Girl at the Grave

by Teri Bailey Black

  “As is Miss Deluca,” Judge Stoker pointed out, enjoying this moment. “Valedictorian at one of the most demanding schools in the country. I think we can all agree now that Valentine is a disciplined student with a sharp intellect, deserving of a fine education.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw glowered, unwilling to agree to anything. And I realized this meeting had less to do with me than it did with them. Tonight marked the conclusion of a four-year war, and Judge Stoker was declaring victory. He hadn’t wanted me at commencement so he could see me receive my award but so Mrs. Blackshaw would be forced to witness it.

  “She even bested the governor’s daughter,” he crowed.

  “I never doubted her intelligence, Ezra, only her worthiness. Her mother was clever, and look what became of her.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Rowan making his way toward the back of the dining hall, behind the dais. When he reached the door to the music room, he turned and glanced back at me, tilting his head with meaning, then he disappeared inside.

  It was my chance to be alone with him, but my chest tightened, knowing the conversation that lay ahead.

  I turned back to Judge Stoker and found him bickering with Mrs. Blackshaw about the new science laboratory. I’d fulfilled my obligation; he no longer even seemed aware of me. And Mrs. Blackshaw hadn’t seemed to notice Rowan’s departure.

  I turned and made my way toward the back of the dining hall.

  32

  The music room was dark except for a golden shaft of light coming from the dining hall behind me. I paused to let my eyes adjust—

  And my hand was taken by Rowan’s, pulling me deeper into the dark room. His arm came around my waist, drawing me close. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he murmured, then his lips settled over mine. I tried to savor it, knowing it wouldn’t happen again for a while. But my head felt busy and my body rigid.

  Rowan lifted his head with a teasing smile. “You can relax now. Your speech is over.”

  “Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “I know.” His hands moved to my shoulders, gently caressing. “But everything is going to work out. Soon, we’ll be far away.”

  I needed to tell him.

  My heart tightened, wondering if I should also tell him what I’d guessed about his father—but no, not without a shred of evidence. He’d only get defensive, like he had about his grandmother. We would part angry. Or worse, he would believe me and not leave town.

  He grinned, unaware. “So, tell me, Valentine … London or Paris?”

  Tell him.

  “Or maybe we’ll just choose any ship with a name we like and see where it takes us.” His fingers worked the tension from my shoulders. “I wish I could make a withdrawal at the bank, but they’d tell her. I have enough for a few months, while we get settled. Then I’ll find work.”

  I frowned at him, confused. “I thought you wanted to study art.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “There’ll be time for that. First, I need a job. I don’t think you want to sleep in haystacks.” He kissed my forehead lightly.

  A job. Rowan knew Latin and advanced mathematics, but he’d never built a fence. Or learned a trade. If he was lucky, he’d find work as a bookkeeper—at a bank that he didn’t own, hunched over a desk for ten hours a day. That wasn’t his vision of Europe.

  But then, I hadn’t been in that vision.

  “Rowan—”

  “You’ll meet my mother’s family in Boston. I’ll leave a letter with them to mail to my grandmother after we leave. They’ll be happy to help us. They’ve never particularly liked my grandmother.”

  “Rowan … I have to tell you something.”

  His hands stilled on my shoulders, his expression suddenly wary. “What’s wrong?”

  I drew a breath. “I can’t go to Europe.”

  He stared at me, not moving.

  “I can’t run away. Everyone will think I did it, and the real killer will go free.”

  His hands fell from my shoulders, his eyes narrowing. “You still think my grandmother did it.”

  “She killed three people and wants me to hang for it. I won’t let that happen.”

  “Of course not,” he said with impatience. “That’s why we’re leaving.”

  “Running away,” I corrected. “Hiding for the rest of our lives. But I won’t hide anymore. I’m going to tell the truth about killing your father.”

  “Valentine—” he warned.

  “I’m going to tell Sheriff Crane tomorrow.”

  “That will just convince him that you’re guilty. You will hang, Valentine!”

