Verity shuddered to hear it. They always come after Sarah Ann.
“I’m sorry, Ransloe,” John Thomas said in a voice hollowed with sadness and regret.
Nate whispered into her ear. “You’re upsetting yourself and your father and me by being here. Have pity on your father, if no one else, and let me take you home.”
She nodded without speaking. Putting one arm around her shoulders, Nate turned her away from the graves. People stared at her as she passed, most with sympathy, some with bold curiosity.
When they reached the road, Nate lifted her up onto one of his family’s farm wagons. Verity clung to her seat and stared straight ahead with a stony face, unwilling to give the onlookers anything more to gossip about. “I can’t bear this,” she said from between clenched teeth. “I won’t tolerate it!”
Nate shook the reins and clucked to the horse. “You shouldn’t have to,” he growled.
Beulah was standing on the front porch of the Boone house. She watched with worried eyes as they mounted the front steps. “What happened, Mr. Nathaniel?”
“Someone tried to get into Mrs. Boone’s grave,” he said quietly. “But they gave up before they got too far. Would you bring Miss Boone some strong tea?”
Beulah looked at Verity’s face and nodded.
Verity sank to a seat in the parlor. Nate sat down and put his arm around her. “We’ll put a stop to this, Verity; I promise you. We’ll get that wall moved . . . whatever it takes.”
The front door opened and slammed shut, footsteps ringing sharply on the wooden floor of the hallway. Verity turned, expecting to see her father, and flinched sharply at the sight of Hadley Jones. He walked into the parlor as if he had every right to be there.
“I just heard,” he said, breathlessly. “Miss Boone, are you all right?”
Verity stared with dismay at the young man, who surveyed her with an obvious and very personal concern. He was pale himself, his ginger locks disheveled, as if he’d run all the way from town on foot. He sported a bruise on his right cheek below his eye, which made him look more like a saloon brawler than a physician.
Nate sat stiffly beside her, his arm suddenly removed from her shoulder. He said nothing, and she didn’t dare look at him.
“I’m as well as can be expected, thank you,” Verity said finally, finding her voice.
“Do you need anything?” His eyes flicked to Nate and then back to her. “Something to calm you?”
Her fingers curled on the sofa cushion, gripping it fiercely. “No, I don’t need to be calmer. Someone just tried to dig up my mother’s grave. Why would I want to be calm about it?”
Jones swallowed visibly and brushed perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. He had run up here to see her; she knew it. But with her intended husband sitting beside her, he could offer her no comfort except in a professional capacity. He could not hold her hand or put his arm around her. Verity was grateful for Nate’s presence. She didn’t know if she would have had the strength to refuse Jones if she’d been alone.
“What happened to your face?” Nate asked suddenly.
Jones appeared embarrassed. “Robbins.”
Nate raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
Verity felt a surge of indignation. “Are you saying Dr. Robbins hit you?” A master who hit his apprentice was despicable enough; for a medical man to do so was unthinkable.
Jones waved a hand as if to erase the matter. “He won’t remember it tomorrow. I’m more worried about you—and your father, of course. How is he?”
“Shaken,” said Verity. “And angry.”
“He has a right to be,” Jones replied. “She was the woman he loved.”
Then there was silence again.
Verity closed her eyes, wishing these two young men were not together with her at this moment. It did not lessen her turmoil to know she found Hadley Jones as attractive as ever. There was something seductive about his transparent feelings for her—feelings he scarcely tried to hide even in front of Nate. He was like a bright, flickering flame, and she was a brainless moth, wanting to fly closer and burn herself.
Yet if she had wanted to go to him, she didn’t think there was a limb on her body that would have obeyed her. She could not move from Nate’s side; his presence anchored her in place.
As the silence deepened, Verity realized she could end this awkward tableau. Hadley Jones had not been summoned as a physician; this was a social call. He’d come here to express his concern for her, and she had the power to welcome or dismiss him.
