Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  Dearest Isabella,

  Why do you not reply to my letters? I am desperate with waiting. Mother pressures me daily to marry Ruth, but I cannot do it until you tell me, unequivocally, that I have no hope with you. I know I am a fool. You have rejected me twice already, yet still I hope—and love. Please, Isabella, I beg, write at once and end my misery by either making me the happiest man on earth or allowing me to move on with Ruth.

  Yours always,

  Nigel

  I read it again, my breath held.

  Nigel Blackshaw had been in love with my mother, but she rejected him twice. He’d written to her in the city, but she must have rejected him a third time, because he married Ruth Donnelly from Boston, who gave birth to Rowan.

  I looked at the letter’s date. It was written more than a year before my birth—before my mother knew she needed a husband. And by the time she did know, Nigel was married to Ruth Donnelly. So, she’d married Joseph Deluca.

  Not Richard.

  I went to the kitchen for fresh paper and ink, then returned to my grandfather’s desk to write a letter to the father I didn’t know. My sentences rambled, filled with the details of my life. I ripped it up and started again. Halfway through the second draft, I realized he might be married with other children and my existence was most likely a secret. I started a third time, using more caution with my words.

  An hour and several drafts later, I kept it short, simply stating that we had a mutual friend and I hoped to meet him someday. My name would tell him the rest.

  I addressed the letter to Richard DeVries, New York City, with no idea if he was alive or dead or would ever receive it.

  * * *

  The next day, Rowan wasn’t waiting in the woods. Or the day after that.

  At devotional, on Friday morning, I stood uncertainly at the back of the dining hall, wondering if I dared sit in the middle without him. I’d become friendly with Jane Stiles, but she was already sitting between Philly and Hannah. And Lucy Meriwether sat on the other side of Philly. So, I went to my old seat in the back corner, and it felt like home.

  21

  Sam came over on Saturday to help clean up the kitchen garden, yanking away old plants and winter debris.

  “You should make it bigger,” he said, standing in the middle of the weedy patch. “You need the food. I can take down that tree if you want.” He waved a muddy glove at the back end of the garden.

  “All right.” I liked the idea.

  “What about that one?” Sam asked, nodding toward the house.

  I followed his gaze to the largest tree in the yard, but my mind was already tightening with resistance. The tree was too close to the house, and blackened by the fire, but my mother had told me stories about climbing it to go through Daniel’s bedroom window. He’d hammered strips of wood onto the trunk, like a ladder, and insisted that all his friends enter his room that way during the summer, even my mother in her dresses. With Daniel, she’d said, everything had to be an adventure. She’d told me about the maps he’d pinned on his walls and his plans to explore the west. Dreams that never came true.

  “No, leave it,” I told Sam.

  “Suit yourself.” He picked up the heavy ax. “But mark my words, one of these days it’s going to fall on the house.”

  He hacked at the smaller tree in the back of the garden, then dragged it away and started digging at the roots. “Ground’s still cold,” he said, sniffing. “Better wait a few weeks to seed.” He wiped at his nose and ended up with a muddy mustache that made me laugh. “Oh, you think you look any better, Mistress of the Manor? You should see your forehead.”

  I immediately wiped at my forehead with a dirty hand, and Sam laughed. I threw the muddy weed I’d just pulled, and he tried to catch it, but slipped and fell. I howled in delight—then lost my own balance and landed in the soft mud.

  We battled on, pulling weeds and throwing them, trying to not laugh so we didn’t get mud in our mouths. Somehow, through the scuffle, the tree roots got hauled away and the ground cleared for seeding.

  “You better grow some impressive-looking cabbages after all this,” Sam said, pulling mud out of his straw-colored hair.

  “I don’t like cabbage,” I said. “I’m going to grow peas and carrots—and strawberries. Loads of strawberries. I’m not going to eat anything but strawberries for a month.”

  “Better save some for the jam.” Sam looked down at himself. “Ma’s gonna have a fit when she sees me. She just pressed this shirt last night. Maybe I should jump in the creek on my way home.”

  “You’ll die of pneumonia. It’s freezing.”

