“She’s lying!” Mrs. Blackshaw screeched. Her eyes darted across the damp faces in front of us. “She lies to protect herself! She’s a killer—just like her mother!”
“My mother…” I drew on my last bit of strength, shouting it for everyone to hear. “My mother was innocent! She never killed anyone! I am the one who shot Nigel Blackshaw! It was my fault! She confessed to protect me!”
The crowd erupted in noise and movement. On the platform, Mr. Frye shouted in furious panic, fighting against his ropes. The Frye boys swarmed toward their father on the platform—all except Sam, who stared at me. Mrs. Blackshaw screamed in fury. Rowan tugged on my arm. Sheriff Crane pulled my other arm, shouting something I couldn’t understand.
A shiver ran through me. My legs trembled and weakened … then crumpled like paper. I fell a long distance … slowly … through a bleary sky. I landed on wet paving stones, staring up at the rain.
I’d done it.
The rain washed over me.
38
Sheriff Crane’s young watchman lifted me into his arms and carried me into the jailhouse. Rowan tried to follow, but Sheriff Crane slammed the door and slid the bolt—and the chaos outside was instantly muffled.
“Take her to the back cell,” Sheriff Crane said curtly.
“Mr. Frye didn’t—” I croaked.
“I heard you!” Sheriff Crane snapped. “Half the town heard you. The hanging will wait until we sort this out.” He left through the door, returning to the gallows. I heard Rowan’s angry voice briefly, then the door banged shut.
I was carried down a hall and through a door, into a dimly lit room. The young watchman placed me on a cot, then left, and I heard a bolt slide into place.
I forced my weary body to sit up. My wet dress clung to me, and my teeth chattered. The room was small and foul smelling, lit only by the small, barred window in the door. I sat on a thin mattress, stained by countless criminals in the past. The only other furniture was a small table.
In the distance, I heard Mr. Frye being brought inside, cursing and complaining. A door slammed, and his voice faded.
I’d arrived in time.
I inhaled a shuddering breath.
Men’s voices rose in the hall, arguing. Footsteps tapped, and keys jangled in the lock. I blinked in surprise when Judge Stoker entered, his craggy face twisted in a furious scowl, followed by Mr. Meriwether in an impeccable black suit. Sheriff Crane was the last to enter, arguing about proper procedure—but he stopped short at the sight of me shivering on the cot. “Everyone, out. She needs dry clothes before anything else.”
Judge Stoker looked annoyed, but withdrew, pausing in the doorway to point an angry finger. “You broke your word to me, Valentine!”
I nodded numbly in admission, my teeth chattering too much for speech.
The young watchman brought me a dress and blanket and bowl of soup, then left, sliding the bolt. I changed into the brown dress—which swam on me—and managed to drink a little of the cold barley soup. Then I curled back on the cot to wait, leaning against the wall, the scratchy blanket draped over me.
My shivering slid away, and my thoughts settled. I’d shouted the truth about Rowan’s father to a crowd before telling him privately. He must have been shocked to hear the truth—or thought me crazed with fever. Perhaps even furious that I’d destroyed his family name.
But I didn’t regret a word of it. I was locked in a jail cell, but I’d never felt freer.
The three men returned, bringing two rickety chairs. Judge Stoker and Mr. Meriwether sat, while Sheriff Crane remained near the door, frowning.
“Well, Valentine,” Judge Stoker said in his low, scraping voice, glowering at me. “Thanks to you, I shall be known forever as the judge who sentenced not one but two innocent people to hang.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to stop it. I couldn’t let it happen again.”
He grunted. “You’ve certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. I’ve asked Mr. Meriwether here to represent your interests, so you must listen to him and not answer my questions if he advises against it.”
Lucy’s father inclined his head. He looked out of place in my gloomy cell, with his perfectly trimmed beard and well-tailored suit.
Judge Stoker continued. “I saw everything from the courthouse window, but couldn’t hear, and no one seems clear on what you said, exactly.” He cast an annoyed glance at Sheriff Crane. “So, please, tell me what that madness was about.”
