Reverend White, a rabbity man of about forty years, welcomed her readily enough—at least until he learned what she wanted. “Move the graves?” he said incredulously.
“No.” Verity sighed. He hadn’t been listening. “Enlarge the cemetery. Simply rebuild one end of the wall around those two graves and have the ground consecrated.”
The minister shook his head in a worried way. “I don’t think that’s possible. Our congregation has been saving to build a new church. I wouldn’t want to divert funds to some lesser matter now.”
“It’s not a lesser matter to me,” Verity snapped. Then she forced herself to smile politely. Aunt Maryett had always cautioned her about flies and honey. “The current placement of the graves must be an embarrassment to you, Reverend. Surely you’d like to see it rectified? Why were my mother and aunt buried off the grounds in the first place?”
“It was before my time here.”
“But surely you must know!”
“My wife grew up in town,” he conceded. “She said there were accusations the women engaged in heathen practices. I don’t know if there was any proof.”
“Then there’s no obstacle to rebuilding the cemetery wall around them,” Verity concluded. “They cannot remain where they are, Reverend! It’s shameful. Why, someone even knocked over the stone inside my mother’s . . .” She hesitated, not wanting to use the word cage.
“Again?” He sighed. Verity looked at him aghast. “It’s the iron cages. People seem to believe they’re protecting something valuable.”
“Like treasure?” Now it was the minister’s turn to look startled, and Verity smiled grimly. “I’ve been in Catawissa only three days, and I’ve already heard about that payroll twice. Who would have hidden it under a gravestone?” Her eyes widened as she remembered what Nate’s sisters had said about treasure hunters. “My father? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It is indeed.”
“Then we are in agreement you’ll move the stone wall?” Verity stood up and smoothed her skirt.
The minister stammered and finally allowed that he would “give the matter serious consideration.”
Verity eyed him shrewdly. If he thought he could put her off with vague promises, he didn’t know whom he was dealing with. “Who has the keys to the locks on those cages?” she asked.
“Why, the groundskeeper does.”
“I want the keys. I’ll tend those graves myself from now on.” Verity smiled politely. “I expect I’ll be visiting quite often until things are put right.”
The urgent knocking on the front door came late at night, but Verity was lying awake anyway—her mind flitting between the party the next day and the difficulties with her mother’s grave. Lighting a candle, she went to the window and looked down. Someone with a lantern stood on the porch.
At this time of night it could hardly be good news.
Throwing a shawl over her nightdress, she hurried down the stairs, rapping on her father’s door to rouse him as she passed.
When Verity opened the front door, Clara Thomas held up the lantern. “Aunt Clara!” Verity exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”
“Is someone hurt or sick?” Ransloe Boone asked, half stumbling down the steps, befuddled with sleep. From the top of the stairs Beulah peered down at them.
“Yes, but not at my house,” Aunt Clara replied. She turned her gaze on Verity. “Have you ever attended a birth?”
A few minutes later, dressed in an old frock, Verity dashed out of the house and met Aunt Clara at her horse and trap. She had attended two births. The delivery of Aunt Maryett’s sixth child, when Verity was fifteen, had been quick and simple. But the other—the lying-in of a woman who lived across the street in Worcester—had taken three days. The baby had not survived, and a week later the mother had died of childbed fever.
“Who is it?” she asked as her aunt urged the horse forward.
“Cissy Clayton.” When Verity shook her head, Aunt Clara cast her a sidelong glance. “You haven’t met the Claytons yet? Well, prepare yourself. They’re not the cream of Catawissa society. Cissy must be in a bad way, or they would not have summoned help. I thought I might need an extra pair of hands, and Liza’s no good for this. She hasn’t got the stomach for it.”
The horse and trap took them past the church and parallel to the river. Her aunt directed the horse into the woods, where the road grew even more narrow and rough. The road ended at a ramshackle one-story house.
