“Yes.” I sat straighter, leaning against the headboard. “That’s exactly what I want—to clear my mother’s name.”
She gave a short laugh. “And that’s why you’ve said nothing for more than a decade?”
“I didn’t know—not until recently.” It dawned on me that I’d never apologized. I swallowed against the fire in my throat. “I’m sorry I killed your son. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know how sorry I am.”
She didn’t reply at once, fighting some inner emotion. Her jaw clenched and released. Finally, she said, “I have my own regrets from that night. But that isn’t why I came today. I came to make a deal with you, Valentine.”
My stomach tightened. Another of Mrs. Blackshaw’s twisted bargains. “I’m not interested.”
“Do you love my grandson?”
The question caught me off guard. “Yes,” I admitted. “Very much.”
“Then you want what’s best for him.” Her eyebrows arched.
I felt the trap widening, but wasn’t sure how to avoid it. “Of course.”
“Then you will not tell him what his father did. Not ever.”
I shook my head. “Rowan deserves to know. He’s always wondered why his father died.”
“You think it benefits him to know that his father did something … so horrible?”
I couldn’t answer. My head throbbed. None of this seemed real—Mrs. Blackshaw sitting at the edge of my bed. Mrs. Henny dead on her kitchen floor.
“You think it benefits Rowan to be known forever as the child of a murderer? You know that life, Valentine. Would you wish it on him?” Her shrewd eyes held mine. “What do you think will happen to Blackshaw Bank after our name has been ripped apart by scandal? You think wealthy men will continue to hand their money over to the Blackshaws when we’re known for murder and deceit?”
“Rowan doesn’t plan on working at the bank,” I said weakly.
“Blackshaw Bank will pay for Rowan to go to Harvard and his architectural apprenticeship. Would you steal that from him?”
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure. When Rowan returned from Europe, he might want those things.
Her silky voice washed over me. “At my core, I am a businesswoman, Valentine. I evaluate one asset over another. Last night, I sat up half the night evaluating the assets of my own life, and without question, Rowan is my greatest asset. My most valuable treasure. And I want him back. We’ve done nothing but quarrel for months. I’ve allowed an old wound to fester and affect my current happiness. Your grandfather used me poorly, but it was a long time ago, and it is time to move on. I want my grandson back.”
I held my breath.
She continued in her smooth voice. “This morning, Rowan left to visit his mother’s family, and I know he does not intend to come back.”
My heart jolted in alarm.
Her lips tilted in a sad smile. “I see more than he thinks. Last night, he never even glanced at Philly, and then the two of you disappeared into that dark room. This morning, he packed his bags rather heavily for such a short visit. When I saw that he’d taken the sketch his mother drew of his father—well, I knew he wasn’t coming home. I imagine the two of you plan to meet somewhere, then disappear where his evil grandmother can’t find you.”
I didn’t respond, my chest tight with dread.
“Well, there’s no need for that now. I am offering you my grandson, Valentine.”
I didn’t believe her. I forced my fevered mind to focus. “In return for what?”
“You must keep Nigel’s secret.”
“No,” I said at once.
“Daniel Barron’s death was a lifetime ago. Revealing what happened doesn’t help anyone; it only hurts Rowan.”
I considered that, my heart pounding heavily.
“You must also keep quiet about Mrs. Henny, of course. We can’t explain why she murdered two people without revealing the blackmail … which leads to Nigel’s mistake … which brings us right back to where we started—both of us wanting what’s best for Rowan.”
I shook my head, wanting to disagree, but unable to think past her logic. A bead of sweat slid down my temple.
She continued smoothly. “This also happens to be what’s best for you, Valentine. No one will know you killed Mrs. Henny. No nasty murder charges. And, more importantly, now that my arrangement with Mrs. Henny has reached an end, I can allow Rowan to marry whomever he likes.”
I wanted to believe her. With Mrs. Blackshaw’s approval, Rowan wouldn’t have to give up everything for me. He could still go to Europe, but return to both me and his grandmother. His friends. Even his wealth. But I knew there must be a trap inside the promise.
“You’re just saying this now to keep me quiet. You think a girl like me brings too much scandal for a Blackshaw.”
