Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  “For no reason.”

  My lips couldn’t stop reaching for his. He smelled like his masculine soap and fine linen and wool. And Rowan’s own intoxicating scent, which was easier to find near his neck. My lips kissed the skin in front of his ear, then lower. Then lower still. His neckcloth got in the way, so I slid my fingers inside the silk and loosened it.

  “My grandmother says I have an artistic temperament.”

  “I like it.” The neckcloth fell open, and my lips found the hollow of his throat.

  Rowan bent his head and tugged my lips back to his. We kissed slowly, savoring.

  “I was afraid I’d dreamed it,” he breathed.

  “This is a dream.”

  Finally, I gave a contented shudder and settled my cheek against his shoulder, his arms enfolding me. “I felt a little jealous myself,” I admitted. “Watching you dance with Philly.”

  Rowan gave an apologetic laugh, his chest rumbling under my ear. “I couldn’t even dance, I was so aware of you. I kept turning the wrong way. Everyone keeps asking what I’m doing after graduation, and I don’t know what to say. All I can think about is you.” He looked down, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. “So … does this mean you’ve decided to go to Europe with me?”

  “Yes,” I murmured. I closed my eyes, trying to close my doubts with them.

  “This morning, I got us more time,” Rowan said, his finger turning around a curl. “I convinced my grandmother to let me go to Boston to get my mother’s wedding ring. My uncle has her things. I’ll stay for two weeks to visit my relatives, then return and ask Philly to marry me.”

  Just hearing him say those words brought a tightness to my chest.

  “At least … that’s what I told her. I wanted the two weeks for you, Valentine, so you have time to think about it and be sure. Time to pack your things. I’ll leave money so you can take the stagecoach to Boston. I’ll book our passage on a ship, and by the time my grandmother realizes I’m not coming back, we’ll be halfway across the Atlantic.”

  Running away from a crime I didn’t commit, while the true killer—Mrs. Blackshaw—never faced justice.

  The hand playing with my hair stilled.

  “You’re not worried about…” He hesitated. “I will marry you, just as soon as we’re able. You know that? I won’t expect us to … live as husband and wife until we’ve said our vows.”

  “I know.”

  He leaned back to see me better, his eyes questioning. “What’s wrong?”

  I carefully separated myself and stepped back, drawing a breath. “I think your grandmother murdered them, Rowan.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  I folded my arms and continued in a rush. “We know someone else was there when I shot your father. It must have been her. That’s why she hates me so much.”

  He frowned, cocking his head. “No … I told you … your grandfather—”

  “She blackmailed Judge Stoker into hanging my mother quickly. She told Mr. Oliver my mother was innocent—and my father got angry—and she killed him—”

  “Stop!” Rowan ordered, raising his palms. “You’re not making sense.”

  “But it does make sense! Don’t you see? It’s the only thing that does make sense! That’s why she’s made up this witness seeing me at the stable. She wants me to take the blame for what she did.”

  Rowan gave a strained laugh, stepping back. “You’re serious? You’re accusing my grandmother of murder? My grandmother?”

  My tone stiffened. “She’s capable of it. You’ve seen that yourself these last few weeks. She wants me to hang even though I’m innocent.”

  “Because she believes it! I told you—someone came to her—”

  “No one came to her, Rowan! She invented that story to turn you against me!”

  He gave a short laugh, turning away. He took a few aimless steps, then came back. His voice dropped, struggling to remain calm. “I know she can be manipulative, but in her own strange way, she’s trying to save me. She believes you’re the killer, Valentine. You should see her face when she talks about it. She becomes a different person. And she believes your mother killed my father. Just the name Isabella Barron sends her into her room for the rest of the day. And she does believe this person who says they saw you entering the stable with Birdy.”

  “There is no such person,” I argued. “Because I never entered the stable until the night I found them.”

  “I know,” Rowan said with measured patience. “It’s the killer trying to throw suspicion on you.”

  The killer was his grandmother, but I could see that he didn’t intend to believe it—not without evidence. “She wants me to hang for her crime, to keep us apart.”