  “I don’t think so,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “Judge Stoker is my benefactor here at Drake. He already knows I killed your father, and he doesn’t think I killed the others. He won’t convict me. And Sheriff Crane … he asks hard questions, but I get the feeling that he doesn’t think I did it. I’ll tell him everything, and then he’ll know enough to find the real killer.”

  Rowan released an annoyed breath. “It’s not my grandmother. I wish you would believe me about that.”

  “Well, if it’s someone else, we’ll discover that. Either way, when the real killer is arrested, I’ll no longer be at risk from this lying witness. We’ll be free, Rowan. We won’t have to spend the rest of our lives running and hiding. I’ll send word to Boston and you can return to Feavers Crossing.”

  “You don’t think I’m still going to Boston—that I’ll leave you here to hang?”

  “You have to,” I insisted. “I need those two weeks. You have to keep pretending, or your grandmother will tell that lying witness to speak up. She has to think you went to Boston to get the ring.”

  Rowan took a few restless steps away, then turned back, his hands on his hips. “So I’m supposed to sit around playing chess with my cousin while you’re getting my grandmother arrested for murder?”

  I stiffened. “If she killed them, she deserves it.”

  “She didn’t kill them! I keep telling you that!”

  “Then I won’t be able to prove it, will I?”

  A muscle in his jaw clenched and released. “You said you wanted to run away with me. I don’t understand why we can’t just get on a ship like we planned and leave all this behind.”

  “Because I can’t spend the rest of my life running and hiding from what I did!”

  “You didn’t do anything!”

  “I killed your father, Rowan!”

  The words hung between us, angry and horrifying and true.

  Rowan sighed, his expression softening. “You know I don’t care about that.”

  “But I do.” I swallowed. “Someone killed my father and friends because of what I did. I have to find their killer, and I have to confess to killing your father and clear my mother’s name. If I don’t … if I don’t, it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I can’t run away from this, Rowan. It’s inside me.”

  His expression turned wistful, acceptance settling over him. “I understand,” he said quietly. He turned and walked to a row of music stands. He crossed his arms, his back to me, then said in a low voice, “You can’t leave, but I can’t stay.”

  My heart tugged.

  He kept his back turned. “You don’t know how it’s been, these last few weeks, feeling her thumb on my life, pressing … and pressing. I’ve always known she was like that, but it just felt like loving concern.” He turned slowly to face me. “Now, I don’t even want her apprenticeship because I know it’s just another move in her game. While I’m at Harvard, she’ll find some way of twisting me back into becoming a lawyer. Before I know it, I’ll be Senator Blackshaw, fighting for her causes. I want my own life, not hers.”

  I went to him and placed a hand on his cheek. “I know,” I said gently. “That’s why you need to go to Europe.”

  His eyes shifted to mine, suddenly hopeful. “You’ll come?”

  “That’s your dream, Rowan, not mine. You need to roam through ancient castles and set up
an easel in Paris, not work ten hours a day so I’ll be comfortable.”

  He frowned, his head tilting. “What are you saying? You don’t … want to be with me anymore? You’ve changed how you feel?”

  “Never.” My hand slid behind his neck. “When you’re done exploring, you’ll come back to me. And while you’re away, I have some dreams of my own to follow.”

  “New York City and Alvina Lunt?”

  “Partly. I also need to meet someone named Richard DeVries.”

  “Who is he?”

  The whine of a violin being tuned wafted through the open door, reminding me that our time was short.

  “I’ll tell you sometime. Right now…” I pulled his head closer, and he came willingly. His kiss was familiar now, and I relaxed into it, savoring his touch and smell, knowing he would leave for Boston tomorrow and get on a ship, and I might not see him for years.

  The first song started, and our kiss became hungrier, our breaths more desperate. Rowan’s hands tightened on my back, unwilling to let go.

  I was a fool to send him away. He would stay if I asked.

