Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  ISABELLA BARRON DELUCA

  MAY SHE FIND REST

  I felt calm as I read the inscription, my emotions already spent on Father.

  I glanced around at the forlorn little graveyard of criminals and heathens and wondered how things could have gone so wrong. An argument late at night. The mistake of a six-year-old. A hasty trial and hanging—because that’s what Mrs. Blackshaw had wanted.

  “It’s a fine headstone,” Sam said quietly.

  “Yes.” My attention sharpened. Who’d paid for it? Not Father, who patched the worn soles of his shoes. Maybe the same person who’d given him a box of money that he couldn’t bring himself to spend.

  Mrs. Blackshaw could afford it. But why buy a headstone for the woman who’d murdered her son?

  Because she knew Isabella Barron Deluca didn’t kill anyone.

  My heart beat faster. I thought back over everything I knew. I could picture Mrs. Blackshaw bringing tea to Mr. Oliver, but I couldn’t picture her killing my father in an old stable half-hidden by weeds. She must have killed him somewhere else and paid a servant to move him. Wilky would do it, the old man who drove her carriage.

  No, Wilky was too feeble.

  But Rowan was strong enough.

  My head revolted at the image. I pushed it away.

  But it crept back.

  Rowan claimed to have been asleep when I shot his father, but what if he saw everything? His grandmother wasn’t there that night; she didn’t know the truth; it was Rowan who’d known all these years. A sleepy six-year-old who didn’t speak up and found out later that his silence had caused the wrong person to hang. For eleven years, he’d been tormented by guilt, knowing an injustice had been done.

  Was that why I fascinated him—morbid curiosity in the girl who’d killed his father?

  My pulse raced. I thought back to when I’d told him that I was holding the gun, trying to remember if he’d looked genuinely surprised or only pretended. I wasn’t sure.

  After eleven years, Rowan had finally confided in the Reverend Mr. Oliver—and immediately panicked, fearing people would find out that his silence had caused the hanging of an innocent woman.

  He poisoned Mr. Oliver.

  My heart beat heavily. I was making things up. And yet, it made sense.

  I thought back to the night when I’d talked to Father about my mother’s innocence. He must have gone to the Blackshaws’ house because he knew Rowan was the only other witness. Rowan assured him that he would keep my secret … then followed Father home …

  No. No. No.

  Rowan wasn’t like that. He was willing to give up his dream of being an architect so he could fight for noble causes.

  I pressed my fingers against my temples. My head felt heavy, my stomach queasy.

  “Let’s get you home,” Sam murmured.

  We rode the short distance home in the wagon. Sam stopped in front of the carriage drive and helped me down. “Go inside. I’ll return the wagon to Hale and walk back.”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  The house felt empty without him. I made eggs—including enough for Sam, who ate four times what I did. I managed to eat a little, then sat near the fire, listening for him. I hadn’t slept properly in days and felt shaky with exhaustion.

  I awoke to Sam lifting me in his arms. I protested, but he murmured, “Go back to sleep,” and it was a relief to sag against him. To be carried with so little effort. I felt the strength of his arms and gentle sway of his steps as he carried me up the staircase, and I was sorry when we reached my room. He carefully placed me on my bed, then turned to leave.

  “Thank you,” I murmured, sliding under the quilt.

  Sam paused, then came back and sat at the edge of my bed. But he kept his hands on his lap; this wasn’t an attempt at seduction. “I haven’t wanted to ask,” he said carefully. “But I haven’t seen much of Rowan lately.”

  I shifted and sat up. Moonlight came through the window, illuminating half of Sam’s face, casting the other half into shadow. “I think that’s over,” I said quietly.

  He sat perfectly still, looking at the floor. “I worry about you living here alone, after what happened to your pa. I was going to ask you again about sleeping in the kitchen. But I know that isn’t proper, and you worry about gossip. So, I thought—” His green eyes lifted to meet mine. “Maybe we should get married.”

  I bent my knees up to my chest, drawing a breath.