  “Well, that isn’t going to work, is it?” He drew me into his arms. “We’ll go far away, where it’s safe.”

  I tried to relax against him, but my thoughts thrummed. How could we be safe with murder charges hanging over me? We would have to hide for the rest of our lives, while Mrs. Blackshaw remained free, never facing justice. The deaths of the people I loved would never be answered.

  Rowan’s hand slid up the back of my neck, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “I know this is sudden for you.”

  He would lose Harvard and an apprenticeship with a top architect. All his friends. Even his wealth.

  “Are you sure this is what you want, Rowan?”

  “Very sure. But you have to decide for yourself, Valentine. I’ll be in Boston for two weeks, giving you time to think. I hope you’ll join me. But if you don’t…” His lips brushed my forehead. “I’ll understand. I’ll return to Feavers Crossing and arrange for my grandmother to buy your property. You can take the money and start a new life somewhere else, with no murder charges. Not haunted by the past.”

  He would propose to Philly.

  Absurdly, that possibility terrified me more than the hangman’s noose.

  I looked up at him. “I’ll come to Boston.”

  His blue eyes burned, and everything inside me rose. He lowered his mouth over mine and kissed me with a power that pulled the air from my lungs and weakened my knees. Only his arms kept me upright. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you too.” I just wasn’t sure if it was enough.

  30

  I meandered home slowly, hugging my chest, trying to be happy. Trying to be sure that running away was the right thing to do.

  But my head beat as loudly as my heart. In so many ways, running away felt wrong.

  As I neared my house, I saw smoke curling from the chimney. I peeked through the window and saw Sam pacing in front of the fire, regretting his temper of the night before. Probably with a ring in his pocket.

  I couldn’t tell Sam the truth, but I wouldn’t tell him a lie. I couldn’t even tell him goodbye when I disappeared.

  And I couldn’t face him at this moment, with my heart so full and empty at the same time.

  I turned and hurried away. When I reached the road, I broke into a run, lifting my skirt, overcome by a desperate, clawing need to escape.

  To escape myself, not Sam.

  I ran past the graveyard and church. Past a line of startled geese. Past houses that smelled of simmering dinners and loving families. My lungs begged for air, and sweat rolled down my temples.

  But I couldn’t stop.

  When I was younger, I used to run in the woods, just to see how far I could go. I loved the feel of the solid earth beneath my feet, the rhythmic pulsing of my own heart, the power of my own legs. But I hadn’t run this far in a long time. I turned down a narrow side road and slowed to a sustainable trot, my legs finding a steady rhythm. My feet pounded, and my heart thundered.

  No thinking. Just panting. Just moving.

  My thoughts fell behind, unable to keep up.

  I turned down another lonely road, hardly aware of where I was going. I saw a wagon approaching and darted across a newly plowed field to avoid it. I reached an old apple orchard and continued through it, swerving
around trees. When a footpath appeared, I took it, weaving my way through dense underbrush.

  I stopped abruptly at the river, startled. I hadn’t even realized I was running this way. But the sight of the rippling water calmed me. I placed my hands on my hips and drew a deep, strengthening breath. Then I turned and walked along the riverbank.

  Gradually, my heartbeat slowed and my breathing returned to normal, and I allowed myself to think.

  I’d been trying to run from my past all winter, but it had kept up, and it was time to stop running.

  I couldn’t go to Europe with Rowan. His grandmother had killed Father and Mr. Oliver and Birdy, and I couldn’t run from her lies while she escaped justice. I had to stay and prove what she’d done.

  Somehow.

  I walked along the river, my thoughts swirling like the eddies along the bank. How could I possibly prove Mrs. Blackshaw’s guilt? She was the most well-respected woman in Feavers Crossing. As Rowan had put it, it didn’t matter if people loved her or feared her, the result was the same: she had their loyalty. She led an army of saints. What power could I possibly wield against her?

  I stopped short, inhaling a breath. Because suddenly, I knew the answer. An answer so simple, I should have thought of it months ago. My heart lifted in amazement.

