Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  My gaze drifted to Mrs. Blackshaw, who skillfully directed the conversation. Her questions of the other guests were probing but subtle. She doled out compliments with careful precision, not generosity. Her insults insinuated but were never obvious enough to draw offense. With just an arch of her eyebrow, she halted the mayor’s wife in the middle of a sentence, easily steering the conversation back to her own topic.

  No wonder she liked dinner parties; she was a master.

  The suspicions I’d had about Mrs. Blackshaw at my mother’s grave rose again.

  She might have followed Nigel to our house that night to stop him from running away with a Barron. She saw me shoot him and had known that a child wouldn’t be punished. But someone had to pay, so she’d manipulated Judge Stoker into a hasty trial and hanging. Eleven years later, she’d confided in Mr. Oliver.

  I stared at her rigid spine and straight shoulders and believed her capable of murder.

  At the moment, she was occupied with guests, her servants busy in the kitchen.

  I moved quickly, before I lost my nerve, creeping back through the garden, around the back corner of the house—past the noisy kitchen, clattering with activity. I found another back door, glanced over my shoulder—

  And slipped inside.

  I stood in a dark hall, my pulse racing. In the distance, I heard the soft murmur of voices and clink of dishes. I’d never been inside the Blackshaws’ house, but it was similar in layout to most of the older houses in Feavers Crossing. I stood still for several breaths, considering my own brash stupidity—then I took a few stealthy steps and entered what I guessed would be Mrs. Blackshaw’s office.

  Embers glowed in a small fireplace, casting enough light for me to see the hulking desk and chair. Muffled voices came through the wall, but no one would come in here for hours. I carefully closed the door and heavy drapes, then dared to light a candle.

  I quickly searched the room, opening drawers and boxes and ledgers, carefully returning everything to the way I’d found them. I wasn’t seeking anything specific. I wasn’t even hopeful of finding anything; Mrs. Blackshaw wasn’t the sort of woman who kept a diary full of confessions. But it was a place to start.

  I discovered a secret compartment at the back of a desk drawer with two bank boxes like the one hidden in Father’s bedroom floor. And when I opened them, I saw a similar amount of money—even the same yellow string tied around the bills.

  A cold feeling crept through me. Why would Mrs. Blackshaw have given Father a box of money? Was it connected to my mother’s hanging? Blood money that he didn’t want to see, let alone spend?

  I closed the bank boxes, trying to settle my racing thoughts for now. Below the boxes, I found a ledger filled with lists of names and dates, with jotted notes. I recognized some of the names. I turned the page and drew a quick breath when I saw Judge Stoker’s name with two words beside it: falsified evidence.

  This was Mrs. Blackshaw’s list of secrets. Her weapons.

  The papers stacked below the ledger were neatly organized with notes clipped to each document. I quickly thumbed through them and found Judge Stoker’s name. I didn’t read the attached paper, just rolled it up and slid it into my pocket; I didn’t want to know his secret.

  I finished searching through the documents, just to be sure—and drew a surprised breath when I saw a letter at the bottom, browned with age, signed by Silas Barron, my grandfather. I held it closer to the candle.

  Josephine,

  There is no point in meeting again. You know my feelings. Continue with this sham of a wedding if you must. I will not show up.

  Silas

  He sounded angry. Even back then, Mrs. Blackshaw had been a formidable opponent. For forty years, she’d kept my grandfather’s rejection, justifying her hatred for the Barrons. I hesitated, then folded the letter and added it to my pocket. I didn’t want a piece of my grandfather trapped in Mrs. Blackshaw’s drawer of secrets.

  I straightened, letting my eyes skim the room, but nothing else drew suspicion, and I didn’t dare linger. I blew out the candle and crept out of the room, back toward the door.

  But I paused at the base of the back staircase, glancing upward.

  My heart beat faster. If I was discovered, I would end up in jail, accused of murder along with trespassing. But watching Rowan and Philly had pricked a nerve. He’d made his choice—and now I made mine. I glanced over my shoulder, then hurried up the narrow staircase, my breath held.