  “I know you think we’re too young, but it makes sense, now that your pa is gone.” Sam kept his voice low, almost devoid of emotion. But in his eyes, I saw how he felt—how he’d always felt about me. “If we get married, I can live here properly. I’ll fix up the house. Make it nice again. I can clear the pasture and plant crops this summer. I’ll work at Hale and you can work for Mr. Dibble. You’re a good seamstress. I know we’re young, but we’re both hard workers. And in a few years, when we’re ready, we can start a family. We’ll fill up this house the way it should be, the way it used to be, and you won’t be so alone.”

  My heart thumped in a slow, steady beat.

  Sam waited, his chest rising and falling. I saw his pulse throbbing in his throat. I saw his broad shoulders and strong arms. It would be a relief to lie in those arms at night, warm and protected. Sam’s friendship had always been the one sure thing in my life. He loved me, I knew that, and expected little in return, waiting patiently for me to look up and see what stood in front of me—a straw-haired boy who’d grown into a man, without losing his scattered freckles and easy smile and green eyes that watched me with fierce devotion. My throat tightened.

  “Oh, Sam.”

  I leaned forward and touched my lips to his in the kiss that should have happened a long time ago. A kiss that felt natural. I already knew the sun-warmed scent of his skin, and I wasn’t surprised by the feel of his lips—masculine, but gentle. The kiss was tentative at first; neither of us had ever done this before. But our lips soon warmed and softened, our heads tilting into one another, his arms sliding around me.

  Sam was the first to pull back, his hand moving to hold my face, his eyes searching mine, hardly daring to hope. My gaze fell to his lips. They hung slightly parted, moist from our kiss.

  I pushed the quilt out of the way, and we moved together at the same time, our mouths finding each other again. My hand curved around his neck, and his arms pulled me closer—then closer still. My mouth opened, and the kiss deepened.

  A year ago, Sam’s younger brother Dan had jeered when he’d guessed we’d never kissed, bragging about his own conquests, until Sam had attacked him with embarrassed fury. But I knew Dan had never kissed a girl like this. I imagined few girls had ever felt so completely sheltered and adored in a boy’s arms. And desired.

  Finally, we stilled, holding each other close, our chests rising and falling.

  “I love you, Valentine. I’m half-mad with it.” His voice sounded raw against my cheek. “I’ve tried to not rush you, like you asked. But with your pa gone, I thought maybe…”

  He fell quiet, waiting, his body still.

  I loved him too. I must. I loved the way his arms felt around me and the vibration of his voice against my skin. But my throat tightened around the words.

  He dipped his head so he could see my face in the moonlight. “Do you love me, Valentine?”

  “I do. I love you, Sam.” As I said it, I knew it was true.

  His entire body seemed to settle. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against mine, releasing a slow breath. “Say it again,” he whispered.

  “I love you, Sam.”

  His mouth slid over mine, more confident now, and my own lips responded, melting into his. But my mind felt busy, trying to catch up. His hand slid to my waist, tugging me closer, and I was suddenly aware of where we were, alone on my bed. I carefully extracted myself, and he let me go, grinning, keeping hold of one of my hands. “We’ll be married soon, and I won’t have to leave your room.”

  My own smile felt too thin,
my body suddenly cautious. “It’s all happening too fast, Sam. I need time to think before I promise anything. Before we’re engaged.”

  He didn’t seem concerned. “There’s no rush. We love each other, and that’s what matters. I can’t believe I finally told you. You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to.” He gave a little laugh, unable to stop smiling. “I’ll let you sleep now.” He stood and reluctantly let go of my hand, then bent low and kissed me again, his hands holding my face. “My future wife,” he whispered, his thumb stroking my temple. And there was a part of me, low and deep, that didn’t want him to go.

  But another part of me felt tight with uncertainty. Was this what I wanted?

  It had to be.

  Don’t think about Rowan.

  His footsteps descended the staircase, light with relief. I lay back and closed my eyes, remembering the warmth of his mouth on mine, his large hand on my waist, drawing me closer. I imagined myself as Sam’s wife. He would fix up the house, and we would live here together. Sleep in this room. It felt right. It felt solid and real, not some hopeless wisp of yearning.