  “No deadlier than Ma’s temper.”

  Sam finally left for home, and I went inside for a much-needed bath of my own. I tracked mud up and down the staircase, fetching clothes, but I didn’t care. I felt giddy from the day. I dragged the old tub in front of the fire and filled it with steaming water, then closed the curtains and undressed.

  I slid into the warm water with a contented sigh.

  I’d forgotten how easy it was to be with Sam. How good his arms looked with his sleeves rolled up. The sun-kissed warmth of his skin when he worked hard. He’d undone the top buttons of his shirt, and beads of sweat had slid down his collarbone. I’d nearly forgotten.

  I closed my eyes and remembered.

  Sam.

  Strong and familiar. Earthy and real. Like pulling on a favorite pair of boots, already broken in. Soft, supple leather that molded perfectly. With Sam, I didn’t have to try; I was good enough.

  Rowan, on the other hand, was a new pair of shoes. Fashionable and well made, but not fully comfortable. Not yet anyway. The fit had started to soften, our lives molding together. But after the other night, I felt the pinch again.

  I laughed at my own absurd notions.

  When the water cooled, I stepped out and pulled on a clean chemise and dress, then I wrapped my knitted shawl around my shoulders and carried the stool outside to dry my hair. It was too cold for drying hair outside, the sun nearly gone, but I wanted to savor the day.

  My cheeks felt tight with sunburn. Across the yard, the garden looked tidy and ready for planting. I smiled, knowing I would think of Sam with every sprout I tended and weed I pulled. Every strawberry I plucked and slid between my teeth.

  I inspected my boots and decided to let the mud dry for a few days before brushing it away. They were old boots, only used for yard work.

  Movement caught my eye, and I looked up to see a figure in the distance, disappearing around the back corner of my grandfather’s old stable.

  Mr. Frye, Sam’s father.

  I stood, alarm shooting through me. He had no reason to be on my property, especially sneaking around the stable. I quickly pulled on the muddy boots and grabbed the shovel Sam had been using, then hurried along the old carriage drive that led to the stable. I rarely walked this far past the house, and the drive was thick with weeds and saplings.

  Apprehension filled me, and I slowed my steps, listening.

  My grandfather used to breed award-winning horses, but now, the enormous stable looked as weather-beaten and haunted as the rest of the property. I walked cautiously around the side and saw footprints in the damp earth. I tightened my grip on the shovel, my eyes scanning the area—and I saw Mr. Frye in the distance, entering the woods on the far side of the pasture. He carried something large at his side but disappeared before I could discern what it was.

  “Valentine?” Rowan’s voice startled me, and I whirled to see him walking toward me. “What are you doing out here—with a shovel?” He looked amused, his eyes roaming from my wet hair to my muddy boots.

  I hesitated, unease running through me. I didn’t want to tell Rowan about Mr. Frye; that seemed disloyal to Sam. And thinking about Sam made me flush—as if Rowan could see the day the two of us had just spent together. The warm thoughts that had coursed through my mind as I’d soaked in the tub.

  “Nothing,” I stammered. “I just … I just needed to check on
something. When did you get back?”

  Rowan saw my discomfort, and his smile slipped. “A few hours ago. My grandmother asked me to bring a book to Mrs. Henny. I saw you from the road, and I thought … I thought you might need help.” He motioned to the shovel.

  “Oh. Thank you, but no. I was just preparing the garden.”

  Rowan glanced around for the garden that wasn’t there, but back near the house. His gaze settled on the tattered building beside us. “This stable is rather large for a property this size.”

  “My grandfather used to breed horses.”

  “Ah.”

  New shoes, not fully comfortable.

  “Did you have a nice trip?” I asked, my tone too polite.

  And he answered with good manners. “The roads were good, which is always helpful.”

  A shiver ran through me, and I realized the sun was gone and my hair still wet. Rowan walked me back to the house and left without coming inside. And I was relieved, suddenly weary.

  A few days with his grandmother had done its work.

