Girl at the Grave
Page 30
“They’re lovely,” I said, gingerly touching the fabric. The dress looked like something Lucy Meriwether would wear.
“Your visit is just what I need, Valentine. I haven’t been this excited in ages.” She moved to the wardrobe to hang up the clothes. “We’ll leave at noon tomorrow, if that suits you. We can stop by your house on the way to get your things. And I imagine you have a few farewells to make.”
“A few,” I admitted.
I could probably find Rowan at the Blackshaws’ house. But Sam would be more of a challenge. I didn’t dare go near the Fryes’ farm on my own. I could ask Judge Stoker to escort me in his carriage, but that wasn’t how I wanted to say goodbye to Sam.
I decided to write a letter. After Martha left, I sat at the desk in the corner, my pen poised, my mind turning over eloquent phrases, trying to find the perfect words to tell Sam that I was leaving town. How much he meant to me. How sorry I was for hurting him and how much I hoped for his future happiness.
In the end, I kept it brief, knowing Sam didn’t care about eloquent words. I cried a little as I signed it: Your friend, Valentine.
* * *
I awoke early to find Judge Stoker’s house quiet around me. I washed up and put on the new dress and jacket, leaving the bonnet on the bed for now.
I needed to see Rowan privately, not with Martha DeVries hovering. And I wanted to say goodbye to my home without her eyeing its shabbiness with distaste. I left a note on the bed saying I would return soon, then slipped downstairs and out the front door.
It felt good to breathe fresh air after days in bed. I walked slowly, savoring every sight and sound, knowing it might be the last time I walked these streets for a long time.
Or ever.
I didn’t know what my future held, but I knew it wasn’t Feavers Crossing. I’d finally stepped away from my past, and I was eager to keep going.
My heart beat faster as I neared the Blackshaws’ house. I knocked and waited, prepared to face Mrs. Blackshaw if she answered. But it was a young maid who opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of me.
“Is Rowan home?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Gone. Said he isn’t coming back.”
My heart tumbled. “Are you sure?”
“Left yesterday.” She hesitated, then leaned closer to tell me in a lower voice, “They had a fight about you, then he packed his bags and marched out. Mrs. Blackshaw is beside herself.” The maid stopped abruptly, glancing over her shoulder. She cast me a final worried look, then shut the door.
I walked toward my own end of town, my thoughts reeling.
Rowan hadn’t bothered to say goodbye—which meant he must be angry about the things I’d shouted at the gallows. And who could blame him? I’d cleared my mother’s name, but destroyed his father’s. He probably thought I’d known about it for months and kept it from him, like my mother’s innocence.
I would write to him at his uncle’s address and explain.
But there would be no final goodbye.
I entered the graveyard and wandered past every grave, whispering the names I knew so well, my fingers trailing over stone pillars and tilted crosses. I paused at Mr. Oliver’s new, clean headstone, then made my way to Birdy and Ida Howe. Lastly, I entered the neglected burial ground of heathens and criminals. I smiled at the sight of my mother’s marble headstone rising above the weeds, purchased by the man she’d loved, still gleaming despite years of neglect. I touched the smooth marble and found it warm from the sun. I whispered goodbye, then turned away, knowing I would most likely never return.
As I neared my house, it looked larger and darker than I’d remembered—and more haunted. Not a happy home in many ways. And yet, I’d been happy here. I glanced at the Hennys’ quiet cottage and felt a pang of sympathy for Philly.
In the backyard, I saw the coop and decided I would stop at the O’Donnells’ on my way back to town and ask them to take the chickens, adding them to their own coop.
I entered the house and found the air thick and stale, as if I’d left years ago, not a few days. I smelled overripe strawberries and saw mold on the bread. On the mantel, a spider had already spun a straggling web.
I climbed the staircase, my hand sliding along the banister, and felt light-headed by the time I reached the top. I pulled back the curtain in the hall and walked through the burned rooms as far as it was safe. Bright slivers of sunlight leaked through the boarded windows, washing away the dark feeling that had always inhabited these rooms.
In my bedroom, I filled a travel bag with my best clothes and most prized possessions: my mother’s red book with its love notes; the small, oval portrait of Daniel; a wooden bird Sam had whittled for me, years ago; Rowan’s sketch of Birdy in the ivory frame; and his sketch of me mixing corn bread.