She rose from her seat. “Thank you for coming. It was good of you to stop by.”
She saw by the resignation on his face that he understood her plainly. He dropped his eyes and bowed formally. “Miss Boone. I won’t bid you good day, because I know it cannot be one. Please remember I am at your service if you or your father need anything.” He straightened and gave Nate a curt nod. “McClure.”
“Jones,” Nate acknowledged, his voice flat.
Hadley Jones left as quickly as he had come, without looking at Verity again.
Twenty-One
VERITY PACED the room. She glanced at Nate, almost daring him to make a derogatory comment about Hadley Jones or suggest that her behavior had encouraged him, even for a moment.
But Nate just watched her worriedly. If it bothered him that the doctor’s apprentice was interested in her, he’d decided not to show it. Good, thought Verity. Hadley Jones’s affections—unrequited or not—were the least of her concerns.
“Why do people think my father found that treasure?”
Nate shrugged. “Because he stopped looking for it?”
Verity clenched her fists in frustration. “Maybe he gave up. Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe he decided there were better ways to spend his time!”
“You don’t have to convince me, Verity. I’m on your side.”
But she needed to think aloud, to reason it out. “If he did find it, why would he bury it again?” she demanded. “Uncle John searched for that treasure too. Why do they think it’s in my mother’s grave and not Asenath’s?”
“Because John selfishly spent his half of the gold, while Ransloe buried his share in remorse.”
Verity and Nate both turned around to stare at Clara Thomas, who entered the parlor with Beulah at her heels. Her matter-of-fact manner of speaking startled them into silence for a second, but then Verity blurted out, “That can’t be true!”
“Of course not,” Aunt Clara chided. She turned to Beulah, who set the tray with tea on the serving table. “Fetch sugar and cream for Verity.”
“I prefer my tea plain,” Verity said.
“You’ll take it sweetened and with cream, for the shock,” Aunt Clara corrected her. Verity blinked, taken aback.
“I heard stories like this when I was a child, Mrs. Thomas,” Nate said. “But I can’t believe grown men could be so foolish—would desecrate a grave!”
“The world is full of people who believe what they want to be true. And this isn’t the first time treasure hunters have tried to get into that grave. The story’s kept alive by the ignorant and the superstitious.” Aunt Clara took the sugar bowl and creamer from Beulah and began to prepare the tea as if Verity couldn’t do it herself. “The Pooles probably tell it to every wanderer who passes through town.”
Beulah remained impassive, although Nate looked uncomfortable and Verity bit her lip in embarrassment. It was as if Beulah Poole were invisible—or so unimportant that Aunt Clara did not care what was said in front of her. Beulah spared Clara Thomas one sour glance and departed from the room as silently as she’d entered.
Verity sipped the oversweet tea and continued to pace around the room, holding the cup. “People think my father and your husband found this treasure and split it between them?”
“My family lives with obvious means and wealth, therefore John must have acquired a fortune through some illicit venture of his youth.” Her aunt’s tone was crisp and disdainful. “Your fat
her lives an austere life and has grieved for years over his wife. Therefore, he must have buried his share of the treasure in her coffin, in penance for his ill-gotten gains.”
“Are you saying they truly did find something of value?” Nate asked.
Aunt Clara sat down and folded her hands, keeping an eye on Verity. “No, of course not. John inherited his parents’ property, and we’ve worked hard for what we have. And Ransloe, despite the way he keeps his house, makes a fine living on this land. There will be a substantial dowry for Verity—as I’m sure you know, Nathaniel.”
Nate recoiled as if Clara Thomas had slapped him, and cast a look at Verity. She waved a hand, signaling him not to take offense, and found herself slopping tea over the edge of the cup. Feeling a little befuddled, she took another long sip. “I can’t believe my father tolerates that kind of talk.”
“One cannot squelch an idea at will,” Aunt Clara said, “nor silence rumors whispered behind one’s back. You should sit down, Verity.”
