The Caged Graves

by Dianne K. Salerni

  At the bottom of the trunk she found a thin notebook. It was stuck to the wooden boards, and she peeled it off carefully. She expected it to be a recipe booklet or a church pamphlet. Instead, when she opened it, pages and pages of neat handwriting fell open before her eyes.

  Nov 2 – Mrs. Killgore brought peach preserves today. It was very kind of her, considering she gets the gout so bad she can hardly walk.

  Nov 3 – Asenath has been sick too. I hoped she would be spared that.

  Nov 4 – John helped Ransloe with the fall tillage, and I felt well enough to take Verity to church. They baptized a Warner baby today. I was not asked to deliver this one. They got somebody else.

  It was a diary! Verity gasped out loud and leafed quickly through the pages. She turned back to that November fourth entry and read her name again in her mother’s neat script—Verity—and then she started skimming, looking for the capital letter V . . .

  Oct 15 – Verity can count to 10 but not in the right order.

  Oct 17 – Beulah thought Verity needed a spanking but Ransloe would not do it.

  Oct 20 – Verity rode Ransloe like a pony through the house until he was exhausted and I was dying of laughter.

  Oct 21 – Verity spilled her milk and then said Papa did it. I put her in the corner and told her she must not lie because verity means truth and that is what she should speak.

  As a child, Verity had resolved to speak nothing but the truth, because of her name. She’d always assumed Aunt Maryett had been the one to teach her that.

  It had been her mother, and she hadn’t even remembered.

  Later that day she worked stubbornly over the grave wreaths in the parlor. They were more difficult to craft than she’d anticipated. Although she could clearly see in her mind what she wanted, the twig-and-ribbon reality was simply not shaping up to meet her expectations.

  Beulah brought her tea and caught her muttering unladylike words under her breath. The housekeeper’s mouth pursed in silent disapproval as she set the tray on the serving table. Verity flung down the wreath in exasperation and turned to her. “What did I do that made you think I deserved a spanking when I was two years old?”

  Beulah looked startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “My mother wrote in her diary that you thought I ought to be spanked, but my father wouldn’t do it.” Verity glared at her accusingly. Beulah Poole had been the housekeeper here when Verity was a baby, and no one had told her. Shouldn’t Beulah or her father have mentioned it?

  Beulah’s eyes lit with interest. “You have Mrs. Boone’s diary?”

  “It was in her trunk. So what did I do?”

  “You deserved a spanking half a dozen times a day, but no one would give it to you.” Beulah walked toward the doorway. “They made you stand over there instead.” She pointed at the corner behind the rocking chair on her way out of the room. “You stood there often.”

  Verity turned toward that corner and was struck by a sudden, vivid memory of being very angry and of having nothing to look at but a pattern of stripes and purple clover. She remembered reaching out and . . .

  She stood up, walked across the room, and knelt down. A foot and a half above the floorboards she found a jagged patch of wallpaper that had been glued back in place after spiteful little fingers had torn it away. Verity shook her head in amazement and returned to her wreath, smiling. She never could abide purple clover, and now she knew why.

  The smile faded quickly, however, for nothing she did with the wreath satisfied her. The whole structure looked too flimsy, too sparse and bare, just like the cages themselves. She was beginning to wonder if she should dismantle it and start over when Beulah stuck her head in the parlor door.

  “Mr. Nathaniel here to see you, Miss Verity.”

  She felt her heart leap and thump painfully. “Thank you, Beulah. Please send him in.”

  Beulah shook her head. “He says he’s not dressed to come in.”

  Verity rose and smoothed out her skirts. “Very well.” She didn’t know why he insisted on visiting her in the middle of his working day, straight from the fields. In Worcester Polly had accepted calls from suitors, and Verity had entertained an admirer or two. None of those young men had ever shown up unannounced like Nate. At least he hadn’t caught her covered in flour this time.

  She started toward the kitchen, but Beulah stopped her. “Oh no,” she said. “I made him go around to the porch.”

  Verity dared to smile. “We’ll teach him yet, Beulah. Won’t we?”

  The housekeeper met her eyes briefly, and her lips twitched. “Possibly, Miss Verity.”

  Nate stood awkwardly on the front porch in his work clothes and a shabby hat, which he whipped off when she opened the front door.

  “Good afternoon,” she greeted him, then looked around helplessly. There was no porch swing, not even a rocker. She couldn’t invite him to sit down.

  “Hello, Verity.” Nate looked just as confused as she felt. She wondered if he needed to be taught how to pay a call on a young lady. She couldn’t imagine that his sisters had failed to give him lessons, but maybe he wasn’t an apt pupil.

  Or maybe he was determined to do things his own way.

  “I came down here to . . .” Nate paused and frowned, fidgeting. “I wanted to apologize for last night. All I’ve done since you arrived is blurt out the wrong thing and then apologize afterward.”

  It didn’t cross Verity’s mind to contradict him. She did wonder if she should agree, but that probably wasn’t prudent either. So she smiled.