“Mrs. Henny murdered them. It was her all along.” I swallowed, realizing I’d begun at the wrong place. “It started long ago, with Nigel Blackshaw.”
I told them about Nigel cheating with the help of Mr. Foley, then murdering Daniel and starting the fire. How Mrs. Blackshaw had told my mother the truth in a desperate attempt to keep her away from her son. How Nigel had pointed the gun first, but my mother had fooled him and taken it. When I got to the part where I picked up the gun, my voice faltered.
Judge Stoker waved an impatient hand. “Get to the part about Mrs. Henny. I find it impossible to believe.”
My throat felt raw, but I told them about Mrs. Henny overhearing everything that night and blackmailing Mrs. Blackshaw. “She did it for Philly, so Philly could have fine things and go to Drake. She thought Philly would marry Rowan and become a Blackshaw. But she told Mr. Oliver when she thought she was dying—and he told me. My father was furious and threatened Mrs. Henny. He said he would tell Mrs. Blackshaw that she’d broken her vow of silence. She panicked and killed both of them—for Philly’s sake.”
None of them looked doubtful. Mrs. Henny’s adoration for her daughter was no secret.
I looked at Sheriff Crane, who stood near the door. “I saw the blue tea tin in her kitchen. That’s when I knew. I tried to leave with it, but she attacked me with a knife. I pushed her away, and she hit the stove. I didn’t mean for her to die. I didn’t want her to die! She was the only one who could prove my innocence.”
Sheriff Crane looked at the other men. “When I searched Mrs. Henny’s house, I found a ledger in her room with lists of payments and scribbled notes, going back for years. I wasn’t sure what it meant until now.” He nodded his head toward me. “I think Valentine must be right about the blackmail.”
I drew a relieved breath.
“Philly has been staying at our house,” Mr. Meriwether said uneasily.
“She had nothing to do with it,” I said.
“She’s going to live with her uncle in Albany, next week, when Lucy and my wife leave for Paris. I’ll encourage her to leave sooner, before the gossip spreads.”
Poor Philly.
Judge Stoker made a low grumbling sound in his throat. “So, what does Mr. Frye have to do with any of this?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s a brute, but he didn’t kill those people.” I wondered what Sam had been going through these last few days as his father was tried and convicted of murder.
Judge Stoker grunted. “I thought we were finally rid of him. That man is hardly innocent.”
“Unlike Valentine,” Mr. Meriwether stated crisply. “I think we can all agree she only fought Mrs. Henny to defend herself. She is guilty of no crime that I can see. She must be released.”
I looked up, startled.
“By all means,” Judge Stoker agreed, standing.
But Sheriff Crane looked hesitant. “She won’t be safe at home. I’m about to release Mr. Frye. He and his boys will drink in celebration, then be on the warpath. They still think Valentine is the killer.”
“Valentine will stay with me,” Judge Stoker stated.
I just wanted to go home—and see Rowan. But I had the feeling Sheriff Crane was right. “Very well,” I agreed.
We left the cell and made our way down the gloomy hall. Judge Stoker opened the outer door but hesitated on the threshold. Outside, heavy rain still poured. The gallows were now empty, the crowd gone.
“Valentine, my carriage is at the courthouse. We’ll have to run for it.”
> “Wait,” I said.
The three men turned.
“Judge Stoker, you said no one is clear on what I said out there. But I want people to be clear. I want them to know that my mother was innocent.”
“Word will get around,” he grumbled.
“No. False rumors will get around.” My gaze shifted to Mr. Meriwether. “Please go home and tell your wife everything I told you—about Nigel Blackshaw killing Daniel Barron and Mrs. Henny killing the others. But mostly, about my mother being innocent. Tell her to go to the Utleys’ store for a little shopping. Right away, even in the rain.”
Mr. Meriwether’s eyebrows rose. “Shopping?”
“If Mrs. Utley is going to start spreading the story, she might as well get it right.”