I stopped in Father’s room to retrieve the metal box from under his bed. I didn’t want Mrs. Blackshaw’s blood money, but I would find a way to put it to good use. I added it to my travel bag and descended the staircase.
In the kitchen, I added my keepsake box, hardly believing that I might soon meet Alvina Lunt, then I turned in a slow circle, trying to decide if there was anything else I should take.
Someone knocked on the back door, and I wondered if Martha DeVries had come to fetch me. The idea chafed. I would have to get used to someone watching over me.
But when I opened the door, Rowan stood in front of me, more rugged and unkempt than I’d ever seen him. I uttered a cry and threw my arms around him. He laughed and steadied himself, then his arms tightened around me.
We held one another, connecting the broken pieces.
“I thought you left town,” I murmured against his neck.
“I’ve been at Simon’s house. Mrs. Greene washed my clothes, so I had to borrow from Mr. Greene. How do I look?”
I looked down. The clothes were too wide and short and not remotely fashionable. I laughed. “Never better.” My lips found his briefly, then I pulled him inside.
“You’re a hard girl to find,” he teased. “I thought you were in jail, but that boy who works there wouldn’t let me inside. Then I heard you were at Judge Stoker’s house, but his housekeeper wouldn’t let me inside either—said you were in no fit state to entertain gentleman suitors.”
“Are you my gentleman suitor, Rowan?” I took his hand and drew him to the rocking chair. As he sat, he kept hold of my hand, pulling me down onto his lap. I nestled myself into a comfortable position with my legs draped over his.
We lingered over a kiss, my hands curled around his neck, then I sighed and sat straighter. “You’re distracting me. I have important things to tell you.”
Rowan leaned back against the rocking chair, looking content. “Very well, tell me something important.”
“I’m sorry I told everyone about your father, Rowan. I didn’t intend for that to happen.”
“I know.” His mood sobered. “My grandmother and I argued when we got home. She admitted what my father did, but still made excuses for him. She kept telling me how wonderful he was. Then she started arguing about you, and I packed my bags and left for Simon’s.”
I hesitated to tell him more but didn’t want any more secrets between us. “She knew Mr. Frye was innocent but kept me drugged so I couldn’t defend him. She almost had me convinced to never tell anyone that Mrs. Henny was the killer.”
Rowan gave a dry laugh. “What did she promise you? With her, there’s always a promise.”
I hesitated. “Something rather tempting, actually.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted.
I pulled my lower lip between my teeth.
His expression turned sly. “I hope it didn’t involve me, because … I should warn you … my heart is already taken.”
“Is that so?”
“Completely.” He wrapped both of his hands around curls and gently pulled my head closer. “But I could probably be persuaded.”
I did my best to persuade him for a while, but the ticking of the clo
ck on the mantel eventually made its way through the haze. “Important things,” I whispered.
“In a moment.”
I slid my fingers between our lips and drew back. “Rowan, I’m leaving for New York City today.”
He leaned back, suddenly attentive.
“I told you I wanted to meet someone named Richard DeVries. Well, he was my real father.” I told Rowan the details, ending with Martha’s invitation. “I’m terrified, and excited. And, now that I’m here with you, I don’t want to leave. But I know it’s the right thing to do.”
Rowan didn’t reply at once, looking a bit confused, his blue eyes searching mine. “I thought … I thought you might come to Europe with me, now that everything else is settled.”
I forced myself to hold his gaze, my heart beating faster. I could still feel the warmth of his lips on mine. His hand on my waist. His heart beating only inches from mine. Being with Rowan was what I wanted.
But it wasn’t the only thing I wanted. “I love you, Rowan, but I’m going to take a different road for a while. And you have your own journey to make. Someday, I hope our roads will—” I halted, my eyes fixing on his with a fierce shake of my head. “No—I know our roads will bring us back together.”
“Yes,” he agreed quietly. A muscle in his jaw tightened. “We’ll stay in touch through my uncle in Boston.”
“You have to write and tell me everything,” I said. “Every interesting thing you see and person you meet. I know you don’t like writing school papers—”
He laughed softly. “I think writing love letters might be a bit more fun. Especially if I get a few in return.”
“Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. When will you sail?”