  I would undo what Mrs. Blackshaw had done. She wanted the truth buried—so I would unbury it. I would tell the world that Isabella Barron Deluca was innocent and I’d killed Nigel Blackshaw.

  My pulse raced. I stared out across the river, my eyes wide.

  I wasn’t sure why my mother’s innocence mattered so much to Mrs. Blackshaw, but it did. I’d thought it was to hide the fact that she’d blackmailed Judge Stoker, but suddenly, that seemed too shallow a reason to murder three people. Judge Stoker was never going to reveal that secret.

  There had to be something else.

  On the surface, the river looked clean and bright, reflecting sunlight. But deeper, I saw murky silt—and I remembered the look in Father’s eyes when I’d mentioned my mother’s innocence. Something dark and secretive lurking along the bottom of that tragic night. After learning what I’d done, I’d assumed it was me. But Mrs. Blackshaw hadn’t kept quiet for my sake.

  She hid some other secret connected to her son’s death. And my silence helped her.

  The truth was my weapon. When I revealed what I’d done, whatever dark secret Mrs. Blackshaw was trying to keep buried would rise to the surface. She would crack, and I would force a wedge, and somehow I would prove that she was the killer.

  My name would be cleared.

  And Mama’s.

  I released a weak laugh. By admitting what I’d done, I would free myself.

  I wouldn’t run away to Europe. I would stay and face my past.

  * * *

  When I returned to the house, Sam was gone. But the next day, I came home from school to find a cluster of wildflowers on my doorstep, with a note.

  IM GON TIL FRIDAY.

  PLEASE THINK KINDLY OF ME.

  IM SORRY PLEASE FORGIV ME. I LOVE YOU.

  LOVE SAM

  His broken, blocky penmanship brought a lump of affection to my throat. Sam had hated the strict confines of school, quitting at age twelve. But he was smarter than his penmanship implied. And wise beyond his years in ways that mattered: hard work and loyalty and loving with all his heart.

  I was grateful for a few days to myself, to not have to dance around answers.

  I had enough on my mind.

  Judge Stoker wouldn’t be happy when I revealed that he’d hanged an innocent woman. I decided to wait until after graduation so he could see me awarded as valedictorian before the world knew that I’d killed Nigel Blackshaw.

  But the day after graduation, I would go to Sheriff Crane and tell him everything. Once he understood why Father and the others had been murdered, he would find the real killer—Mrs. Blackshaw.

  Of course, he might also arrest me, thinking I’d killed once, so I must have killed again. But I was willing to take that risk.

  No more hiding.

  Rowan and I crossed paths a few times on campus and shared a private smile, but he was careful to avoid anything that might draw his grandmother’s attention. In the evenings, I listened for the door, wondering if he would dare to sneak a visit. Part of me dreaded it, not wanting to tell him that I’d changed my mind about going to Europe. But he didn’t come, and I used the time to work on my oration. I wrote and crossed off, trying to force everything else from my mind.

  I went through my mother’s old wardrobe and found a pale blue gown that I liked, but it wasn’t quite fancy enough for commencement—and undoubtedly old-fashioned, as Lucy would notice. I brought it to school to ask Miss Dibble’s advice, and with a little gasp of excitement, she insisted on making the alterations herself as a graduation gift. I stayed after school so she could pin and tuck, then she ordered me to leave it in her hands.

  Friday evening finally arrived, and I knocked on Miss Dibble’s door above her brother’s tailoring shop.

  “Valentine!” she gushed, ushering me inside. “I’m so excited! I’ve hardly eaten all day. I wish I could see you on the stand, but I’m not invited, of course, being only a sewing teacher. Follow me. I hope you like it. I hope it fits.”

  I gasped when I saw the pale blue gown spread across her bed. “Oh, Miss Dibble—it’s beautiful!”

  “Do you like it? I’ve altered the sleeves and neckline. Now undress; we haven’t much time.”

  The icy blue fabric slid over my skin, silkier than anything I’d ever worn before, and when I looked in the mirror, I caught my breath. It was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen.