“Oh, gossip settles as quickly as it rises. Your school award helps. I’ll talk about how impressed I was by your oration. How wrong I’ve been. I’ll rebuild your reputation one tea party at a time. You’ll be amazed by how quickly everyone agrees once they’ve seen us sitting together in church.” She straightened my quilt. “Rowan’s mentioned your interest in higher learning. I know of an excellent girls’ seminary not far from Harvard, with a curriculum that rivals the boys’. I could write a few letters on your behalf. Pay your tuition and arrange for housing.”
I swallowed against my sore throat. My entire being yearned for what she offered—to be accepted into Rowan’s life so he didn’t need to abandon it. To attend a good school near him.
“Of course,” Mrs. Blackshaw added carefully, “I must insist you keep quiet about your mother’s innocence as well. We can’t have people talking about you shooting Rowan’s father, just as I’m trying to rebuild your reputation. It would undermine everything.”
My fragile hopes tumbled. I shook my head. “I have to clear my mother’s name.”
Her tone softened. “She is gone, Valentine. Your sacrifice won’t save her, only mar your own future. Learn from my mistake. There’s no reward in holding on to old wounds, only a bitter heart.” She took my hand in hers. “You impressed me last night, Valentine—not only with your speech but by standing up to me. I think the two of us could get along quite well together, once we set our minds to it.”
My head throbbed. Her price was silence. I would be trapped forever inside my wall of secrets.
But … was that so terrible if the reward was Rowan?
“I’ll let you rest. You’ll think more clearly once the fever has broken. In the meantime, I’ll keep Sheriff Crane away. Oh, and I’ll send a message to Rowan at his uncle’s house, letting him know you’ve taken ill. I’m sure he’ll rush home.”
I didn’t protest. Because I wanted him home.
Because I wanted the dream Mrs. Blackshaw had just given me.
36
My body burns with fever, drenched in sweat. My nightgown clings to me. I kick the quilt away … then shiver and claw for it again, my teeth chattering. Mama wipes my brow and helps me drink cool water.
Only, it isn’t Mama. It’s Mrs. Blackshaw.
She fades away.
I dream of Mrs. Henny’s wild fury … and Father’s frozen corpse … and Birdy. I hear Mr. Oliver’s last gurgling word. Poison. I dream of Mr. Blackshaw falling backward, his black cloak billowing, his startled eyes looking at me … looking at me.
I hear Mama laughing as the two of us pull weeds in the garden. “Look, Valentine, a fat carrot.”
“Valentine…” A gentle hand shakes my shoulder, and I blink myself awake. Mrs. Blackshaw bends over me. “Can you stand? Just for a moment.” Behind her, I see a maid and manservant in uniforms.
Mrs. Blackshaw helps me stand as my mattress is taken away and a new, fat mattress with clean ticking put in its place. The maid spreads clean linens over it, and I’m allowed to lie down. My head lands on a downy pillow. A soft blanket is pulled up to my waist. “Thank you,” I whisper. I’ve never known such comfort.
Dr. W
ellington comes and examines me with kind eyes and gentle hands, murmuring instructions to Mrs. Blackshaw. Thick, brown medicine is spooned into my mouth.
I sleep and do not dream.
I awake to a single candle burning. Mrs. Blackshaw sleeps in an armchair near my bed—the chair from Father’s room.
He wasn’t my father.
I slide into darkness.
I hear Father’s voice and force my eyes open … but it’s Sheriff Crane standing at the foot of my bed, murmuring with Mrs. Blackshaw. He looks concerned. My entire body aches. Every joint, every bone, even my skin.
I close my eyes.
“Can you manage a little broth?” Mrs. Blackshaw asks the next time I wake. Orange sunset comes through the window. Another day gone. The second or third? She spoons broth into my mouth, rich and flavorful, then helps me change into a clean nightgown—too white to be mine. She washes my face and brushes my long curls and braids them.
This is what it feels like to have a mother.
“Your fever has lessened,” she says gently. “You just need to rest.”
“Rowan?” I ask hoarsely. If she hasn’t written to him, he will board a ship and disappear.
“Shh, you’ll see him soon. Take this medicine.”