She ignored the suggestion. “Do you think it was those men who grabbed Piper in the woods?”
“They or someone like them.”
“Verity,” Nate murmured.
“But Uncle John did search for that treasure,” Verity went on. “And—he got my father to help him. That’s what the diaries said—”
Her aunt’s brow furrowed. “What diaries?”
“Verity!” Nate exclaimed.
She looked down and discovered she’d been dribbling tea down the front of her dress. How had she done that? When she turned back toward Nate, the room lurched, and she staggered. Nate leaped to his feet and strode toward her. Verity gaped at him in alarm, grabbing the back of a chair.
“I told you to sit down, Verity,” Aunt Clara said disapprovingly.
“What have you done?” Nate growled over his shoulder, gripping Verity by both arms. It took a moment for her to realize he’d already removed the cup from her hands. She blinked, trying to clear the heaviness in her head.
“A good, strong dose of laudanum,” her aunt said. “For the shock. She needs to lie down and rest.”
“She told Jones she didn’t want anything.”
“It was a mistake for him to ask her opinion.”
Verity suddenly felt very ill. “Nate?”
His arm around her waist held her upright. “I’d better take her upstairs.”
“To her bedchamber?” Aunt Clara was beside them now, taking a firm grip on Verity’s upper arm. “I think not, Nathaniel! Beulah and I will take her.”
Verity couldn’t follow everything that happened next. She had a vague impression that sharp words were exchanged.
“ . . . wouldn’t dare drug my wife against her wishes . . .”
“ . . . not your wife yet! Patience, boy! You’ll get what you want soon enough . . .”
Beulah and Aunt Clara supported Verity up the stairs to her room, each step a monumental effort. The last thing she remembered was pitching face first onto her bed while the world spun and lurched between darkness and light, shadows careening against her wall like wraiths.
She was running in the Shades of Death again, her legs stumbling with leaden clumsiness, vines slithering after her like snakes. Behind her, pursuers whooped and howled, leaping effortlessly over stumps and rocks, their faces lit with savagery. They would scalp her—they would run her through with bayonets—
The ground fell away, and she tumbled down and down until she lay at the bottom of a hole so deep, she could never hope to climb out. Above her, a shadow parted the writhing vines. “Hadley, help me!” she shrieked.
The figure, dark and formless, loomed over her, eyes glowing like embers.
“The Devil can get you out of here,” whispered a voice in her ear. She flinched and looked around. That was Carrie’s voice; Verity was certain of it.
“Make a bargain with the Devil,” Carrie whispered again.
She thrashed, trying to push herself off the ground as the dark shape suddenly swarmed down at her like a cloud of bees. “No! No!” she cried, putting up her hands to ward it off. Someone grabbed her hands and pinned them to her sides.
“It really is a shame.” Hattie leaned over her with cold, hard eyes—indigo blue, just like her brother’s. “She was worth a lot of money.”
“Hattie?” Verity whimpered, struggling to sit upright. She was in her own bed, thank heavens, but she couldn’t make her arms and legs work.
“I suppose we’ll have to cage her grave,” Hattie said with a cruel smile. “We can’t count on her to stay in it otherwise.”
“I’m not dead—why do you think I’m dead?”
Long, silver hair brushed against her face, tickling and sticking like cobwebs. Hattie was gone, and Asenath hovered over her now, her breath cold and putrid. “Hush now, Verity. It’ll be over soon.” She drew the sheet over Verity’s face.
“No!” She tried to sit up. “I’m not dead!”
The girl smiled sweetly, forcing her back onto the bed with impossible strength and raising the sheet once more. “Of course not. None of us really is . . .”
And then Verity found herself in the cemetery again, where she stared with shock at her mother’s grave. This time the freshly dug holes were on the inside of the cage, and the dirt kept shifting, pushed up and away from the dark cavity. Slim, pale fingers emerged, wriggling, seeking purchase.
“Mother?” Verity choked.