  “The perfect fit,” Miss Dibble breathed, adjusting the neckline. The bodice fit snugly, dropping to a point above a gathered skirt. “Now, sit at my dressing table and I’ll see what I can do about that hair of yours.”

  I sat carefully, the skirt billowing around me.

  “Your hair would be the envy of every girl in the school if you just tamed it properly. A little trim now and then. There is just far too much of it.” Miss Dibble gathered my massive curls in her hands and twisted them up, arranging them one way, then another. She let them fall with a sigh. “I hardly know where to start.” She picked up a hairbrush and began forcing it through. “Your speech is memorized, I trust?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my head forward against the tugs.

  “Your mother was always good at recitation. But Daniel … well, Daniel was masterful. He excelled at all schoolwork.” Her voice tightened, as it always did when she talked about my mother’s twin brother. “He should have been valedictorian, of course, everyone knew that, but they gave it to Nigel Blackshaw.”

  “Because his mother was on the board of trustees,” I guessed, not surprised. The brush caught on a tangle, and I winced.

  “Partly, yes.”

  Something in her tone made me look up at the mirror. “What do you mean?”

  Her lips twisted, holding back the answer.

  My heart beat faster. Miss Dibble knew something about Nigel Blackshaw.

  “Daniel was my uncle,” I reminded her quietly.

  Her eyes darted up to the mirror. “And he was a lovely boy,” she said with feeling. “If they’d just given him that award, everything would have been different. He and I—”

  I waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  She lifted her chin. “Nigel cheated.”

  “Cheated at Drake?” I blinked, startled. Rowan was a good student, so I’d assumed his father was as well.

  “He had that side to him. We all knew it.” Miss Dibble returned to brushing. “He used to steal things when we were children. Just little things. Stick candy or a pocketknife. Daniel used to scold him, but they were still friends. Nigel was a fun playmate, and that’s all that matters at that age.”

  “Daniel and Nigel Blackshaw were friends?”

  “Oh, yes, they did everything together.” Miss Dibble lowered the brush and dumped
a box of hairpins on the dressing table. “Until their second year at Drake. They had a falling out and barely spoke after that. Isabella and I didn’t know what it was about, but then Nigel was announced as valedictorian and Daniel told us everything. He was livid. He said Nigel had cheated his way through mathematics with the help of a teacher—and you’ll never guess who.”

  I waited, my breath held.

  “Jethro Foley,” she said with hushed importance.

  I frowned, unable to believe it. “Mr. Foley, the headmaster?”

  Miss Dibble twisted my curls up. “He wasn’t the headmaster back then, just a teacher. Nigel kept outscoring Daniel on exams, so Daniel snuck into Mr. Foley’s office and figured it out. Mrs. Blackshaw was always bragging about her brilliant son, and Nigel couldn’t bear to disappoint her, so he paid Mr. Foley to falsify his scores.”

  I wasn’t surprised. And I suddenly wondered, “Does Rowan deserve to be valedictorian?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s much more studious than his father. They aren’t at all the same.” Miss Dibble slid a hairpin into place. “Daniel never told anyone about the cheating, out of loyalty, I suppose. But when Nigel was announced as valedictorian, well, Daniel was incensed. He was going to tell the headmaster, Mr. Gibbons, the next day. It would have been a huge scandal. Nigel would have been expelled a few days before graduation, and Mr. Foley would have been fired. And Mrs. Blackshaw—well! She would have been mortified! Her brilliant son, a cheat! She would have denied it, of course, and resigned from the board.”

  “But none of that happened.”

  “No.” Miss Dibble’s expression tightened. She took a moment to force a rebellious hairpin into place. “Daniel died that night, so he never got the chance to tell the headmaster.”

  I caught my breath—and saw the same suspicion in Miss Dibble’s eyes. “Do you think the two things were connected—Nigel’s cheating and the fire?”

  She hesitated a heartbeat too long. “I don’t see how. Daniel fell asleep at his desk. A maid saw him and shut the door. A while later, they saw the smoke. He must have knocked the candle over. They opened the door and the flames poured out.”