  He apparently found that encouraging. “I’m not always a bumbling idiot,” he told her. “You make me nervous.”

  Verity sucked in her breath, partly indignant, partly hurt. “I realize people may consider me outspoken and some may take offense. But I was taught that a woman has a right to express her opinions, and—”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said bluntly, “and I didn’t expect you to be.”

  He might as well have given her a push. She could have sworn the whole porch rocked while she stood there, her mouth agape.

  “So I came down here to find out if you’ve given me up for hopeless yet,” Nate continued, “or if I still stand a chance of not being a complete fool in your mind.”

  Verity had never before met anyone who could so consistently leave her speechless. Silently, she reached out to him, and he enclosed her slim hand in his much bigger one.

  Nate didn’t seem to know what to say either, but after a moment he opened his hand and looked down at hers, and she realized he’d just noticed she was wearing his ring. He ran a thumb across it, then turned her hand over to look at the ribbon tied to the underside of the band.

  “It’s a little big,” she explained.

  He raised his eyes to hers. “I could take it to a jeweler next time I go to Philadelphia. They could make it smaller.”

  Verity hesitated at the thought of this family heirloom being altered for her. “Won’t there be time to do it later?” If she married him, there would be a whole lifetime to get it fixed. And then she wondered why she persisted in adding the conditional if.

  “Indeed there will be,” he agreed.

  While she was contemplating the ring and what it meant, a high-pitched squeak caused Verity to withdraw her hand from Nate’s. “What was that?” she asked, looking around in alarm. Last night after the party, an opossum had boldly crossed her path between the house and the barn, startling the wits out of her. Who knew what brazen creature might come up on the porch and make itself at home?

  “Oh! I almost forgot.” Nate stuck one hand into the pocket of his work coat. “I brought you something. You don’t have to take him if you don’t want to—but I thought of you when I found him.” Verity stepped back as he pulled something bedraggled and furry from his pocket. Then she realized what it was and held out her hands with a cry of delight.

  Nate handed over a scrawny gray kitten. “You mentioned in your letters that you had a cat back in Worce
ster, and I thought maybe you were missing him. This one needs a home. I found him half drowned in a ditch this morning.”

  Verity tucked the kitten under her chin. “It was Polly’s cat, but I do miss him. Thank you, Nate.”

  He looked pleased. “If I came back tomorrow morning, would you accompany me to church?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” She smiled up at him. This gift—this little purring handful of fur—was from Nate, not his sisters. It might take patience, but she would get to know him before anybody affixed this ring to her finger forever. “Afterward,” she said, “if you have the time, maybe you could show me around your orchards.”

  He ducked his head as if to hide the grin that spread across his face. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  Twelve

  IT POURED rain on Sunday, so there was no chance of visiting the orchards. Nevertheless, Nate did escort Verity to the Mount Zion Methodist Church. They sat together in the McClure pew, slipping in after the rest of the family was already seated. In sequence, like gears in a clock, Hattie, Carrie, and Annie all leaned forward to peer at the two of them. Simultaneously, their husbands elbowed the three of them back into their seats. Verity smiled and removed her gloves so that all interested parties could see the ring.

  After the service people lingered inside, reluctant to go out in the rain. Some offered their well wishes to the engaged couple; others ignored Verity pointedly or whispered among themselves. Reverend White avoided her, probably afraid she would broach the subject of the cemetery wall.

  But she seized the opportunity to mention it to her aunt. “A fine idea, Verity,” Clara Thomas responded in her calm, unemotional way. “I noticed the flowers at the graves as well. They make a nice touch.”

  “Thank you for the cuttings, Aunt Clara. I hope they don’t get washed away in all this rain.”

  “The rain will be good for them. Have you finished the wreaths?”

  Verity hesitated. Aunt Clara might offer Liza’s assistance again. Her cousin was standing in the doorway, staring out at the rain and occasionally sneaking shy glances at Nate from under her bonnet. “I’m finding them more difficult than I anticipated,” she admitted at last and explained the problem.

  Aunt Clara pulled on her gloves. “You need something more substantial than the branches you’re using. Vines would do—thick ones, mature enough to be brown but supple enough to bend. If you follow the cemetery road past the place where we turned right to the Claytons’ and go into the woods, you will probably find what you need.”

  “Thank you,” Verity said, breathing a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to work with Liza.

  The rain fell too heavily and steadily for work in the fields that day. With his afternoon suddenly free of obligation, Nate accepted Verity’s offer to take a meal at the Boone house. He paid a visit to the kitten, now named Lucky, and agreed that his new life, sleeping on a pillow by the stove, was a fortunate change in circumstance for the little fellow.

  “Beulah complained at first,” Verity confided in a whisper, “but I caught her slipping him cream. I think she likes the cat better than she likes me.”

  Nate gave Verity a startled look, then glanced over her shoulder at the housekeeper. “Don’t let Beulah fool you,” he said with a grin.

  After dinner, Verity’s father astonished her by producing an old chess set and challenging Nate. “You want a rematch, boy?”