Judge Stoker gave a short burst of laughter.
Mr. Meriwether’s lips twitched. “I am quick to obey, Miss Deluca. Good day.” He opened his umbrella and stepped out into the rain.
39
I slept deeply in Judge Stoker’s guest room and awoke to his housekeeper delivering breakfast on a tray.
“The judge says you’re to remain in bed all day, and if I see a touch of fever, I’m to summon the doctor.”
“I’m feeling better,” I assured her. And I was. I felt like a princess eating in bed—bacon and strawberries and toast with jam. Bright sunlight came through the window.
The rain was over.
After the housekeeper took the tray away, I washed at the basin in the corner of the room. The soap was perfectly formed and smelled like flowers, and the hairbrush had a silver handle.
I returned to bed, and the housekeeper entered a short time later, looking hesitant. “There’s a woman here to see you. Says you don’t know her, but you might recognize her surname.” She glanced at a white card. “Miss Martha DeVries.”
DeVries. I jolted upright in bed, my heart beating faster. “I’d like to see her.”
I waited, barely breathing, as the woman was ushered up the staircase. She remained near the door until the housekeeper had left, then cautiously approached my bed. “Forgive me for disturbing you.” She was a sensible-looking woman of about thirty-five years, finely dressed, but not overly fashionable. “I’ve been to your house several times, but the woman who answered wouldn’t allow me inside. Then I heard you were here.”
“I’ve been unwell,” I said faintly.
“Yes, and I don’t wish to intrude, but I’ve been rather anxious—” She stopped abruptly with a sigh. “I apologize. I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Martha DeVries. You wrote a letter to my brother, Richard. It sat in his law firm for a while, until someone finally thought to bring it to me.”
A tingle of unease ran through me. “He hasn’t seen the letter himself?” I asked.
Her expression softened. “I’m sorry, but my brother died of cholera nearly a decade ago. I didn’t think you were aware of him, or I would have gotten in touch.”
A decade. Not long after my mother’s death. I leaned back against the headboard, my lungs hollowing with a grief that seemed foolish since I’d never even met him. But now, I never would.
“May I?” Miss DeVries motioned toward a chair near my bed, and I nodded. She sat, and for a moment we just studied one another. She had intelligent brown eyes and light brown hair that had probably been blond in her youth.
She was my aunt.
“You have your mother’s hair,” she observed.
“You knew her in New York City?”
“I met her a few times. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles. Isabella was a society girl, and my brother and I were … well, poor.”
I liked her direct way of saying things. “How did they meet?”
“Richard was always ambitious. Most of the boys in our neighborhood grew up to be sailors or soldiers, but he got a job as an errand boy at a law firm. He practically slept at that place, running documents up and down the stairs. Eventually, he talked his way into a clerkship. He used to go out in the evenings with the other young clerks, and that’s how he met Isabella.” Her sensible mouth quirked in a smile. “Love at first sight, according to Richard. Of course, her guardian didn’t approve of an impoverished clerk, but I imagine that just made it more exciting. They met in secret and behaved rather … well, recklessly, I’m afraid.”
“Why didn’t they get married?” I asked.
“They argued. I’m not sure why. They both had fiery temperaments. This was before they knew of your existence. I think the intensity of the relationship frightened Richard. He still had a long road ahead of him, building his career. He was young and needed time.” She flashed a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, your mother didn’t have that time.”
“She was expecting me.”
“She came to our apartment one evening—something she’d never done before—and I told her that Richard had just sailed to London to help with some legal case. The news seemed to devastate her. He’d left without saying goodbye, which must have seemed like a final rejection. When he returned from London, she was married to our cousin, Joseph.”
My eyes widened. “Your cousin?”
“He stayed with us when he first came to America. Our mother was half-Italian. Richard introduced him to Isabella, and she offered to help him learn English. The two of them used to walk in the park, and, well, I imagine Joseph fell in love. Your mother had that quality about her.” Martha DeVries flashed a wry smile. “Richard inherited all the charm in our family. I’m a spinster.”
