killed Nigel Blackshaw.

  20

  The next morning, Rowan wasn’t waiting for me in the woods. Which meant he’d given in to his grandmother and gone to Hartford. She would have him to herself for several days, filling his head with lies about me.

  My mood darkened as I continued to school on my own.

  In class, I avoided Philly, afraid she would mention the embarrassing scene at her house. She cast me a few curious glances, her brow furrowed. Then she whispered to Lucy, who whispered to Hannah, and all three of them turned to look at me.

  I stayed in my back corner, bent over my schoolwork.

  When I returned from school, I found a basket on the back doorstep. Rowan’s baskets usually brought a swell of excitement. But today, the sight of it made me tighten with resentment.

  Poverty. I could feed myself well enough without his charity.

  I set the basket on the kitchen table without bothering to open the cloth. I built up the fire and tended the chickens, even mixed a cider cake and got it baking before I allowed myself to give the basket any attention. Finally, I pulled open the cloth.

  And pressed a hand to my mouth.

  It was a sketch of Birdy, set in a beautiful ivory frame. She sat in the graveyard, leaning against Ida’s headstone, looking scrawny and unkempt, her lips quirked with some inner amusement. Rowan must have drawn it in the summer, because her hair was shorn.

  Tears pricked my eyes. What happened to her? I didn’t even know if she was alive or dead. Whatever had happened, I feared I’d caused it.

  Beneath the ivory frame, I found a note from Rowan.

  Please forgive me for last night. I’ve gone out of town for a few days. ∼ Rowan

  I felt the tight confusion in those words. Like me, he didn’t know how much of his grandmother’s story to believe.

  Did my grandfather really leave her standing alone in a wedding dress?

  I went to his office, determined to find some clue as to who he’d been. I sat at his enormous desk and searched the drawers. I had done so before, but this time I pulled everything out and set it on the desktop: scrolled documents and loose papers; a magnifying glass; pens and dried ink bottles; a penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle, engraved with the initials S. B. I even found an old schoolhouse slate.

  I unrolled a few of the documents and read dry business matters. Maybe someday I would read them more thoroughly to determine if Blackshaw Bank really had cheated the Barrons.

  The loose papers were equally bland—except a small note signed by my mother’s twin brother, Daniel. If play practice goes late, I’ll stay at Drake and sleep in the dorm. Just a quick note, but saved because Daniel had died in the fire.

  The day darkened into evening, and I lit the lantern on the desk.

  A few books remained on the shelves, including the large family Bible. I thumbed through them, as I had before, but found nothing significant.

  The bookcase ended with a tall cupboard built into the wall. I opened the cupboard and glanced inside, already knowing that the three shelves were empty. I started to close the door, but stopped, opening it wide again.

  The tallest shelf, at eye level, was shallower than the others. I reached inside and pressed my hand against the back wall, but it felt solid. I formed a fist and rapped—and my heart leaped when I heard a hollow sound. I ran my fingers along the back edge and found it looser on the left side—a hairline gap. My fingers pulled and pushed and picked, but the back wall of the cupboard remained solidly connected.

  A large wooden nailhead on the left side looked suspiciously out of place, but when I pushed it, nothing happened.

  I withdrew my hand and studied it.

  Then I reached back inside and pulled the wooden nail toward me—and it came easily, stopping a few inches out to become a knob. I turned it and heard a clicking sound as the back wall of the cupboard swung toward me like a door.

  My pulse raced. A few items lay in the hidden space behind the shelf. I reached inside and carefully pulled them out.

  Only four items: a slim red book; two letters; and a small, oval frame with the portrait of a young man.

  The items throbbed with familiarity. I’d seen my mother looking at them—more than once. Which meant she hadn’t hidden them from me; she’d hidden them from her husband.

  I looked at the portrait first. The oval frame was no larger than my hand, with the young man’s name painted across the bottom in tiny letters: Daniel. He looked about my age in the painting, but his likeness was so simply rendered, it was difficult to grasp what he’d really looked like; he might have been any teenaged boy.

  I set the frame down and picked up the slim, red book. My mother had read it with reverence in front of the kitchen fire, slowly turning pages. I brushed dust off its cover and saw that it was a collection of poetry. I opened it and found an inscription:

  FOR ISABELLA, MY VALENTINE.

  ALL MY LOVE, RICHARD

  Valentine. A warm shiver ran through me. The man who’d given this book to my mother must be my real father. Richard. I thought of the few Richards I knew in Feavers Crossing, but none of them were the right age to have courted my mother. She must have met him when she lived in New York City.

  I turned a few pages, my eyes skimming poetry, and realized something had been tucked inside the back cover. I flipped to it and found two folded pieces of paper. I opened the smallest first, which was soft and worn.

  Come to the garden after they leave. I shall wait. ∼ R

  A calm feeling slid through me. Richard had waited for my mother in a moonlit garden. They’d been in love.

  I opened the second note, also softened by age.

  My darling, dearest Isabella,

  In pride and foolishness, I failed us all.

  Do not forgive me, for I shall not forgive myself.

  They know not I knew thee,

  Who knew thee too well.

  Long, l
ong shall I rue thee,

  Too deeply to tell.

  It wasn’t signed, but I recognized Richard’s hand. He seemed a different person in this message, no longer the confident romantic, but wrenched by regret. I was vaguely familiar with the poem he quoted, recited by romantic girls at school.

  Something had come between my mother and Richard. Perhaps others didn’t approve, which was why they’d met in secret. They know not I knew thee. And Richard had misbehaved in some way. In pride and foolishness, I failed us all.

  I recognized his penmanship on one of the two letters and opened it first. My breath caught when I saw his full name at the top: Richard DeVries. I whispered the name, but it wasn’t familiar. A Dutch surname, I realized, which meant I was probably part Dutch.

  Dear Isabella,

  I write to confess that I have not obeyed your orders to stay away. I traveled to Feavers Crossing just to glimpse her, hoping you would never know. But I was alarmed by the condition of the house and learned through careful inquiry that Joseph is out of work and you are in poor spirits. I long to assist in any way possible, as you must surely know. I do not wish to impose, only help. Joseph need not know.

  I visited our park on her fifth birthday. Please write and tell me that I may meet her, and I will come at once with utmost discretion. If you refuse, I will respect your wishes and it will not change my desire to help—financially, or in any other way you deem appropriate.

  Sincerely, Richard

  My heart stretched with a yearning that matched his own. He’d written this when I was five years old. I wanted to reach back through the years and catch him spying on me. I wanted to run to him—to know him as desperately as he wanted to know me.

  Why didn’t he marry my mother? Or did he ask, and she rejected him? Do not forgive me, for I shall not forgive myself. Was he the source of my mother’s great unhappiness—the evil turning of Isabella Barron, as Mrs. Utley called it?

  Well, I was no longer five years old. I would write to Richard DeVries and find the answers. I would arrange to meet him.

  I held the remaining letter close to the lantern and saw that it was addressed to Isabella Barron in New York City—her maiden name, so she wasn’t yet married. The paper had a crisp feel as I unfolded it, as if it hadn’t been opened and closed a hundred times, like Richard’s notes.