  “Only if you want to lose again, old man,” Nate replied glibly.

  Verity was once again left speechless. Apparently, Nate and her father knew each other better than she knew either one of them. Settling in to watch them play with Lucky on her lap, she pledged to change that if she could.

  Nate stayed later than he meant to, and it pleased her to think she’d made him lose track of time. True, if it hadn’t rained all day, he might have left sooner. But she was happy that they’d enjoyed each other’s company. She had no desire to pit herself against his farm for his affection; she was rather afraid she’d lose.

  “You like him?” her father asked after Nate had left.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied without thinking, and then was relieved to realize it was true.

  “You don’t have to marry him, Verity.” Ransloe Boone waved his hand. “Ring or no ring—promise or no promise. I gave him permission to write to you, but I was surprised you agreed to the marriage before you met him.”

  Verity nodded, embarrassed. She’d been caught up in the romance of the moment when Nate had made his proposal, and that regrettable volume of poetry had pushed her over the edge. Still, Nathaniel McClure was the sort of solid and dependable young man any girl ought to desire for a husband. “You think he’s a good choice. And you’d like to have him as your partner.”

  “Not a good reason to marry him,” her father replied. “Your mother wouldn’t like to think I pushed you into marriage just to make my life easier.”

  “I’m content with the match,” she assured him.

  He nodded slowly, but as he left the room to retire for the night, he muttered, “Rather see you happy than content.”

  Verity remained downstairs only long enough to see all the candles and lamps put out, then followed him upstairs. When she entered her bedroom, a gust of wind almost snatched the door from her hand. There was just time enough to see her window wide open, the curtains billowing and snapping, before the candle in her hand went out.

  She rushed to the window and threw down the sash. Immediately, the curtains fell back into place.

  Who had left the window open? Beulah? But why would the housekeeper open a window on a night like this?

  Feeling her way in the darkness, she found a matchbox on her dressing table and relit the candle. Then she surveyed the room with dismay. The rain had drenched the bedclothes, and the floor was strewn with white and pink petals that must have blown in through the window. She bent and scooped up a handful of sodden, sweet-smelling flowers. What a horrible mess!

  She didn’t want to disturb Beulah, who would probably assume Verity had left the window open herself. She stripped the wet coverlet off the bed and mopped up the puddles on the floor. It was only after she finally sat down at her dressing table that she discovered her mother’s diary lying there, apparently blown open by the wind. Worried that the pages might have been damaged, she moved the candle closer.

  Nov 10 – Asenath has it bad too.

  Nov 12 – Feeling no better today. Very tired of being so sick.

  Nov 14 – Asenath pins her hopes on Miss Piper’s remedies.

  For a moment, seeing the diary unharmed, she felt nothing but relief. Then the significance of the dates sank in.

  Her mother had died on November 15.

  With a trembling hand, she turned the page to read the last thing her mother had ever written:

  Pains so bad I fear I will lose the baby

  Watering like dog

  Verity clapped the diary closed.

  In the morning Verity was just as perplexed as she had been the night before. She knew she’d left the window closed and her mother’s diary in the trunk.

  She picked up the diary again. Up to this point, she’d read it only in small spurts. As hungry as she was to learn more about her mother, it was painful to read.

  On October 24, 1852, Sarah Ann Boone had written:

  I want to name all my children after virtues. Ransloe agrees but says please choose Patience this time, because Verity does not have any.

  Verity smiled; she hadn’t known her father had a sense of humor.

  A few days later, her mother had written:

  We have decided on Patience for a girl and Clement for a boy.

  The words caught at Verity’s heart, and for a moment she imagined what it might have been like to grow up in this house with a brother or sister of her own.

  She found other things to smile at besides her father’s joke, such as an unexpected mention of Nate.

  Fanny brought her boy down today, and we let
the children play together while we finished the quilt for Asenath. He is as smart as a whip, but Verity was shy with him.

  Verity read through these passages and then shut the notebook. She knew the diary came to an abrupt and unforeseen stop in the middle of November 1852, and she was reluctant to face it again.

  An hour or so later, Verity walked down to the church to inspect the plantings at the two graves. She found them bedraggled but living and fortified their positions, slapping the wet earth back into place around them. Then she picked up her basket and walked down the road and into the woods—beyond the place where the road turned and headed toward the Clayton house. She could hear the running water of the Susquehanna River and knew that as long as she continued downhill, she was heading in the right direction. Returning to where she started would only be a matter of walking back uphill.

  She examined every vine and likely sapling, looking for just what her aunt had described. She found many dry stalks the right diameter that snapped when she bent them and many green shafts too thin to do her any good.

  Verity continued downhill, beyond sight of the road, toward the sound of water. The vegetation grew thicker, and she picked her way past pricker bushes and shiny leaves she suspected might be poison ivy. Yesterday’s rain had left everything wet, and soon she felt dampness leaking through her shoes. She’d worn old clothing, knowing she’d be on her knees in the cemetery and wandering through the woods afterward, but she didn’t like the feel of water squishing around her toes.