With Verity at her heels, Aunt Clara marched up and opened the front door without knocking. Inside, a thin woman with hunched shoulders and greasy hair wrung her hands at the sight of them. “Eli didn’t want me to send for you, Clara. But it’s been a day and a half . . .”
“That’s too long, Idella,” Aunt Clara chided.
Verity looked around, trying to hide her distaste. The house reeked of sour milk, unwashed bodies, and liquor. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were children still awake, romping with their dogs amid broken-down furniture. None of them—dogs, children, or furniture—looked as if they’d ever been washed.
The downtrodden woman led them to another room, where the expectant mother—a girl not much older than Verity—lay. She was obviously too tired and weak to scream anymore; each new labor pain left her rigid and helpless. Verity eyed her with worry. She was nothing but skin and bones, her eyes hollowed, her light-brown hair stringy with sweat and tears. The sheets of the bed were fouled, and the stench was unbearable.
“The baby’s breech,” Aunt Clara proclaimed after a brief examination.
The girl’s father hovered in the room like a vulture, his eyes narrow with suspicion and resentment. He was perhaps sixty years of age, reeking of whisky and clothes that might never have seen water. “Meddlesome woman,” he muttered, and it was unclear whether he meant his wife or Clara Thomas.
“Bring me a bucket of fresh water,” Aunt Clara ordered him, then turned to the wife. “Put a pot on to boil and bring me a cup for brewing tea.”
Once they’d left the room—the man mumbling darkly under his breath—Verity’s aunt bent over the pregnant girl and plucked a small cloth bag from around her neck, snapping the string that held it there.
“What’re you doing?” the girl gasped, her hand flying to her bare throat.
“I can’t have you relying on charms, Cissy,” Aunt Clara said shortly, opening a window and tossing the little bag out. “You’re going to have to work hard tonight.” Then she removed packets of herbs and a small glass bottle from her satchel. “I hope you’re as steady as you claim,” she said to Verity.
A strong draft of tea, heavily laced with a sedative, made Cissy pliant. Verity held the girl still, comforted her mother, fended off her father’s angry protests, and watched with interest while Aunt Clara did her work. A foot emerged, and then another, followed by a skinny wet body—a boy. When the head finally appeared, the girl tried to sit up to see the baby, and Verity, smothering her own gasp of horror, forced her back onto the bed.
The baby didn’t have a face.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, protect us!” Eli Clayton shouted from across the room. He clenched his fist and strode forward as if to smite the infant, while his wife fell back against the wall and hid her face.
Aunt Clara wiped her hand across the baby’s head, pulling away the sheath of skin obscuring it. “It’s just a caul,” she said, lifting the child up by his ankles and smacking him on the bottom. The baby, his face now revealed to be as normal as any, inhaled sharply and opened his mouth to cry.
Clayton was not satisfied. “’Tis the Devil’s child,” he yelled, his fist still raised. Alarmed, Verity let go of Cissy and moved between him and the baby. “The child has no earthly father. My daughters carry the family stain. This one lay with the Devil in the Shades and bears his child!”
“No, Eli, she lay with Tommy Hicks behind Cahill’s granary,” Aunt Clara snapped. “Half the town knows that, including Tommy’s wife.”
After Cissy�
��s mother had cooed over the baby and handed him back to her daughter, both the elder Claytons left the room. “He’ll never die a drowning death,” Verity remarked as her aunt packed up the satchel.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s what they say. A child born with a caul over his face will never drown.” Verity yawned. “It’s just a superstition.”
Her aunt sighed, glancing at the exhausted girl on the bed with the tiny infant in her arms. “A Clayton bastard, born arse backward, with a caul over his face? I think he stands a fair chance of being drowned in a sack, like an unwanted puppy, before the week is out.”
Verity gasped. “You don’t mean that?”
“You’d be surprised what the Claytons do to their own.” Aunt Clara closed the bag and looked at her niece. “You were very helpful, Verity. You’d probably make a fine midwife, just like your mother.”