I swallow a bitter spoonful and cough. She wipes my mouth, then helps me lie down. The bed holds me like a mother’s embrace. I am not alone. I am not afraid.
I sigh with contentment and sleep.
37
My mind awoke all at once, my eyes snapping open to murky daylight. I closed my eyes and burrowed into the downy mattress, trying to return to oblivion.
But my mind felt fully alert. I finally gave in and sat up, groaning at the stiffness. I tilted my neck to loosen it—and saw Father’s empty armchair. I sat still, listening, and sensed that I was alone in the house.
I saw Dr. Wellington’s brown bottle of medicine and knew that it had helped me sleep. For how long? Three days at least, maybe four. Mrs. Blackshaw had left a pitcher of water and cup on the nightstand. I tried to pour, but my hand shook so badly, I drank straight from the pitcher in thirsty gulps.
I rose slowly, testing my strength. I found my knitted shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders, then padded to the staircase. I descended carefully, clutching the handrail.
When I reached the kitchen, I swayed and blinked. The room looked gloomy, darkened by heavy clouds outside. Through the window, I saw a drizzling mist.
I considered starting a fire but doubted I would be downstairs long enough to enjoy it.
The wooden gun box and envelope of money were gone. In their place, someone had left a basket of food: a wheel of cheese, a cluster of strawberries, a fluffy loaf of bread. I saw a folded note with my name written on it, tucked behind the bread. I stared at it, blinking slowly … then recognized the handwriting. I whimpered in relief and hurried to it.
Dear Valentine,
I am distressed by your illness, but my grandmother assures me you are on the mend. She is quite protective, not allowing me to wake you.
I would rather tell you in person, but you must know at once—Mr. Frye has been arrested. He murdered your father, Mr. Oliver, and Birdy—and now, poor Mrs. Henny. He will be hanged later today, and this ordeal will be over. Mrs. Henny’s death has shaken my grandmother and softened her heart toward you—as you see by her kind nursing. I will tell you all when I see you next, but I have never felt so free. The killer has been found, and people know it is not you, Valentine.
Love, Rowan
I groaned, leaning both hands on the table to steady myself.
Suddenly, the web was visible, no longer hidden behind gentle touches and beautiful promises.
Mrs. Blackshaw had kept me drugged and sleeping while Mr. Frye was arrested and tried for murder. She knew he had nothing to do with the deaths, but he made a convenient scapegoat. He’d been in the house and probably tracked blood on his shoes. No one would doubt his guilt; Sam’s father was known for his violent temper. All Mrs. Blackshaw had to do was keep me sleeping until it was too late. Once I woke up, I wouldn’t dare admit that I was the one who’d pushed Mrs. Henny into the stove.
Frightened into silence—again.
And beholden to Mrs. Blackshaw to keep my secret—forever.
I glanced at the rainy window, my head swimming. Sam’s father was a bully of a man, but he didn’t deserve to hang for murders he didn’t commit.
I had to stop it.
I half ran, half crawled up the staircase. I yanked off the pretty nightgown that didn’t belong to me and pulled on one of my own plain dresses. My fingers shook as I did the buttons. I sat on the downy mattress and pulled on my shoes, resisting my body’s need to lie down.
This time, I must get there in time.
I stumbled down the staircase and out the front door. Cold rain hit my face. My feet trampled over the ground where Mr. Blackshaw had bled and died. I pushed through the broken gate with a hand as white as a corpse.
I ran.
Past the silent houses of my neighbors. Past the graveyard with its weeping headstones. Past the rectory and stone church. My foot landed in a puddle, and I nearly fell, but I drew a sobbing breath and ran on. Every stride was an effort. Every heartbeat a pounding drum. My dress clung to my legs, soaking wet. My face throbbed with cold. I should have worn a coat, but it was too late for that.
Too late.
Too late.
Did Sam’s father already dangle from a rope, his eyes staring fixedly? Did tears of rain already slide down his slack cheeks?
The streets of Feavers Crossing seemed eerily deserted. I ran past the Duncans’ bakery. Past Utley General Goods. I staggered to a stop to catch my breath—and saw Blackshaw Bank with its dark, unblinking windows. I growled in fury and ran again.