  * * *

  The next morning, I spotted Mr. Frye on my property again, watching the house from the shadows of the stable. When I looked away for a moment, he disappeared, which didn’t comfort me.

  My skin crawled with warning.

  I tried to occupy myself with sewing for Mr. Dibble, but I heard every creak of the house. Something scraped upstairs, and I leaped to my feet. Probably just a tree branch against a window, but I picked up my scissors and cautiously made my way toward the front of the house, glancing into shadowy side rooms, pausing every few steps to listen.

  On the drawing room’s dusty floor, I saw footprints. My heart thundered into a faster beat. I hadn’t entered that room since my thorough cleaning at Christmas. But someone had—a man, judging by the size of the footprints. I turned and listened, but the house felt still.

  Slowly, I made my way through the entire house, clutching my scissors, but I found nothing else unusual.

  I locked the front door. The kitchen door didn’t have a lock, so I barricaded it with a worktable—which wouldn’t keep Mr. Frye out but would hopefully slow him enough for me to run out the front door. If I were upstairs, I would at least hear him entering.

  I returned to my sewing in the kitchen, pausing at every sound.

  Sam might show up soon, but I debated telling him. He no longer cowered from his father’s mean temper, but fought back, and I didn’t want to cause trouble between them. Sam had to live in that overcrowded log cabin. And for all I knew, Mr. Frye was working an odd job for one of my neighbors and using my property as a shortcut, and the footprints in the drawing room were Sam’s.

  The day stretched with nothing unusual happening, and I started to smile at my own overactive imagination. As evening approached, I went to the backyard to put the chickens away, laughing as I coaxed a stray. I closed the coop door and turned around.

  And saw Mr. Frye walking away from the stable toward the woods behind my property. Like yesterday, he carried something.

  My temper sparked. He hadn’t come to hurt me; he was stealing. If I looked closely in the drawing room, I would probably find something missing. I hurried back inside for my knitted shawl, tossing it around my shoulders. I hesitated, then picked up a large knife.

  The sun was almost gone, casting long shadows as I trotted past the stable and across the lumpy pasture. I entered the trees and was immediately cast into gloom.

  The woods behind my house were old and tangled, with no trail, but Mr. Frye had trodden a faint footpath. Old snow still spotted the ground in places. I wound my way around gnarled trunks, breathing in the musky smell of damp dirt and bark. Now and then, I stopped to listen. Then I continued on, following Mr. Frye’s faint trail, trotting a little to catch up.

  I finally caught a glimpse of him in the distance—and saw that he was carrying two planks of old lumber. He stopped and cocked his head, and I panicked, ducking behind a thick tree, my heart thumping in my chest.

  I tightened my grip on the knife, scolding myself for cowardice. I counted to ten, then forced myself to peek out.

  Mr. Frye was gone.

  I moved as quickly as I dared but after some distance hadn’t caught up. I stopped to listen but couldn’t hear anything except the usual woodland rustlings. Something moved, and I spun around—but no one was there.

  “You’re a sneaky little thing, aren’t you?”

  I spun, catching my breath, and saw Mr. Frye only four steps away, the boards he’d been carrying on the ground, his hands curled into large fists. I fought an instinct to flee; I hadn’t come all this way to run away. Instead, I lifted the knife, feigning a courage I didn’t feel. “What were you doing on my property?”

  He sneered, amused. He had the same faint scattering of freckles as Sam, but his green eyes were cold and his smile mean. “That’s a scary-looking knife, but if you try to use it, it’ll be in your gut before you take your next breath.”

  My heart thumped.

  “You look scared, pretty girl.” He took a careful step toward me, his voice dropping in warning. “Well … you got cause to be scared, ’cause I know your secret. I’ll bet Sam don’t know, but I seen it with my own eyes.”

  My breath caught in my lungs. My thoughts raced, connecting the pieces.

  Mr. Frye was the witness who saw me kill Nigel Blackshaw. Which meant he was the person who’d told Mr. Oliver—who’d killed Mr. Oliver. And now he stood in front of me with that knowing sneer.

  My heart pounded against my ribs. We were far from anything, the woods thick around us. No one would hear me scream, and I wouldn’t escape the trees before he caught me.