A voice whispered back. “I was never supposed to die.”
Asenath held the cage door open, inviting Verity in. Her corn-silk hair blew in the wind; her feet were bare beneath the white dress she’d worn in the photograph. In a voice as raspy as iron hinges, Asenath said, “You should never have come back to Catawissa.”
“I should never have let you come back to Catawissa,” Ransloe Boone muttered.
Verity lifted her head to stare in surprise across the kitchen table and then regretted the sudden movement. She felt as if someone had tightened a leather belt around her head. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
She and her father sat at the table together, late in the evening. Two lamps, left burning by Beulah when she retired for the night, provided the only illumination in the house. A plate of cold meat had been placed in the larder for them, as well as some freshly baked bread. Neither of them had much appetite.
She’d slept the entire day, waking to a dark room and nearly panicking because she couldn’t sit up. After a fierce struggle, she’d broken free of the bed sheets, which had been pulled tightly across her and tucked beneath the mattress. When she’d trusted her trembling legs to carry her, she’d gone downstairs, meeting her father as he came in.
“I’ve never been able to live down my youth,” Ransloe Boone said. “And your mother’s memory is besmirched because of it.”
“Did you ever find anything?” Verity asked bluntly, picking her bread apart without eating it. “Why did you even want it?”
“I was a fool, and God punished me for coveting it.” He hunched his shoulders, meeting his daughter’s eyes for only a second before dropping his gaze again. “No, we never found anything, but I was wasting my time by the river looking for it when your mother took sick. I only got back here in time to send you out of the house and sit by her side while she slipped away.”
“Do you think if you’d been here, she wouldn’t have gotten ill?”
He stared at the table. “Doesn’t matter. I should have been here. And now, fifteen years later, they’re still disturbing her because of me.”
“You should have told me,” Verity chastised him gently.
“I didn’t want you to know. The last thing in the world I wanted was for you to see your mother’s grave opened by thieves.”
“Father—”
“You were happy in Worcester, living with a good family. Maryett would have found you a husband in the city. You needn’t have come back here and learned about this shame.”
“Is that why you sent me away?”
He
looked up again, and this time he didn’t flinch. “Maryett convinced me it was the right thing to do. She said you’d have a family to grow up with if she took you back to Worcester.” He shrugged uneasily. “I thought you’d be happier with brothers and sisters. I let you go, and I didn’t visit much because I didn’t want to confuse you. It was hard . . . watching you with Maryett and the other children. You hardly knew who I was.”
Verity blinked back tears. His last visit to Worcester had been right before he went to war. He knew he might die, and he wanted to see his daughter one last time. Of course, he hadn’t told her so. She hadn’t even known he was called up into the army until after he was gone.
She reached across the table and grasped his hand. “I’m here now, Father, and I won’t leave you again. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
Twenty-Two
IN THE morning Verity woke with an unpleasant thickness in her mouth and a lingering headache, but she was thinking clearly. When she saw her mother’s final diary open on her dressing table, she walked over and looked down on it without surprise.
November tenth through November fourteenth. The very same page as before. But who had left it open this time? Aunt Clara? Hattie and Carrie? Or Asenath?
Nate’s sisters hadn’t really been at the house last night, and Asenath was dead.
When she went downstairs, Beulah looked her over shrewdly. “Do you want breakfast, Miss Verity?”
“Tea,” she replied. “With only tea in it.”
“It wasn’t me that did it.”
“I didn’t think it was.” Verity sat down at the kitchen table and watched the housekeeper for a few long, silent moments. “Do your people believe in ghosts, Beulah?”
“My people?” grunted Beulah, putting the pot on to boil without even looking back. “You mean the French or the Dutch?”
Verity looked down, embarrassed by her question and considering how she might rephrase it.
Beulah brought her a cup. Then she set a plate of sliced bread down, as well as a crock of butter. Suddenly Verity realized how hungry she was and reached for them with both hands.
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