The Caged Graves (20 page)

One thing could be said about the cages: it was easy to attach the bunting. Flanked by ivy and forget-me-nots and draped in swoops of colorful fabric, the two iron structures looked almost beautiful. After adjusting the bunting on Asenath's cage, Verity moved on to the other gravestones sharing this sad banishment outside the cemetery wall.

“What are you doing?”

Verity deliberately pulled up two more handfuls of weeds obscuring the old, worn headstone before acknowledging Mrs. Eggars's pointed question. “I'm decorating the graves for the Fourth of July,” she said.

Mrs. Eggars waved her hand impatiently. “Not
those
graves, you silly girl! If you want to do your mother's, I suppose I can't stop you, but you absolutely
cannot
drape the Stars and Stripes over the other ones!”

“You're right you can't stop me,” Verity said, climbing to her feet and approaching the cemetery wall.

“
He
was a deserter!” Mrs. Eggars jabbed her index finger toward the worn, illegible stone.

Verity resisted an urge to slap that finger down. “He paid for his crime with his life. There's no reason to shame him after death.”

“The Claytons are all heathens!”

“Yet I see them in church every Sunday.” Not Eli Clayton—but Verity had seen Idella and Cissy, with her out-of-wedlock child. They sat in the back, shunned by most of the other congregants. “There are plenty of Claytons buried inside the cemetery.”

“And they've caused no end of trouble!”

Before Verity could ask Mrs. Eggars what kind of trouble dead Claytons caused, Aunt Clara broke into the conversation. “Susanna Eggars, you had your way when you kept those two women out of the churchyard. Can't you be satisfied and let my niece decorate the graves however she chooses?”

“I don't remember you objecting at the time, Clara,” Mrs. Eggars snapped. “Had your eye on the prize as always, didn't you?”

Verity glared at Mrs. Eggars. “What did my mother ever do to you,” she demanded, “that made you go out of your way to shame her?”

“I had nothing against Sarah Ann until she started consorting with witches.”

“Mrs. Eggars's sister nearly died of childbed fever,” Aunt Clara explained to Verity. “And midwives are always convenient scapegoats.”

“That little Clayton witch left one of her heathen spells in my sister's birthing chamber, and Belinda sickened,” Mrs. Eggars exclaimed. “Thank heavens I found it and removed it in time! Mrs. Harper wasn't as lucky—her baby died of whooping cough before he was eight weeks old. And Gladys Morrow got a sty in her eye after Asenath mumbled some curse at her in the street.”

Verity gaped in disbelief. Aunt Clara clucked her tongue with annoyance, but Mrs. Eggars appeared to be quite serious. Spit flew from her lips as she continued her rant, pointing a bony finger at Asenath's grave. “Finally, the Lord saw fit to smite her down, and if He took your mother too, I can only assume she'd gone to the Devil as well!”

“Mrs. Eggars,” Verity said through clenched teeth, “I suggest you keep your slanderous statements to yourself. As for these graves, I'll decorate them as I see fit. If you don't like it, you can take it up with my intended, Nathaniel McClure.”

Hearing Verity wield the name of the most powerful family in town, the woman took a step backward. Verity wasn't entirely sure she was proud of herself for resorting to it.

 

“Come take your meal with us this afternoon,” her aunt said when the decorating was finished.

“No, thank you, Aunt Clara.”

“I insist.”

Verity had to return to the Thomas house to retrieve her sewing basket, which she'd used when they'd assembled the bunting that morning, but she had every intention of refusing to stay for the meal—until set upon by Piper and the twins. She found it impossible to disappoint the boys, and after all, she reminded herself, Aunt Clara had defended her mother against Mrs. Eggars.

After lunch, when she rose to leave, her aunt cornered her with a stack of papers, wanting her to choose a pattern for her bridal quilt. As Aunt Clara thumbed through the selections with her, explaining the history and significance of each, Verity wondered if she was trying to make amends for the laudanum. Polly Gaines would have advised Verity to let bygones be bygones, and so she listened patiently to her aunt and even volunteered an idea of her own. “I have some clothing of my mother's that is too worn to be of use, but the fabric would make a nice quilt.”