I liked her candor.
“It was around this time that Isabella’s father died, and she found out she wasn’t an heiress after all, but buried in debt. Her society friends turned their backs. Overnight, she became a penniless woman expecting a baby—utter ruin. So, when Joseph proposed … well, she had few other options.”
“When did my father—Joseph—learn the truth?”
“You arrived three months early, large and healthy. We all guessed the truth. The three of them had a terrible row. Richard was heartbroken, of course. He truly loved your mother. I have no doubt their quarrel would have ended in marriage eventually, with or without you. It was just … an unfortunate turn of events.”
Poor Mama.
“Richard tried to know you, but Joseph wouldn’t allow him near you. And then you moved to Feavers Crossing, and he never saw you again.”
“He came twice,” I said quietly. “Once, when I was five. I found a letter. And again on the day my mother died.”
“Joseph came for him because he was a lawyer—a rather successful one by then. But they arrived too late. Richard wanted to tell the judge that a grave injustice had been done, but Joseph said he wanted you to forget what you’d done. All Richard could do was buy the headstone.”
My mother’s beautiful marble.
Martha DeVries continued in a more delicate tone. “I was sorry to hear about Joseph’s death. I didn’t know. I came at once when I received your letter, hoping to meet with both of you. But when I arrived … well, I heard the news.”
About Father’s body lying frozen in the stable. Rumors that I’d killed him. My face warmed. “It’s a complicated story,” I admitted.
“From what I hear, you were something of a hero yesterday.”
I gave a startled laugh. “Hero?”
“It’s all anyone can talk about. The way you saved an innocent man from hanging. Finding your father’s killer.”
For once, Mrs. Utley’s stories were in my favor.
“Well, I don’t wish to tire you. I’ll leave for now and return later, if that’s all right.” Martha DeVries stood but lingered near the bed. “To be honest, I’ve been rather nervous about this meeting, Valentine. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but you’re a lovely girl. The innkeeper told me about your award at Drake Academy. You must have inherited Richard’s intellect.”
“I wish I knew more about him.”
“And I should love to tell you everything.” She drew a breath and spoke with sudden fervor. “
It was my brother’s dearest wish to know you, Valentine. He never had any other children. He was married for a few years, but Rachel died shortly before he did, and I have no other family. So, I was thinking it would be quite nice if we could be friends. In fact, I was wondering—” Spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “I was wondering if you might like to come stay with me in New York City for a while, so we can get to know one another.”
I sat straighter, amazed. “I’d like that. Very much, in fact.”
“Would you?” Her face brightened. “I’m so glad. I have Richard’s town house, with plenty of room for both of us. It gets a bit lonely, to be honest. And there’s plenty to do in the city. Museums and plays, if you like that sort of thing. I do get invited to a few parties.”
“That sounds wonderful.” I hardly believed what I was hearing. “I don’t suppose you know a woman named Alvina Lunt?”
Her brow creased. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s all right. I’ll find her.”
“You could travel back with me tomorrow, if it’s not too soon. I know you’ve been ill—”
“I’m much better,” I assured her. “Well enough to travel.”
Her face brightened in a smile. “Excellent. That’s perfect, then, isn’t it?”
“Perfect,” I agreed, smiling back.
And a rightness seemed to settle over both of us.
40
Judge Stoker came home for lunch and asked about my mysterious visitor, and I told him everything, including the fact that Richard DeVries was my real father. He listened intently and seemed pleased that I was leaving for New York City.
“This is just what you need, Valentine. I’d like to meet her.”
He got his wish when Martha DeVries returned that evening. I heard them talking downstairs, then she came up to my room, carrying two boxes tied with string.
“He’s a frightful old thing, isn’t he?” she whispered as she came near my bed, which made me laugh. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of buying you a few travel things. It gave me something to do with my day.” From one box, she pulled a pretty dress and matching jacket; from the other, a bonnet with long ribbons.
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