“Because I sentenced your mother to hang and knew it was a mistake as soon as it was too late to undo, and I have sought to redeem myself by paying your tuition.”
Something slid inside me, like a wagon tilting toward a broken wheel. Judge Stoker knew that my mother was innocent. Which meant he was the person who’d told Mr. Oliver—and killed him. The thought should have terrified me, but I felt oddly still.
“You told Mr. Oliver,” I said quietly.
Judge Stoker shifted, his knees scraping against mine. “The rector? What do you mean?” He sounded confused, not guilty.
And doubt rose. “Did you tell Mr. Oliver that my mother was innocent?”
“No. Why should I? What are you implying?” His eyes narrowed, his attention sharpening. “What do you know?”
My heart raced. I must tread carefully. “What do you know?” I countered.
“Nothing,” he growled. “Just a gnawing feeling in my gut, but I’ve learned to trust my gut.”
My nerves settled. Judge Stoker didn’t witness the shooting. Or poison Mr. Oliver.
“Someday, Valentine, I shall meet my maker, and after all the good and bad I have done, I fear it is your mother who will bring about my eternal damnation. For I hanged her in haste, on the shallowest of evidence.”
I knew very little about my mother’s trial.
“Every judge makes mistakes. We seek justice amid a turbulent sea of lies and secrets. But I’m good at it—gifted, even. I have an instinct for knowing when someone is lying. But in your mother’s case, I ignored those instincts. I sensed she was lying when she confessed. I pressed her with questions, but she would only repeat that one phrase—I am guilty. So, what could I do? The entire courtroom had heard, and Josephine Blackshaw would give me no rest. So, I sentenced your mother to hang. But I knew it was wrong—knew it with every judicial instinct within me, even as she walked up to the gallows and slid her neck through the noose.
“But it wasn’t until a week later, when I saw a little girl with tangled curls roaming the streets alone, that my conscience reared its ugly head and I knew I should have demanded a more thorough investigation. Your mother pleaded guilty like a woman in a dream, and I should have waited for that dream to lift. But by the time I awoke myself, it was too late.”
My mind raced. “So … you think she was innocent because of … instinct?”
“Years of experience,” he corrected, watching me shrewdly. “Why? You have better evidence?”
Judge Stoker was my benefactor. I could trust him. With his influence, I had a better chance of finding Father and Birdy—and Mr. Oliver’s killer.
“Valentine?” he growled.
“I was holding the gun.” The words slid from my mouth before I knew they were there—and I drew a relieved breath. Father had carried the secret for eleven years, but it was too heavy for me. “My mother was innocent. Your instincts were right, Judge Stoker. She confessed to protect me. I was the one who killed Nigel Blackshaw.”
“You?” He scowled, skeptical. “You were a tadpole.”
“Old enough to pick up a gun off the ground. But I didn’t mean to kill him; I remember that much. It was an accident.”
His teeth gritted. “What madness made her confess? She didn’t seriously think I would hang a child?”
I gave a weary shake of my head. “I don’t know. She wasn’t a happy woman. I only learned the truth an hour ago. All these years, I thought she was guilty. I’ve hated her for it. But I finally remembered. That’s why you saw me at her grave.”
Judge Stoker growled in fury, turning to look out the window, then back at me. He pointed an angry finger. “No one learns of this, you understand? You tell no one, Valentine!”
My heart beat faster. “Someone already knows. I think they killed Mr. Oliver.”
“What are you talking about?”
I explained as best I could, with skips and halts, hardly making sense. I told him about Father leaving the house, and the blue tea tin, and Father disappearing.
Judge Stoker listened with a dubious frown, grunting when I’d finished. “You sound like Mrs. Utley with her colorful stories. No one murdered Mr. Oliver. He died of natural causes—as most of us shall in our own due time.”