  But Rowan needed to escape his past as much as I did. And he would thrive on his journey. Lounge in taverns with other young artists, rumpled and unshaven. Eat exotic foods. Sing foreign songs and dance to throbbing beats. In a year or two, he would return a different person—a lighter person, living his own life, not the one planned out for him.

  And he would find me.

  He rested his forehead against mine. “I’ll come by in the morning on my way. I’ll still leave you some money so you can go to New York.”

  “I have a little money of my own. I found a box under my father’s bed.”

  “And I’ll give you my uncle’s address. Keep in touch with him so I can find you.”

  “All right,” I whispered.

  “Valentine—” He pulled his head back to look at me, his brow furrowed with concern. “If you can’t find the killer in two weeks, you have to leave Feavers Crossing. Once my grandmother realizes I’m not coming back, she’ll tell that witness to come forward. So you have to leave town before then. You promise me?”

  “I promise.” I forced a weak smile. “I don’t want to hang.”

  Rowan bent for a final kiss, then separated himself. “I love you, Valentine.” He turned and walked out of the music room.

  I pressed my fingers to my lips, my heart beating heavily, trying to believe that I’d done the right thing. Music flowed from the dining hall, mingled with jovial voices and shuffling footsteps.

  A figure moved into the doorway, silhouetted against the glow of the dining hall—a black figure in stiff silk. There was no mistaking that regal bearing. My heart jolted, and I stepped back, knocking over a music stand with a clatter.

  Then I straightened and faced Mrs. Blackshaw.

  33

  We appraised one another from a distance in the shaft of light coming through the door.

  On the surface, Mrs. Blackshaw looked like the impressive woman I’d once admired—the woman who organized church picnics and wrote fiery letters to newspapers about the inhumanity of slavery.

  But in her eyes, I saw the cold gleam.

  She killed them.

  She came toward me, black silk rustling, and I smelled her perfume. “I will buy your house for more than it’s worth, plus give you an additional sum. More money than you can imagine. But you must leave Feavers Crossing and never communicate with my grandson again.”

  My spine straightened. She thought I would choose money over Rowan. I wished I could tell her what I thought of her vile bargain, but I had to keep her fooled for two more weeks. “It’s a tempting offer.”

  Her lip curled. “I thought it might interest you. I don’t know what schemes you have planned in that pretty little head of yours, but Rowan has other plans now, and you’ve become an unwelcome distraction.”

  “You’re the one with all the schemes, not me.”

  She stepped closer, her face darkening in the shadows. “Don’t poke the bear, Valentine. One word from me, and you will hang. I know your foul secret.”

  My temper sparked. “And I know yours!”

  She slapped my cheek, hard and unexpected, and I stumbled sideways.

  But I quickly straightened, my cheek burning, and met her icy stare. I spat the truth with repugnance. “Your son murdered Daniel Barron!”

  Her cheeks hollowed out.

  “Oh, yes,” I seethed. “I know all about that.”

  The blood seemed to drain from her face.

  Warm victory blazed through me. “Did he tell you after it happened, hoping you could fix it—his all-powerful mother?” My mind flew, pulling at pieces. “I’m guessing it wasn’t Nigel who paid Mr. Foley to cheat—it was you, wasn’t it? You orchestrated the entire thing. That’s why Foley was appointed headmaster a few years later. He helped your son cheat his way through Drake, and when Nigel murdered his best friend to keep it quiet, you dried his tears and hid his black secret.”

  Mrs. Blackshaw said nothing, her eyes wide and terrified, her chest rising and falling.

  “But your son betrayed you, didn’t he? After everything you’d done for him, he fell in love with Isabella Barron—the child of the man you despised. You must have been relieved when she rejected his marriage proposal and left town. Nigel dutifully married the girl you’d chosen for him, but she died giving birth to Rowan, and when Isabella returned to town with a husband and baby, Nigel went right back to his obsession.”

  “She was the one obsessed with him!” Mrs. Blackshaw spat. “She wanted his money! She wanted revenge for her father’s financial stupidity!”