“Very fitting,” Aunt Clara said. “It would be good to think Sarah Ann had a hand in your bridal quilt.”

Verity had narrowed her choices down to two when Liza pushed Stephen and Samuel through the kitchen door, calling out, “The doctor's here to see the boys.”

“Ah,” said Aunt Clara, “it's about time.”

Verity glanced up and met Hadley Jones's eyes as he entered the kitchen. “What seems to be the problem today, Mrs. Thomas?” he asked, tearing his gaze away from Verity. “Teeth, you said?”

“Samuel has a rotted one, and Stephen—possibly two. I expect you'll have to pull them.”

The boys shrieked in unison, each one fleeing in a different direction. Aunt Clara caught one by the collar and thrust him into Verity's hands. “Hold Sam for the doctor,” she commanded. Then she followed Liza on the trail of the other twin.

Startled, Verity hung on to her cousin while Jones rolled up his sleeves. “Open up, Samuel,” he said.

The child shook his head and clamped his lips together. Jones regarded the boy for a moment, then pinched his nose shut. Verity made an outraged noise, but Jones grinned at her. “It'll take only a few seconds.”

Samuel's mouth popped open as he gasped for air, and the apprentice grabbed his open jaw with both hands. “Bite me and I'll bite you back,” he warned.

The child rolled his eyes toward Verity for help, but she shrugged. “I suggest you do as you're told.”

Jones took a long look into Samuel's mouth, pulling the boy's lips apart and tilting his head back. “I know what you're going to ask,” he said quietly. “But I don't have an answer for you yet.”

Samuel stared at him, puzzled, but Verity knew he was talking to her. “You must have some thoughts on the matter.”

“I do,” he admitted. “But I'm not certain. Well, there's no way I could be certain, this long after the fact.” He sighed and released the child's mouth. “The tooth
is
rotted, but it's a milk tooth and loose enough to fall out on its own. I'm surprised Mrs. Thomas hasn't tied a string to a door and taken it out with a good slam.”

Samuel flinched.

“Just wiggle it around,” Jones advised the boy. He reached into his pocket and produced a piece of toffee. “Chew on this for a bit and see if you can get it out yourself.”

He swatted the boy away in dismissal, and Samuel vanished like a shot through the outside kitchen door. Then Jones met Verity's eyes. “I wish you'd drop the matter.”

“I'm determined to know why they died.”

“I want to talk to Eli Clayton, and then I might be able to tell you something.” He reached out a hand and touched her arm. “Any answer I give you is going to make you unhappy; you realize that, don't you?”

The back door opened and Nate strode in, carrying a bushel of peaches.

For just a moment they all three froze—and then Hadley Jones belatedly removed his hand from Verity's arm.

Nate shoved the basket onto the kitchen table, scattering quilt patterns and spilling fruit. “Here are the peaches your aunt wanted.” He turned on his heel and was out the door again in a second.

“Nate!” cried Verity.

She bolted from the kitchen and ran to catch up with his long, angry strides. “Nate! Don't you dare walk away from me like this!”

He turned back so suddenly, she collided with him.

“There's something between you and Jones, isn't there?” Nate demanded.

Verity stared up at him, horrified to realize she couldn't say there was
nothing
between them—because that would be a lie. “He's a friend,” she finally said.

“Jones isn't chasing after you because he's feeling friendly.” Nate glared at her. “He's
everywhere
you are. Did you—did you go into the Shades to meet him the day you got hurt?”

Verity gasped in outrage. “No! How dare you suggest such a thing?” She stamped her foot. “Is that what you think of me? Is that the kind of girl you think I am?”

Nate seemed to realize the dishonorable nature of his accusation, because his expression changed immediately. “No,” he said quickly. “No, I'm sorry, Verity. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Indeed you shouldn't have,” she snapped back. She twitched her skirts around him, prepared to march home in righteous fury, but Nate moved to block her path.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated in a penitent voice. “Please forgive me. I don't think before I speak. It's a terrible fault of mine, and I apologize.”

Verity put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. It was true: Nate was certainly more eloquent in writing than he ever was in person.