“Was she?” Verity was tired now, and even her pride could not keep the plaintiveness out of her voice. “I’ve heard some horrid things since I came back.” She didn’t say that some of them came from Clara Thomas’s daughter.
“Sarah Ann was an excellent midwife,” her aunt said flatly. “She just chose the wrong apprentice.”
Nine
THE COOL night air was refreshing after the close quarters of the birthing room. Verity yawned again and rubbed her eyes, looking forward to her bed. Aunt Clara climbed into the trap and said before Verity could join her, “The reins are caught on the horse’s collar. Will you go and free them?”
Verity nodded and walked around to the horse’s head. He sniffed at her curiously as she ran her hands over his collar. The lantern had gone out, and after fumbling around in nearly total darkness, her hands located the bit and then the rein. “It feels free to me, Aunt Clara.”
“It’s the one on the other side.”
Holding the horse’s head, Verity stepped in front of him and reached for the opposite rein.
A sudden sharp crack split the air. The horse whinnied in surprise and lurched forward. Caught off-guard, Verity lost her footing. She hung on to the bridle, but the startled horse shook his head and plunged on, and she lost her hold. She went down hard on her back and was immediately pinned as his front hoof landed on her dress.
Verity shrieked and tried to protect her head. Panicked, the horse bucked in his harness. His back legs narrowly missed crushing her own, and the front wheel of the trap hurtled directly toward her. She had enough time to draw in breath, but not enough to scream.
Inches from smashing Verity in the face, the wheel jerked to a halt. The horse protested once more, stamping his feet, and then was still.
“Verity!” her aunt shouted. “Verity, are you all right?”
She wasn’t sure. Her arms and legs were trembling so badly, she could hardly take stock. Only fear of the trap moving again forced her to uncurl herself and crawl out from beneath it. “I’m all right, Aunt Clara,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Eli Clayton, what in the name of Providence is the matter with you, frightening my horse like that? You could have killed my niece!”
Verity rose unsteadily to her feet. Aunt Clara was standing upright in the trap. Eli Clayton was holding the horse’s bridle. Verity hadn’t seen him follow them out of the house.
Clayton glowered at Clara Thomas. “You’re mad, woman,” he grunted. “Take yourself off my property and don’t come back.”
Scrambling to obey, Verity climbed aboard the trap. She was still trembling and barely seated when Eli Clayton released the horse and slapped him on the rear. The beast, which seemed nearly as shaken as Verity, started off with a jolt, heading for home.
Aunt Clara stopped the trap in front the Boone house. “Thank goodness you’re not hurt,” she said. “That man’s as crazy as a loon. He and half his kin should be locked away.”
“I’m fine, Aunt Clara. I was lucky.”
“You hit the ground pretty hard. You might be in pain tomorrow, and it’s your party, isn’t it?” She opened her bag and felt inside. “Let me give you something to take the ache away.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
“Nonsense.” Her aunt pressed a paper packet into her hands. “A generous pinch, dissolved in water. Two if you want to be certain you’re not stiff tomorrow. Take it before going to bed tonight.”
It was easier to accept the packet than to argue. Verity bade her aunt good night, climbed down, and started for the house. Rubbing her eyes wearily, she raised her head and saw a dim glow in one of the upstairs rooms. Her room.
Had she left a candle lit? That was a careless thing to do and very unlike her. Alarmed, she strode briskly toward the house, and the light suddenly vanished.
Verity froze. Someone was in her room.
She marched up the steps of the porch. The front door opened for her readily. Her father never locked his doors. Probably nobody in Catawissa locked doors.
Inside, the house was dark. Verity stood still, listening, but she heard no footsteps, no sound of breathing other than her own. She knew the house well enough by now to find the stairs without a light and creep silently to the second floor. Both her father’s door and Beulah’s door were closed, and she heard no movement inside either chamber. Her own door was ajar, and she was quite sure she’d left it that way, but her heart quickened as she entered the room.