“But Dr. Pritchard—”
“Dr. Pritchard is a drunken fool who wouldn’t know a poisoning if he was poisoned himself. He only called it that to please Mrs. Utley so she’ll forgive his tick at the general store.” His bushy eyebrows rose. “And I’d be careful about insisting it was murder, Valentine. If anyone murdered the rector over this matter, it was your father. No one else would care enough. He’s the one who’s covered up the truth all these years. And now, he’s fled town.”
“I don’t think he would do that. He just asked someone to marry him.”
“Well, Sheriff Crane will get to the bottom of it. Leave it in his hands.”
“But then—” My thoughts turned. “I have to tell the sheriff that my mother was innocent. That’s the only way he’ll know what it’s about.”
“You tell no one!” Judge Stoker ordered, his expression darkening. “You hear me, Valentine? I haven’t paid for your education at the most expensive school in the state to see your name dragged through the mud. I vouched for you with Governor Stiles, assuring him that his daughter wouldn’t be tainted by association—and you will not prove me wrong!”
Gloomy disappointment filled me. Judge Stoker had no interest in finding Father or Mr. Oliver’s killer, only protecting his investment.
“My mother sacrificed herself for me. I want people to know that she was innocent—that all their stories are lies.”
“And destroy me in the process?” He glowered across the small carriage. “Is that what you want, Valentine—for me to be known forever as the judge who hanged an innocent woman? Because that will be my legacy, make no mistake. Is that the gratitude you show me for your education?”
“Of course not,” I said, appalled. “I’m grateful for what you did—more than I can say. My education has meant everything to me. But how can I live with this—knowing what I did—never clearing her name?”
Judge Stoker grunted, unimpressed. “I see your sort every day, convinced by some prosecutor that confessing will save their souls. Well, all it does is land them in prison. Confessing won’t change what you did, only ruin your life—and mine!”
The despair I’d been fighting since learning the truth from Molly washed over me. What Judge Stoker said made sense. And yet, it felt wrong.
He studied me with his shrewd eyes. “I saw you with the Blackshaw boy at the party. He seemed quite smitten. How do you think he’ll feel if he finds out that you killed his father?”
I couldn’t reply.
“And Mrs. Blackshaw,” he continued. “If that woman catches a whiff of this, she’ll show no mercy.”
“She’ll understand that it was an accident.”
“Is that what you think?” Judge Stoker released a gruff breath. “You see her singing hymns in church. Well, I know the other side of that woman. She controls the money of this town with puppet strings. But her real wealth lies in secrets. She collects them like weapons.”
His piercing eyes held me like a criminal in his courtroom.
“You have told me your secret, Valentine, and now I shall tell you mine. You want to know why your mother was hanged in such haste? Mrs. Blackshaw holds an incriminating document from the early days of my career, which leaves me at her mercy. She wanted her son’s killer convicted and hanged without delay, so I complied. And that is the reason your mother received such a shoddy trial. Make no mistake, if Josephine Blackshaw finds out that you killed her son, she will destroy you.”
My pulse throbbed in my temples. I felt weary and overwhelmed, unable to think, disheartened by everything I’d learned from both Molly and Judge Stoker.
His craggy face softened. “You’re a lovely girl, with the world before you. Don’t chain yourself to a mistake made a decade ago. You mu
st never tell anyone, or it will ruin your life. Forgive yourself and forget. That is what your mother would want. That is how you honor her sacrifice—by leaving this carriage and never speaking of it again.”
I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. “All right,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
His fierce scowl returned. “Not a soul, Valentine. Not your best friend. Not your lover. Not your husband, someday. If you do, it will destroy both of us.”
I nodded weakly.
“Shake my hand to seal our vow of silence.” His large hand reached across the carriage.
And I shook it.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day digging through drawers, hope chests, and wardrobes, searching for some remembrance of my mother. Yearning to know her. To understand why she’d gone so willingly—so needlessly—to the gallows.
But there was little to find. It dismayed me, how thoroughly we’d erased her existence. Me, because of unfounded resentment. Father, for his own bitter reasons—although, I found a lace-trimmed nightcap at the bottom of one of his drawers, hinting that he hadn’t wanted to forget everything.