  I stalled for time, stepping back. “I … I don’t know what you mean.”

  “No use pretending, pretty girl. I know you’re a killer.”

  My eyes darted to the trees. I couldn’t run faster than Mr. Frye, but I could climb higher. “You’re a twisted, wicked thing,” he crooned as if he liked the idea. “More twisted than Sam knows, that’s for sure. He thinks the sun rises and sets by you.” He gave a smirking laugh. “But your secret’s safe with me. You can rot in hell for all I care—and you will for what you done. I just got one request.” He waved a hand at the boards on the ground. “I need lumber to fix up the barn, and you got more than you need. Seems like a fair trade to me.”

  My attention shifted. “You … you took those from the stable?”

  “A few boards, and you don’t hang for murder. I wouldn’t turn it down, pretty girl. I’ll even help you clean up the mess. You can’t leave it like that, not with spring coming.”

  I tilted my head, trying to make sense of his words. “Leave … what?”

  “Give me your word, and I’ll start digging a hole. Otherwise, I’ll make sure they’re found. And you better decide fast, or I’m liable to start talking.”

  Dig a hole. A dark dread filled my chest, pushing its way up my throat. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

  “We have a deal?” Mr. Frye pressed.

  I nodded numbly, having no idea what I promised.

  And yet, fearing I did.

  “I gotta say, I got a whole new respect, now I seen what you done.” Mr. Frye bent to pick up the boards. “Sam don’t know he’s got a wildcat by the tail.” He laughed as he walked away.

  I watched him disappear into the trees, my heart thumping, my hand damp around the knife. Then I broke into a run in the opposite direction, darting like a terrified deer, gasping and weaving.

  It was fully dark by the time I emerged from the woods. A silver moon had risen. I stumbled across the weedy pasture, breathing hard, sweat rolling down my temples. I didn’t stop until I’d reached the safety of my kitchen and slammed the door behind me. I lit a lantern with shaking fingers, trying to remember everything Mr. Frye had said—trying to believe he hadn’t meant what I knew he’d meant.

  Hard knuckles rapped on the back door, and my heart jumped. My gaze flew to the window, and I wa
s relieved to find the curtains closed. The glow of the lantern was visible, but I didn’t think Mr. Frye would barge in. I stood still, my pulse racing.

  “Valentine?” Rowan’s voice called.

  I almost went to the door, but some instinct held me back—a dark suspicion that I didn’t want Rowan with me when I went to the stable. I stood perfectly still, waiting for him to leave.

  And he finally did, his footsteps crunching. I waited a few more minutes, then crept out the back door, into the night.

  I followed the glow of my lantern across the yard, then along the rutted carriage drive to the old stable in the distance. Weeds clawed at my skirt. A lifetime ago, my mother had kept her own white horse in this stable, but I raised the lantern and saw warped carriage doors that hadn’t opened in two decades.

  I didn’t see any missing boards—which meant Mr. Frye must have taken them from inside, where I wouldn’t notice.

  The carriage doors were too warped to open, so I walked around to the smaller door in the back. It opened with a stiff creak, and I stepped into a square, cobwebbed room. I lifted the lantern and saw a dusty cot. When I’d explored as a child, there’d been a small table and chairs as well, but those were now gone—probably stolen by Mr. Frye.

  I walked to the door at the far end of the room and entered the long, main chamber. Horse stalls stretched down both sides, disappearing into darkness. I saw Mr. Frye’s tracks on the dusty floor and evidence of his theft—missing stall walls. But I hadn’t come here about stolen boards. If Mr. Frye had asked for the lumber, I would have given it to him, knowing Sam would benefit.

  I took a few tentative steps, lifting the lantern, and saw two dark forms on the ground at the far end of the stable. Denial rose in my mind—as the smell rose in my throat, thick and rank. But not overpowering. The nights were still frigid.

  But during the day, they’d started to melt.

  I took a moment to steady myself, then moved forward, breathing through my mouth. I took slow, cautious steps until I was close enough to be sure.