He pondered the question, his brow furrowed. “Not right away. I’m angry at my grandmother, but her life has just fallen apart, and I don’t want to leave until I know she’ll be all right. I stopped by the bank yesterday, and Mr. Pinchery is in a panic. Investors are already withdrawing their money.” He gave a rueful shrug. “I’ll still go to Europe, just not right away.”
A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and I gently pushed it back. “Well … I do rather like the idea of being on the same continent as you.”
He smiled slowly. “Blackshaw Bank has a few investments in New York City. I’m probably overdue for a visit.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun—visiting investments.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can find other amusements.” His hand slid behind my neck, drawing me closer.
Every kiss was different. And the same. And perfect.
But it was time to go. I reluctantly stood, sighing as my gaze scanned the kitchen. “I’m leaving at noon, but I still have so much to do to close up the house. I need to throw out the food and give the chickens to the O’Donnells. There’s grain in the cellar.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Rowan said as he stood. “In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay here for a few days. It’s a little crowded at the Greenes’, but I’m not ready to go home yet.”
“It’s not quite what you’re used to. There’s a family of mice that runs through the walls at night.”
He grinned. “It’ll prepare me for haystacks.” He picked up my heavy travel bag and turned toward the back door, but I took his hand and pulled him toward the front instead.
His eyebrows rose. “Front door?”
“No more ghosts,” I told him with a smile. I led him past the quiet, shadowed rooms. When I felt ready for it, I would sell the house and a new family would move in, filling it with voices and laughter.
I opened the front door.
But my feet hesitated at the edge. Out of habit, I looked for the spot where Mr. Blackshaw had died—the patch of gravel walkway that had haunted my nightmares for so many years. But one bit of gravel looked much like the next, and I was no longer sure if he fell there … or there.
I lifted my face and breathed fresh morning air. Green grass and spring blossoms and dappled sunlight. And possibility.
“What’s wrong?” Rowan asked, standing close behind me.
I smiled. “Not a thing.” I stepped out of the house and down the gravel walkway. When I reached the road, I turned and took Rowan’s hand so we could walk together.
And we did not look back.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to my smart, funny, fierce literary agent, Barbara Poelle. Life changer. Just life changer. Just hearing her voice makes everything seem possible. Thank you to my wise, insightful editor, Amy Stapp, who shined a light in the fog so I could see the true story, then gave me the time I needed to develop it. We slid into that deadline together. I’m grateful for everyone at Tor Teen who shepherded my precious Girl at the Grave into publication.
Thank you, Aubrey Hartman. A first draft friend is a true friend. You were the first person to meet Valentine. Thanks also to Melanie Jacobson, Brittany Larsen, Tiffany Odekirk, and Jen White for moral support and sharp-eyed critiques. Also, Swapna, Donna, Kari, Connie, and Carol for helping me rediscover writing, years ago. Beth Udall, for listening. Rona Hawkins, for shared talent at a moment’s notice. Hugs all around for my beloved lunch friends—you know who you are—for years of laughter and sage advice and occasional sharing of tears.
I owe so much to my parents, who had seven children in ten years and nurtured creativity. Our house was filled with reading, writing, sewing, drawing, painting, hammering, planting, dreadful piano playing, healthy food, spiritual wisdom, and deep conversations late into the night.
My siblings are my best friends and supporters: Carol, Barbara, Steve, LaRee, Robin, Teri, Janet. (I have to put my name in there because that’s the way the chant goes.) Also grateful for Bobbylee, Annie, Gay, Marguerite, and the rest. Special thanks to Tom; it’s on my bulletin board.
Love and gratitude for my husband, Mark, who gets me. And I get him. And that’s priceless. Also, four children who have been way too easy to raise. Well, except Kelsi. Having a child with disabilities brings unique challenges, but also blessings. Her sweet smile keeps me company while I write all day.
About the Author
Teri Bailey Black grew up near the beach in Southern California in a large, quirky family with no television or junk food but an abundance of books and art supplies. She’s happiest when she’s creating things, whether it’s with words, fabric, or digging in the garden. She makes an amazing chocolate cherry cake—frequently. She and her husband have four children and live in Orange County, California.
Visit her online at TeriBaileyBlack.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapte
r 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GIRL AT THE GRAVE
Copyright © 2018 by Teri Bailey Black
All rights reserved.
A Tor Teen Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-9948-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-9950-2 (ebook)
eISBN 9780765399502
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First Edition: August 2018