  Unlike his grandmother, Rowan was the sort to leave evidence. Not a diary, maybe, but something.

  Upstairs, I found the hall dark and deserted. I glanced into the first room and knew at once that it was Rowan’s. I entered and carefully closed the door behind me, knowing I didn’t have much time. I stood still, my heart racing, terrified by my own audacity. How would I explain my presence if I were found? There was no explanation.

  But I didn’t care. I felt reckless. I shut the curtains and lit the candle on his desk, then turned.

  My chest tightened with endearment when I saw the disarray: stacks of books on the desk and floor; framed artwork crowding the walls; his own loose sketches everywhere—tacked on the walls, scattered across the desk, dropped on the floor. His old leather satchel hung from the bedpost.

  I picked up a sketchbook and quickly thumbed through it. The dates on the pages were from last September and October. I saw a drawing of two cows in a pasture; a tall, angular house—his own, I realized; a rough sketch of Simon Greene at the piano. I’d seen these scenes a hundred times, but never the way Rowan drew them. As if he saw something in them that I didn’t.

  I started to shut the sketchbook, but a drawing at the back caught my attention. I turned to it—and released a little whimper of surprise. It was a drawing of me in the school library, reading. Rowan must have been watching and sketching from across the room.

  I turned to the next page and my heart beat faster; it was another drawing of me—standing near a tree, staring fixedly in one direction. A few loose curls blew in a breeze. I didn’t imagine myself this way—so lean and feminine, so content in solitude.

  The next drawing showed only my head and shoulders, but it was so beautifully detailed, I half expected the girl to move. I doubted he’d drawn it in one sitting. He must have finished it at home, perhaps sitting in this room. At the bottom, he’d scrawled the date—last October. Before the Honor Tea.

  My heart swelled.

  There were five drawings hidden at the back of the book, all of me, all dated before the Honor Tea. None of Philly. None of Lucy. I found an older sketchbook with two more drawings of me at the back, dated from last spring.

  For more than a year, Rowan had been drawing me. Studying the curve of my cheek. Sketching my lips with velvety softness. Shadowing the hollow of my throat with a moistened finger. Secrets held within a secret.

  A lump of longing rose in my throat. It didn’t matter. In the end, Rowan had chosen his grandmother and Philly.

  One sketch drew me back to it—the one showing only my head and shoulders. Something about it thrummed with familiarity. The way I looked to the side, my lips slightly parted. The way my eyes—

  I inhaled a sharp breath.

  It was the painting slashed by Mrs. Blackshaw. Rowan was the artist, not Mr. Oliver. Now that I knew his work, it was obvious. He must have been taking art lessons from Mr. Oliver. When the rector died, Mrs. Blackshaw had panicked, afraid her grandson’s infatuation with me would be discovered. She’d hunted for the painting and destroyed it.

  A pan crashed downstairs—muffled and far away, but it jolted me back to the present. I closed the sketchbook, blew out the candle, and slipped from the room.

  * * *

  Judge Stoker’s house wasn’t far from the Blackshaws’. I knocked, and he answered himself, wearing a housecoat, looking annoyed by the interruption. When he saw that it was me, his thick eyebrows lifted.

  “Valentine?”

  I held out the document. “Thank you for
my education.”

  His eyes scanned the paper, then darted up to my face. “How did you get this?”

  “It’s probably best if you don’t know. Good night, Judge Stoker.” I turned away.

  When I got home, I added a log to the fire, then found Mr. Oliver’s clay pitcher and poured the slashed painting onto the table. I assembled the pieces, my fingers trembling. Part of my shoulder was missing. Holes gaped where the knife had stabbed. But it was the same girl, the same artist. I touched the rich colors with my fingertips.

  Rowan.

  The girl looked monstrous. Her cheek scarred by a slash. One eye blinded. Her neck severed and pieced back together. But it was something to hold on to, a remembrance of what I’d almost had.

  And what I would never have.

  26

  Sunday morning, I visited my mother’s marble headstone and Birdy’s wooden cross.

  As I stood at Birdy’s grave, I heard the closing hymn being sung inside the church and moved to watch from behind a large stone monolith as the congregation poured out.