In a cluttered desk drawer, in my grandfather’s office, I found a letter signed by Isabella, written to her father when she lived in New York City. I read it hungrily, looking for clues. The penmanship was impatient, her mood exuberant, the words tumbling in long sentences. She mentioned two parties but seemed more interested in an opera she’d seen. She closed the letter with a complaint about her overly watchful guardian, Mrs. Maples.
I read the letter twice, trying to find something familiar in it. But the girl Isabella bore no resemblance to the pensive mother I’d known. I looked at the date and counted years. She’d been eighteen when she’d written it—a year before she’d become pregnant with me.
Who was my real father? A beau in the city, presumably.
I might never know.
As I put myself to bed, the wind picked up, whispering through the boarded windows in the burned part of the house. I pulled on thick socks and curled into a ball beneath my quilt, listening to the lonely scratch of a mouse in the wall, lost from its nest.
Finally, I drifted into sleep.
And dreamed of another lonely time.
* * *
I am asleep, lying on the same mattress within the same room, small and curled …
When gray morning lures me awake.
The air feels thick with silence, and I know Mama hasn’t returned.
It’s been three days since the gun roared and Mr. Blackshaw fell and Mama walked to a carriage, looking back at my window. Three days without the sound of Mama humming or the gentle touch of her hand or the smell of good foods cooking.
And no sign of Father either.
My stomach clenches with hunger. Yesterday, I ate the last of the bread and finished the milk, then I’d stuck my finger in the jar of molasses and licked it clean. Today, I must be brave and light the stove. Then I can cook eggs. Then I can cook porridge.
I dress and wash my face, then attempt to brush my hair. But the bristles only skim the surface of my thick, matted curls. I look in the mirror and see large, frightened eyes surrounded by wild hair.
Downstairs, the front door creaks open—and my heart leaps because Mama is back. I drop the hairbrush and dart to the staircase, breathless with relief.
But I halt a few steps down, because it isn’t Mama; it’s Father. He rushes toward the kitchen, leaving the front door open behind him. I waver with hope on the staircase, waiting for Mama to follow.
But it’s a man I don’t know who enters. A man in a green scarf. He waits near the door—and I must make a sound, for his eyes turn upward and find me on the staircase. For a moment, our gazes hold.
Then Father returns. “We must hurry,” he says, rushing out the front door. The man in the green scarf hesitates, his eyes lingering on me, then he turns and follows Father. The door swings shut, sending in a swirl of damp air.
Too late, I realize I should have called out to Father, that I should have told him I’m alone and hungry and afraid of the whispers at night. I run down the staircase and press my face against cold glass. I see them hurrying toward town, hunched against a drizzling mist. I grab my coat off the hook and rush outside—
But stop short on the front stoop, drawing a cold breath.
Dark blood stains the walkway, melting in the rain … and I hear the roar of the gun—feel it in my bones and taste it in my mouth—and see Mr. Blackshaw’s startled expression as he falls … and falls … his eyes on me … his black cloak billowing.
I hurry back inside and slam the door, my heart racing. But I have to catch Father, so I run down the hall and out the back door, around the side of the house to the road. I run toward town—past the Hennys’ house and the graveyard and the Reverend Mr. Oliver’s church—and finally see Father and the man in the green scarf ahead of me at the edge of town.
But the streets of Feavers Crossing are more crowded than usual, and Father disappears into a sea of muddy hems and boots. I dart around damp coats, looking up, searching faces beneath hats and bonnets. But none belong to Father.
Across the road, Blackshaw Bank watches the street with dark, unblinking eyes. Sometimes Mama meets Mr. Blackshaw inside. But when I cross the road and try the door, it won’t open, and when I pound with my fist, no one comes.
My feet throb with cold, but townspeople shuffle past, everyone going the same direction. So, I wander with them, and finally, the flow stops and the people gather. But I can’t see past them. I squirm my way between damp skirts and wet-smelling wool and finally reach the front.