As I neared the jailhouse, I saw townspeople on their way to the hanging. I darted around them, my shoes splashing. The crowd thickened in front of me, then became a wall. I stopped, struggling to breathe, craning my neck to see past the dark coats. In the distance, I saw the wooden gallows.
Mama.
I groaned and pushed my way through wet wool. A black umbrella blocked my view. “Let me through,” I pleaded. I stood on tiptoe, my heart racing—and saw Mr. Frye on the platform, a rope around his neck—but standing, not dangling. Breathing, not dead. I sobbed in relief. The new rector, Mr. Newland, stood beside him, reading scripture in his deep voice.
“He didn’t do it!” I cried, but my voice came out smaller than I intended. I squeezed my way between dark coats. “Please,” I begged. I pushed myself through—and stumbled forward at the front, falling to the wet paving stones in front of the gallows. My exhausted body longed to stay there, but I forced myself to my hands and knees … heaved a breath … and climbed to my feet.
I inhaled and forced the air from my lungs. “Mr. Frye is innocent!”
Mr. Newland’s prayer halted. Mr. Frye stared at me with wide eyes, his head in the noose, his hands bound behind him. In the crowd, voices murmured.
I steadied myself, then raised my voice. “Mr. Frye didn’t kill Mrs. Henny! He wasn’t even there! It was me—I pushed her—to defend myself!”
Mr. Frye gave a triumphant cry. “I told you! It was her, just like I said!”
“She killed them!” Sam’s mother shrieked from the far end of the gallows. She looked even smaller and more browbeaten than usual, dressed in black for her husband’s hanging. Her six large sons stirred around her like angry bees—including Sam, who looked shocked to see me.
Sheriff Crane grasped my arm. “Valentine, what are you doing here? This is no sight for you.”
I turned to him, relieved; Sheriff Crane had the power to stop this. “Mrs. Henny was the killer, not Mr. Frye. She poisoned them—and killed Birdy. Mr. Frye didn’t do it.”
“You’re mad with fever. Go home.” He prodded me toward the crowd.
I jerked my arm away, frantic. “You must listen to me! Mr. Frye didn’t do it! I’m the one who
pushed Mrs. Henny!”
Sheriff Crane squeezed my arm, dropping his voice in low warning. “Go home, Valentine, before this gets out of hand. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
He didn’t believe me. I swayed, light-headed. I was too late—again. The world tilted, and I closed my eyes to keep from falling.
“Valentine!” Rowan called.
I opened my eyes, whimpering in relief when I saw him hurrying toward me from the jailhouse door. Above him, Mrs. Blackshaw stood horrified at a second-floor window, her hands pressed against the glass. She shook her head, desperate to stop me.
But I’d woken up.
Rowan pulled me into his arms, nearly knocking me over, then quickly pulled back. “You’re soaked. You should be home in bed.”
“Mrs. Henny did it,” I told him in a hoarse croak.
His brow creased. “You’re confused. It was Mr. Frye. Come on, I’ll take you home. You shouldn’t be out in this rain.” He took my arm.
“Proceed!” Sheriff Crane called to the executioner.
I looked up, horrified, yanking myself away from Rowan. “You can’t do this! Mr. Frye is innocent!”
“It was her!” Mr. Frye cried, panicking. He fought against the rope that bound his wrists—trying to not pull against the rope around his neck. “I saw the blood on her! I didn’t do it!”
“Hang them both!” a man shouted.
I whirled to face the crowd. “You must listen to me! Mr. Frye didn’t kill anyone! It was Mrs. Henny! She killed my father and Mr. Oliver—she poisoned them because of Nigel!” I drew a breath and forced my quavering voice to rise. “Nigel Blackshaw murdered Daniel Barron! Mrs. Henny has been blackmailing Mrs. Blackshaw—because she knew—”
“Lies!” Mrs. Blackshaw shrieked from the jailhouse doorway, her eyes wide and terrified.
I looked at her—and something hardened inside me. She’d kept me drugged for days so she could control my secret. But now, I controlled hers. I straightened and faced the crowd. “Nigel Blackshaw murdered my uncle, Daniel Barron—and Mrs. Blackshaw knew it! She’s been paying Mrs. Henny to keep quiet!”
Girl at the Grave Page 28