  Mrs. Utley was the first to emerge, already whispering in the ear of a friend. Her quiet husband followed, yawning. And then Mrs. Meriwether, beautiful like always—but looking a bit lonely; her husband only attended church on Easter and Christmas.

  Lucy hurried past her mother, heading for the front corner of the churchyard where her friends usually gathered.

  A sinking feeling ran through me when Rowan and Philly walked out together. Philly wore a pretty yellow dress with a straw bonnet, and Rowan looked perfectly tailored, as always, every hair in place. Mrs. Blackshaw emerged behind them, smartly dressed in pale gray. For a moment, the three of them stood on the doorstep together—a striking threesome. And people noticed—especially Lucy, scowling from across the churchyard. Mrs. Blackshaw paused to pull on her gloves, prolonging the moment.

  My gaze slid back to Rowan—

  And my heart stuttered. He was staring at me, his eyes unblinking, his expression heavy, and for several throbbing heartbeats, the two of us stood in that place we used to share. Connected without saying a word. Falling together.

  Then his eyes shifted back to his grandmother. I followed his gaze to find her watching me—not with her usual loathing but something cooler and more assured. She waited for Rowan to prove his choice.

  And he turned away from me to face Philly.

  * * *

  On Monday, I dragged my way through school, barely aware of my chattering classmates. I walked and breathed and read aloud in class like a wooden puppet. No heart or life, only obeying the pull of strings.

  Ironically, with graduation only a few days away, my classmates had never been giddier. Lucy could talk of nothing except her upcoming trip to Paris; Hannah Adams was sure her childhood sweetheart would propose as soon as she got home; even Tall Meg became talkative, excited about moving to the city of Washington with her family.

  But their eager chatter only made me feel more out of step. For me, graduation was an ending, not a beginning. No more escaping into ancient philosophy or the lineage of kings. No more wandering the library, touching book spines. Without school, my life would become—

  What?

  I sat in the back corner of the library after school, watching fat beads of rain slide down the window.

  I would marry Sam, of course. Take up housekeeping while he worked at Hale Glass. Wash his shirts and cook his favorite meals. Savor his kisses and sleep in his arms. The manager at Hale had already promised him a promotion in years to come. Sam would earn enough to provide for a wife and family. It would be a full life—a good life.

  Shadowed by my past. Walking by my mother’s grave nearly every day—a constant reminder.

  The day after Sam had proposed, I’d asked him if he’d ever thought about living somewhere else, but he’d just laughed. “Why would we? This’ll be the nicest property in the county, once we fix it up.”

  I would never go to New York City and meet Alvina Lunt. In my loftiest dreams, I’d imagined her so impressed by my passion, she’d asked me to stay and work with her. I’d written pamphlets and petitioned the government. In those dreams, I’d been brave and outspoken, like Mrs. Blackshaw. I didn’t care so much about women’s property rights, but it would have been nice to help people like Birdy.

  Mr. Smithfield cleared his throat, and I looked up to find him standing near the library door. “It is nearly dark, Valentine, and my supper awaits.”

  “Oh, sorry, I lost track of time.” I stood and pushed in my chair.

  He scowled at me over his spectacles. “Tomorrow, I start my end-of-year inventory. I do hope you’ve managed to return all the books you’ve stolen over the years.”

  “Borrowed,” I corrected. “And yes, every one of them.” I cast a final look at the room I knew better than my own kitchen—the way the light moved across the floor, the musty smell of the books, even the click of Mr. Smithfield’s dentures. I doubted I would ever have access to this many books again.

  My footsteps echoed as I made my way through the quiet corridors to the front of the school. Classes had ended hours ago, and the aroma of dinner wafted from the kitchen. My stomach rumbled. Only dormitory students received dinner.

  I was halfway across the front hall when a floorboard creaked, and I turned to see the headmaster, Mr. Foley, standing in his office doorway, cast into silhouette by the lantern on his desk.

  “A moment, if you please, Miss Deluca.”