She tossed the packet of medicine onto the dressing table, then groped for and found the candle she’d left there hours ago, cold and unlit. She struck a match, touched it to the wick, and held the candle aloft. Her shawl and nightdress lay strewn across the bed, just where she’d left them. As near as she could tell, nothing was out of place. Then she turned back to the dressing table.
Nate’s letters lay upon the table, and propped up against them stood the photograph of John Thomas and his very young, very beautiful first wife, Asenath. Verity picked up the photograph, puzzled. She didn’t think she had left it out.
She held very still and listened to the house again. At night, too, it was far more silent than her old home in Worcester. Polly and Susan would have been elbowing each other in bed and complaining while Polly’s cat burrowed into the covers beside them, purring loudly. Uncle Benjamin’s snores sometimes rattled the windows, and two-year-old Alfred frequently cried out in the night.
Verity wondered, as she readied herself for bed, how she could feel so alone here and still have the urge to jam the chair from her dressing table under the knob of her door.
She slept as late as she dared the next morning, but there was much to do. She put on her baking dress and tied up her hair.
Setting aside the untouched packet of medicine Aunt Clara had given her, she put the photograph of her uncle and his first wife back into the silver box and returned it to her mother’s trunk. Nate’s letters she stored in a drawer out of sight. They didn’t have as much appeal now that she knew how many hands had gone into them. She and Nate McClure would have to begin over again, starting today.
Downstairs, she found Beulah carrying two buckets of water from the well pump. Barely five feet tall and ninety pounds, the old woman looked frail, but Verity had already learned enough about Beulah Poole to know better. When she insisted on taking one of the buckets herself, Verity was not surprised to discover it so heavy that she needed both hands to carry it. She could not have carried both.
“Beulah,” she said, trying not to slop water all over herself, “I have baking to do for the McClure party today. I’m sorry if that disturbs your plans.”
The housekeeper grimaced. “Just tell me what you want, Miss Verity, and I’ll make it.” She shoved the kitchen door open with her shoulder and held it that way for Verity to pass.
“No, thank you. It’s a meaningless gesture if I bring something to the party I didn’t make myself.” Verity lugged the bucket inside and set it on the floor, then straightened up and faced Beulah. Her aunt had told her to take command of the household, but Verity wasn’t used to ordering servants aroun
d. Polish the silver, she could have said. Or Beat the parlor rug. Instead, she blurted out, “You can have the morning off.”
Beulah raised her eyebrows. She set down her bucket, then left the house without another word. Verity felt like a fool, trying to bribe the housekeeper into liking her.
She spent what remained of the morning baking four dozen jam tarts with the preserves she’d purchased in town. It was lonely work without the Gaines girls working beside her and the boys rampaging through the kitchen. Verity consoled herself with the thought that she’d soon have three sisters-in-law for company, and if she really missed rampaging boys, she could visit the Thomas house.
When she looked through the kitchen window and saw Beulah returning, Verity met her at the back door and handed over the tarts in a beribboned basket. “Please deliver these to Mrs. McClure.”
Beulah tried to see past her into the kitchen, but Verity stood firmly in the way. “That bad, is it?” The woman glared up at her accusingly.
“I’ll have it clean by the time you return,” Verity promised. “And then I’ll need your help upstairs.”
After she’d cleaned the jam-smeared kitchen, Verity devoted the afternoon to curling and pinning up her hair and dressing for the party. She selected her very best gown—a green bodice and scalloped skirt over a full ivory underskirt shot through with gold thread. She’d been lucky to find such a luscious, decadent fabric in postwar Worcester. Verity doubted anyone in Catawissa would have anything as grand.
Beulah appeared as requested and helped lace up the corset. The old woman pulled on the strings so hard, Verity thought it must be revenge for losing control of the kitchen that morning. However, she couldn’t complain about the results. While admiring the lines of the dress in the old mirror she’d taken from the parlor, Verity spotted an approving gleam in the housekeeper’s eye. “Well, what do you think?” she asked. “Will this make him forget what I was wearing the last time he saw me?”
The Caged Graves Page 6