And see what has drawn them.
Mama hangs by her neck from a rope, her head tilting and her eyes staring fixedly, her hands clasped behind her back. Her boots dangle motionlessly at the bottom of her best black dress. For a moment, I think she’s crying. But it’s only the rain. I watch as she slowly turns, trapped by the rope around her neck.
“Mama,” I whisper, but she doesn’t look at me.
“The daughter,” a woman murmurs, and faces peer down, rain dripping off black hats and umbrellas.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, and I catch my breath. But it’s only the Reverend Mr. Oliver, peering down with a worried frown.
“What does your father think, bringing you here?” He tries to turn me away.
But I resist, my gaze still on Mama. She looks oddly content, hanging by her neck, her eyes half-open, half-closed. As if she’s awake and sleeping at the same time.
But I know she’s dead, and my heart beats faster, as if it’s beating for both of us.
The Reverend Mr. Oliver places a warm hand on each of my shoulders and bends low to look into my eyes. “It is a hard day for you, dear girl. But take comfort, for your mother confessed her sins. She is in God’s hands now, and he knows all.” Mr. Oliver straightens, removing his heavy hands from my shoulders, and I feel light enough to float. “Now, run home before you catch your death.” He gives me a nudge that makes me stumble, but his large hand pulls me upright and steers me again toward home.
I run, bare feet slapping in the rain, cold breaths catching in my throat, wet skirt sticking to my legs. I run, trying to forget the sight of Mama hanging in the rain.
Trying to forget.
Trying to forget.
* * *
I awoke with a gasping cry, my cheeks damp with tears.
Because I’d finally remembered.
But now, I must forget again.
16
Sam stayed away after Christmas.
I was grateful. I needed time to ponder everything I’d learned, then store it away in a safe corner of my heart, where I wouldn’t be tempted to talk about it. Or even think about it.
For a few days, I wallowed in misery. I spent hours in the rocking chair, staring at the fire. Then I bundled up and stood in front of my mother’s marble headstone. I wandered aimlessly through the church graveyard, whispering names and missing
Birdy.
From the shadows of the graveyard, I stared at the rectory across the road, wondering if Mr. Oliver had really been poisoned or just died of natural causes like Judge Stoker had said. His dying word had been hard to understand. Maybe Birdy had taken the blue tea tin and misunderstood my questions. She was hardly a reliable witness. And, as Judge Stoker had pointed out, no one would care enough about my mother’s innocence to kill someone—except Father, and I just didn’t believe he would do that, especially for something as insignificant as my reputation.
So, it must have been a heart attack after all.
Mr. Oliver’s death was another weight I didn’t need to carry.
After a few days, I tired of my own throbbing thoughts and picked up one of the books I’d snuck from the school library. I stayed up half the night and slept until noon.
Then I pulled out the keepsake box in the kitchen and reread every article and pamphlet I’d ever saved about Alvina Lunt. I especially liked the pamphlets she’d written herself; I could hear her fiery conviction in every word, demanding humane treatment of the simpleminded and insane. I spread out a map of New York City on the kitchen table and tried to guess which street she lived on. I wondered what state she would visit next and what cause she would champion. Last year, she’d written a pamphlet about prisons, saying they should have libraries for the inmates.
When I grew restless of that, I put myself to work. I started with the kitchen cupboards, wiping and reorganizing. Then I moved on to the rooms I rarely entered, sweeping and mopping and dusting. It felt good to move, sweat rolling down my temples. I wiped baseboards and beat drapes. I fixed the leaky window in the drawing room, as best I could.
When I realized Father had been gone three weeks, I faced the fact that he might never return. I counted the money I kept in a jar in the kitchen and determined that I had enough to feed myself for a couple of months, if I was careful. I would eat all the eggs I collected, not trade them for things I didn’t really need. And I had flour and oats and beans in the cellar. Once I’d graduated, I could look for work. Maybe teach at the grammar school or watch children. I was a fairly good seamstress, thanks to Miss Dibble.
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