  My eyebrows rose. Mr. Foley never spoke to me, and I couldn’t imagine why he should start now, with only a few days left. The length of the main hall stretched between us, but neither of us moved to close the distance.

  “Your time at Drake Academy is coming to an end, and we shall soon see no more of one another.” Mr. Foley had three voices: the syrupy, aristocratic tone he used with the parents; the clipped, authoritative tone he used with the students and teachers; and the snide, sarcastic tone he used with the staff. And it was the snide sarcasm he used with me. “It is my duty to inform you, Miss Deluca, that you will be awarded the honor of valedictorian for the graduating girls.”

  I blinked, sure I’d misheard.

  “Surprising, yes,” he drawled. “But the scores have been tabulated and yours are, indeed, the highest. As valedictorian, you are expected to deliver a short oration at the commencement dinner on Friday. Parents and trustees will be in attendance. I trust you are up to the grandeur of the occasion.”

  In other words, would I embarrass him? A few months ago, I might have relished the opportunity to sit on the stand and give a speech, eager to fit in, but now, I saw no point in the charade. My classmates still whispered that I’d murdered my own father, and their parents had no doubt heard the rumors. “You needn’t worry. I won’t be attending.”

  “Your presence is not requested, Miss Deluca; it is required.”

  My stomach tightened. “No one will care. You can give my award to Jane Stiles.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I assure you, but I’m afraid there is someone who cares if you are in attendance. Cares very much, in fact. You have surprising allies in high places, Miss Deluca.”

  Judge Stoker. I stifled a sigh. “You can tell my benefactor—”

  “I am not your messenger, Miss Deluca. If you wish to express ingratitude, you must do so yourself. Your benefactor has invested sizably in your education and now requests this one thing in return—to see the results of that investment. Is that too much to ask? Too much to offer in return for an education at one of the finest schools in the country?”

  I felt trapped. “No, sir.”

  “Then I will see you in the dining hall on Friday evening, seven o’clock, where you will sit on the dais next to Mr. Blackshaw and deliver a short oration.”

  My stomach lurched. Of course, Rowan would be the boys’ valedictorian.

  “Formal attire. I trust you have something appropriate?”

  I nodded numbly; I would go through my mother�
��s old dresses.

  “Excellent.” Mr. Foley entered his office, and the door snapped shut.

  I left the school and walked through the woods, my mind twisting. Storm clouds brewed, but I had bigger concerns than getting caught in the rain.

  Valedictorian. Not just one of three top students, but the very best. It was a flattering honor—and yet, absurd. How could I sit on the dais and give a speech—with Rowan beside me—while everyone whispered morbid rumors about the murders of my father and friends?

  I couldn’t.

  And yet, I must or show ingratitude. Judge Stoker had given me Drake, and I would do this for him.

  It was dark by the time I reached home, but when I turned the back corner of the house, the kitchen window glowed with light. I halted, my stomach tightening.

  Sam had returned. My three days were up, and he was about to get down on one knee with a ring in his hand.

  And I would accept him.

  My heart beat heavily.

  I would accept him.

  But first, I would tell him everything—that I shot Mr. Blackshaw and sent my own mother to the gallows. That Father, Mr. Oliver, and Birdy had been murdered to hide my secret.

  I opened the door and entered. Across the shadowed room, Sam sat in the rocking chair, asleep, his head on his chest. But my attention was stolen by the reassembled painting on the table. How would I explain it? What had Sam thought? I looked to his face to find out—

  And uttered a little cry of surprise.

  It wasn’t Sam sleeping in the rocking chair. It was Rowan.

  27

  I took a tentative step closer.

  Rowan sat in the rocking chair, his eyes closed, his long legs splayed in front of him, his arms relaxed.

  He’d finally come. A whimper of relief rose in my chest.

  I feasted on the sight of him, tall and lean and real, asleep in my kitchen, bathed in the flickering light of the fire. He’d removed his jacket and neckcloth, and his dark hair had gone wavy, the way I liked it. He looked unkempt—like the Rowan who used to sit in my kitchen, watching me with heavy-lidded attraction, not the Rowan who hosted glittering dinner parties with his grandmother.