  And yet, some part of it also felt wrong.

  I rolled onto my side so I could see the dresser drawer where I kept Rowan’s sketch of me.

  And when I awoke in the morning, I was still facing it.

  25

  It was hard to think straight with Sam always there, smiling and reaching for me. I kept reminding him that we weren’t engaged, and he promised to not tell anyone otherwise, but I felt the pressure of his expectations.

  I’d fallen into a fast-moving river and wasn’t sure if I should swim to safety or let it carry me away.

  I did love Sam and could picture our life together. He talked of roof shingles and new windows and installing a stove, then laughed at his big ideas.

  “It all takes money, but we have time.” He said his ma was warming up to the idea of me as a daughter-in-law.

  “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” I chided.

  “I couldn’t help myself. I was so happy that night. She won’t tell anyone.”

  “Sam…”

  “I know,” he droned, smiling. “We’re not engaged … yet.”

  I saw the trust in his eyes and felt the adoration in his kisses and wanted to feel the same way.

  But it all felt shadowed by a lie.

  I’d never told Sam that I was the one who’d killed Nigel Blackshaw, but I would have to tell him everything before he took sacred vows and joined his life with mine.

  I felt haunted by death. At night, I saw their faces: Mr. Blackshaw with his startled eyes, falling backward; Mama sliding her head through a noose; Mr. Oliver, with his kind smile and wind-ruffled hair, gently telling me that my mother was innocent; Father, trying to fix my mistake, accepting a swig of tainted liquor on a cold night; and Birdy, coming to my house for protection, only to die in the stable.

  Sam would be hurt that I hadn’t trusted him with the truth, after I’d promised him that I wouldn’t lie and keep secrets.

  He never mentioned the rumors about me circulating through town, but I knew he must be hearing them. Sam deserved better than a wife suspected of murder.

  But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t the real reason I felt guilty every time we kissed.

  Rowan.

  I tried to push him out of my head, scolding myself for foolishness. There’d never been any real hope for us; our lives were too different, and his powerful grandmother despised me. I forced myself to remember his hands on Philly’s waist as he’d helped her onto the horse. I even tried to convince myself he was the murderer.

  But my heart never believed any of it. My heart remembered his eyes watching me as I peeled potatoes, as warm as any caress. His voice near my ear as we walked along the trail, low and teasing. His dark hair tumbling forward as he sketched at the table, lost in his own world—which somehow felt like my world too.

  I missed him with a sharp pang. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all some terrible misunderstanding. That all we needed was a moment alone. A moment to talk.

  At night, I stared at his drawing of me, and tears slid down my cheeks. Foolish tears, because I had Sam, who loved me more than any girl deserved. Certainly, more than I deserved.

  I told myself a thousand things.

  But none of it stopped the longing.

  * * *

  Sam reluctantly left town on a three-day trip for Hale Glass, and I was grateful for some time to myself. Sam hinted that he might buy a ring on his trip, and I wanted to accept him, but not with my heart so tangled.

  And only Rowan could untangle it. I had three days before Sam got down on one knee, and since Rowan wouldn’t come to me, I would go to him.

  Friday night, I draped a dark shawl over my head and crept through town, slipping through the shadows; the sight of the Deluca girl on a dark night was enough to set off a wave of hysteria lately. A damp fog rolled in as I walked, which helped hide me.

  The Blackshaws didn’t live in the Meriwethers’ new, fashionable neighborhood but on a narrow street lined by Feavers Crossings’ oldest families. I had a vague plan to look through downstairs windows, hoping to find Rowan alone. I would tap on the window and draw him outside. Or I could knock on the kitchen door and convince a servant to fetch him without telling Mrs. Blackshaw. He’d mentioned the cook a few times, as if they were close.

  There was also the possibility that Rowan would inform me, in a polite voice, that he’d enjoyed our friendship but was now too busy with the bank or some other responsibility. He would use his good manners, not mentioning Philly—or the fact that the entire town thought I’d murdered three people. He would avoid my gaze.