He took her gently by the shoulders. “Verity, you can't tell me you're unaware of that man's interest in you.”

Here her anger faltered. Nate was right. She'd led Hadley Jones on; she'd encouraged him by not spurning him from the very beginning. “I asked him for help,” she admitted. “That's why we were talking alone together when you came in.”

Nate's hands tightened on her shoulders. “Are you ill?”

She looked up into his eyes. “I gave him my mother's diaries, Nate, and I asked him to find out what illness killed her.”

He backed away, dropping his hands from her shoulders and spreading them wide. “Why?”

“Because truth is the only way I can defeat the lies.”

She watched him react to this. She saw him narrow his eyes and stare at her in exasperation, as if he wanted to shake her and insist that she give up her crusade. She saw him clench his fists and look at the Thomas house as if he wanted to go back in and punch someone in the face. And then she saw him deliberately decide to do neither of those things.

He unclenched his hands. “Let me walk you home.” Putting an arm around her shoulders, he prodded her forward on the path, away from the Thomas house. Verity looked back once. A white curtain fell across one of the front windows, as if someone had just pulled it closed because there was nothing more to see.

NATE DIDN'T say another word about Verity and Hadley Jones, and it bothered her. She was aware that Nate had a right to complain. After his initial outburst, however, he dropped the subject.

Did he trust her that much?

Or did he not want to risk their engagement?

Verity felt the little thread of doubt she'd carried inside her weaving itself into something more substantial. How badly did Nate want the Boone lands?

When she looked up into his stormy eyes, prompted one of his stunning smiles, or melted under his kiss, she felt ashamed of herself for suspecting his motives. He was a good, solid young man. He would be a reliable husband, a loving father, and a responsible member of the community.

Only when she was alone did she allow herself to ponder less admirable reasons for his devotion. Nate had been pushed in her direction by his mother, who proudly claimed her son always did as he was told. He'd courted Verity and won her heart in his letters, and even if their first meetings had not gone as planned, he'd successfully made up for his blunders afterward.

As Hattie had said, Verity was worth a lot of money.

But—Verity pressed her hands to her head in confusion—Hattie had
not
said that. Verity had dreamed the whole disturbing episode. Only Aunt Clara had been insensitive enough to repeatedly point out the monetary value of the marriage. Why, then, did Verity continue to doubt the McClures?

Could Verity even imagine calling off the wedding and welcoming the courtship of Hadley Jones? She visualized herself telling Nate she didn't want to marry him—and was struck by pain that frightened her with its intensity. What was wrong with her? It was as if she wanted to keep the bird in hand while letting the bird in the bush show off his plumage.

What kind of wanton girl was she?

 

Catawissa took pride in observing Independence Day. American patriots had fought for independence in this valley, and a terrible number had perished at the disastrous Battle of Wyoming. The townsfolk had no intention of allowing their sacrifice to pass without notice.

This year's celebration included picnics on the town common, fair booths, charity auctions, dances, and fireworks. Verity baked her acclaimed jam tarts and did not receive a single complaint from Beulah about untidiness.

Nate won all the tarts in the auction, bidding an unprecedented three dollars.

Verity found him resting in the shade after he'd exhausted himself in foot races and wrestling contests. “You silly goose!” she exclaimed. “I would have made jam tarts for you any time you liked!”

Nate gazed at her lazily from under the wide brim of his hat. “I wasn't going to let anyone else have them.” Verity stiffened. She'd seen Hadley Jones at the auction and was thankful that he hadn't bid on her items. But Nate grabbed a handful of her skirt and yanked her to the ground beside him in a heap. “It's for
orphans,
” he said with an ornery grin. “Come here and reward me.”

Verity snatched the hat off his head and swatted him with it. “I'll reward you in a manner you won't soon forget!”

“Is that a promise?” he called as she rolled away and scrambled to her feet.

The common was crowded with all the inhabitants of town and some two dozen outlying farms. The Pooles, Verity noticed, tended to congregate together. The men, mostly farm or mill workers, took their food down to the waterfront to eat. The women wandered the common in isolated groups, and the booths run by Pooles seemed to be patronized only by other Pooles. Even their children didn't mingle with their counterparts from town.