  I shook my head. I remembered Nigel Blackshaw waiting for my mother in the woods. She’d avoided him at first, but over time, his persistence had won her over. She’d been so desperately lonely.

  “She agreed to divorce my father and run away with Nigel, but you couldn’t let that happen, could you? You came to our house to stop them.” My thoughts darted. I hadn’t seen her, so she must have come earlier. “You told my mother the one thing you knew would turn her against your son—that he’d murdered her twin brother.” I remembered Mama’s tearful fury, and it all fit. It wasn’t something she’d known for a long time, but a new discovery. She’d been out of her mind with grief and rage because she’d just learned that the man she’d planned to run away with had murdered her beloved brother.

  Mrs. Blackshaw’s voice fell to a rasping hiss. “You can’t prove anything.”

  But I felt powerful with certainty. “That’s why she pointed a gun. That’s why your son died—because you revealed his black secret!”

  Mrs. Blackshaw’s cheeks swelled with emotion, then hollowed out again, making her look like a corpse—a woman who died eleven years ago but continued to walk and breathe. A woman who blamed herself for her son’s death.

  But I felt no pity. “My father heard everything that night and knew the truth about Nigel, so you paid him to keep quiet. But he never spent your blood money. You were the one who couldn’t keep your mouth shut! You told Mr. Oliver—then poisoned him because he knew too much! You murdered my father!”

  She stood taller, suddenly defiant. “I had nothing to do with their deaths.”

  I didn’t believe her. “My mother knew the truth, so you blackmailed Judge Stoker into hanging her quickly, even though you knew she was innocent.”

  “Innocent?” Mrs. Blackshaw gave a hard laugh, her strength returning. “Isabella Barron was a spoiled tramp of a girl, out for revenge. She tempted my son—and then shot him!”

  “My mother didn’t shoot anyone, as you well know! According to Mr. Oliver, you saw everything! I was the one holding the gun! We both know that, so let’s not pretend!”

  Mrs. Blackshaw’s face turned to stone—all except her eyes, which flickered with confusion. Her chest rose and fell. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were there! You saw me pick up the gun!”

  She gave a jerky sh
ake of her head, her face contorting with shock and bewilderment. Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “What are you saying? What did you do?”

  The air seemed to leave my lungs. She didn’t know. Rowan had been right. His grandmother didn’t know I killed her son.

  But I’d just told her.

  Her eyes darted as she tried to make sense of it. “But … you were only a child. Why would you—? Why would you do that?”

  I took a shaky step back, trying to swallow my panic. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean for the gun to go off. I just picked it up and it fired.”

  “But … Isabella confessed.” Mrs. Blackshaw shook her head, confused—then her gaze snapped to me. “To protect you! And you said nothing as she hanged—your own mother!” Her lips curled in disgust. “Did Mr. Oliver find out? Is that why you killed him?”

  My heart jolted. The world had spun upside down. “No—that was you! You poisoned Mr. Oliver—you killed my father and Birdy!”

  “Your father!” Her face twisted with revulsion. “You murdered your own father, then left him to rot for months—while you slept a few yards away. You are a vile, loathsome girl. But this time you won’t get away with it. I will not rest until you are cold in the ground!”

  My heart thundered in my chest. I’d been so sure it was her—and she was so sure it was me, like Rowan had said. “I didn’t,” I protested. “I didn’t kill my father—or Mr. Oliver—or Birdy. I thought it was you—I thought it was you!”

  But she didn’t seem to hear. “And now you seek to destroy my grandson. But no more! I will tell Rowan the truth tonight—that his pretty little sweetheart isn’t as innocent as he imagines! You killed his father!”

  I shook my head, still trying to believe Mrs. Blackshaw hadn’t killed anyone. “Rowan … Rowan already knows. He doesn’t care.”

  “You may have bewitched my grandson, but you cannot bewitch the entire world!” She pointed an angry finger at the door to the dining hall. “I will enter that room and tell everyone the truth—that their precious valedictorian is a killer!”