  But I’d rather face that hard truth than wonder forever. Once I’d closed that part of my heart, I could move on with Sam.

  I turned the corner and saw a carriage in front of the Blackshaws’ house and a man and a woman approaching the door. I stepped back into the shadows and watched as they were ushered inside. Then another carriage arrived.

  A dinner party, of course. I wavered, unsure what to do.

  Then I crept around to the side of the house.

  The parlor drapes were half-closed, but one by one, the guests passed in front of the opening: Mayor Banks and his new wife, who was much younger than he was; a wealthy businessman named Mr. Bloomfield and his wife; a fashionable young couple who’d recently returned from London.

  Not a large party, then, and rather young for Mrs. Blackshaw, but all of them influential.

  Rowan moved into view, and my chest tightened. He looked handsome, of course, but pale against his dark dinner jacket—and older, surrounded by grown men. They hovered near him, assessing the young man who would soon control most of the county’s financing—laughing too hard at his jokes, as eager to impress as they were to assess.

  Mrs. Blackshaw slid into view, elegant in dark blue. She watched Rowan with a look of smug satisfaction, then wandered closer and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and murmured back with no hint of defiance. No rebellion. Whatever the topic, they seemed in complete accord.

  My stomach dropped in disappointment when Philly Henny and her mother arrived. They seemed an odd addition to such a prominent gathering, especially without the Meriwethers; Philly tended to be shy without Lucy. But dinner was announced, which meant no one else was expected, and Mrs. Blackshaw led the way through the doorway.

  I moved to the next window to see into the elegant dining room. Mrs. Blackshaw sat at the head of the table, her back to me, and Rowan sat at the far end, with Philly next to him. I tucked myself into the shadow of a hedge, hidden from view, but still close enough to make out a few voices.

  And it soon became clear why the Hennys had been included. More than once, Mrs. Blackshaw drew attention to the lovely girl sitting next to her grandson. How pretty Philomena looked in that color. Did she enjoy gardening as much as her mother? She’d heard that Philomena’s French was exceptional. Philly flushed and ga
ve simple answers—which somehow only made her look lovelier. And, as Mrs. Blackshaw’s approval became obvious, Philly gained confidence, her smile relaxing. She wore dark green—a more sophisticated color than she usually wore—which looked nice against her strawberry-blond hair and luminous skin. She looked older. She looked beautiful.

  And Rowan noticed, his gaze lingering. He murmured something near her shoulder that made her stifle a laugh.

  Mrs. Henny watched her daughter’s success with wide-eyed fascination. She looked like a gray mouse invited to dine at the palace. But no one paid her any attention; all eyes were on Philly.

  This dinner party was a test, I realized, which explained the younger guests. Mrs. Blackshaw wanted to make sure that the daughter of a humble widow could stand up to the social rigors of the Blackshaw name.

  And from what I could see, Philly was passing the test.

  Disappointment tightened my throat like a bitter pill.

  This was Rowan’s life beyond my kitchen. Dinner parties with wealthy businessmen and politicians. Finance deals worth thousands of dollars. Servants in white gloves. The sparkle of crystal. The gleam of silver. I’d never been naive enough to imagine myself in this room, but I had been naive enough to believe Rowan preferred my humble kitchen to his life here. And maybe he’d believed it himself for a while, enthralled by his woodland fairy.

  But here, I saw the truth—a truth Rowan had seen two weeks ago, staring at two decomposing bodies. He’d been the first to feel the slap of reality, but I’d finally caught up.

  I gave myself a moment to mourn, watching them, my chest pulled by a heavy weight.

  But tears didn’t come, only numb acceptance. This was the only resolution that made sense. Rowan was never going to leave his life of prominence to join mine. And, in the last few weeks, it had become clear that I couldn’t join his. I couldn’t even blame him for his desertion. I felt no anger or resentment, only a sad sense of finality. Our friendship had been real, our attraction genuine. But it was over.

  I’d reached the bottom of my billowing sky, and the landing was blessedly gentle.