The Caged Graves (6 page)

“You're useless,” Liza said to Verity. She put both arms around Piper and drew him in through the front door of the Thomas house.

“I warrant you could have done no better!” Verity followed them over the threshold, not because she'd been invited in but because she didn't care to be dismissed in such a fashion.

The other girl's pale moon face was taut with dislike. “I don't know what passes for watching children in Worcester, but—”

“That's enough, Liza.”

The words, softly spoken, stopped the girl in midrampage.

A woman strode toward them down the central hall of the house. Slender, with deep brown hair set in corkscrew ringlets, Clara Thomas was surprisingly plain, Verity thought, to be married to such a handsome man. Yet, as the woman calmly surveyed her injured son and then smacked his bottom with one efficient hand, she seemed the perfect match for Verity's flighty uncle.

“Was he patched up by Dr. Robbins or the apprentice?” she asked, turning to Verity.

“It was the apprentice.”

“Good. He's stitched up my sons before, and he does neat work. It should heal cleanly.” She looked her niece over from head to toe, then turned toward the back of the house. “Come with me, Verity, and I'll tend to those stains.”

“Oh, that's not necessary.”

“Don't be foolish,” her aunt replied. “They've already set longer than they should, but I have a trick or two that might work. Come along. You too, Liza.” Glaring at each other, the girls followed her.

In a washroom off the kitchen, Clara Thomas unceremoniously stripped her niece to her undergarments. To Verity it seemed overly familiar for somebody who'd never formally introduced herself, but family was family. Verity's dress went into a basin of cold water, and since she couldn't go home in her chemise and petticoats, nor in a soaking wet dress, her aunt ordered, “Liza, bring your cousin something that will fit her.” Liza opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it and flounced off.

Aunt Clara fetched a jar of salt from a shelf, then cast her eyes over Verity's hair and face. “You're all Ransloe,” she commented, as emotionless as if she were remarking on the weather. “I don't see much of Sarah Ann in you.”

“Did you know my mother?” Verity watched her aunt take a handful of salt and scrub it into the bloodstains.

“Of course.”

“Nathaniel McClure took me to the cemetery yesterday.” Verity didn't mention that the visit was accidental—or that she'd punched him. “It was the first time I'd seen her grave.”

Aunt Clara raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that was a startling sight. We're so accustomed to those things by now, we hardly notice them.”

“I think they look too bare. I'm going to make grave wreaths for them.”

Liza returned, holding a dun-colored dress Verity suspected was the ugliest she could find. She thanked the girl for lending her something to wear home—which was as truthful a statement as she could make—and turned back to her aunt. “I want to decorate
both
graves,” she said. “It seems wrong to do only one. Uncle John said I could tend to Aunt Asenath's grave too.”

Liza drew in her breath sharply, but Aunt Clara only nodded. “Her grave has gone neglected far too long. It should have been John's responsibility, but he was never one for unpleasant tasks.”

Verity glanced out the washroom window, toward the arbor and the garden beyond it. “I'd also like to plant flowers around the graves. In Worcester we make the cemeteries look like gardens, pretty enough to walk through.”

Her aunt took the hint quickly enough. “I'll give you cuttings. I'm sure I have some plants hardy enough for that rocky soil.” Aunt Clara eyed her niece with speculation. “You don't remember your mother and Asenath, do you? No, of course not. You were too young.”

“I don't remember them,” Verity agreed sadly.

“Pity,” said Aunt Clara. “I always liked Sarah Ann. Her passing caused me great sorrow. If you need help with the wreaths, Liza will assist you. She has a knack for such things.”

A lifetime of practice enabled Verity to speak the complete truth without a moment's hesitation. “If I need Liza's help, I shall definitely ask for it.” She stepped into her cousin's dress and pulled it up. Liza was so tall that the skirt dragged on the ground. “I'm very sorry about Piper getting hurt this morning, Aunt Clara.”

“A small army couldn't keep that boy out of trouble,” her aunt replied, unconcerned. “We're lucky the war ended before he became old enough to run off and join.”

“Did Uncle John serve?” Verity asked.

“No, he paid a Poole to go in his place, same as Michael McClure did.” Aunt Clara helped Verity button up the back of the dress. “Nathaniel's father was too sick to serve; anyone could see that. He should never have been called up.”

“I agree.” Verity had seen the army take men and boys who ought to have been unfit for service. She had never met Nathaniel's father, but she knew he'd been ill even before the war started and had spent his final year of life bedridden.

Her aunt shook her head disapprovingly. “The Poole man whom John paid was killed at Gettysburg. But Michael's substitute used his fee for college after the war, if you can believe it.”

Verity glanced at her aunt with surprise. It sounded as if Aunt Clara would rather the paid substitute had done his duty and died, rather than have the audacity to survive and attend college. “What about Nathaniel?” She hoped her intended husband had not paid another man to fight in his place. Not that she would have wanted him injured or killed, but . . .

“Nathaniel was eager to go, but his mother made him promise to wait until he was sixteen, and by that time the war was over.” Aunt Clara eyed Verity sternly. “Life's a battle—in peacetime and in wartime. People do whatever they have to. Best you learn that while you're young.”

It was a strange sentiment, and rather disturbing. Before Verity could wonder too much about it, her aunt smiled and said, “I'll let your dress soak overnight. Send Beulah for it in the morning.”

Verity didn't want to ask any special favors of Beulah. “I can come back for it.”

Aunt Clara smiled knowingly. “Send Beulah,” she repeated. “Don't let that woman intimidate you. She's had the run of your father's house for too many years. I'm sure she hasn't taken to the idea of a new mistress, but you need to put her in her place.”

Verity retrieved her basket of ribbon and said her goodbyes. Liza followed Verity through the house and onto the front porch. “I know you're not going to ask me to help with those wreaths,” Liza said, “but I wouldn't have done it anyway.”

“Then we are in agreement that you won't be helping,” Verity responded with icy politeness.

“If you know what's good for you, you won't disturb that grave,” Liza went on.

Verity narrowed her eyes. “Do you have something to say about my mother?”

She was ready to pick a quarrel, but Liza just smiled nastily. “Not your mother—
her.
” The girl glanced back at the house, then leaned forward and whispered, “Asenath was a witch, you know.”

“How would you know?” Verity asked. “She was dead before you were born.”

“Her family's chock-full of witches. People say there's a blood curse on the lot of them.”

“People are ignorant,” Verity retorted, eyeing Liza up and down so the girl would know exactly which people she meant.

Liza persisted. “Why do you think they put that cage on her grave?”

Verity knew she ought not to respond, but she couldn't help herself. “Why do
you
think?”

“To make sure she didn't get out. In your mother's case, it was only a precaution, but with Asenath . . . there was reason for concern.” Liza's smile was sinister now. “In Catawissa sometimes the dead don't stay where you put them.”

 

Verity went home heartsick.

Her father clearly hadn't told her the whole story. There was some stain on her mother's reputation, something to do with the girl buried next to her. The two cages served as a reminder, making sure no one in town ever forgot.

If the two women had done nothing wrong, as her father claimed, why had he needed to bury them in such a fashion? Why hadn't her father and her uncle stood up for their wives?

If Verity was going to marry Nathaniel McClure and make a decent life for herself in this town, she was going to have to find out, and then find a remedy.

As for her cousin Liza—for all Verity cared, the girl could pine away from jealousy.

DURING VERITY'S absence, calling cards had been left at the Boone house on behalf of Mrs. James Campbell, Mrs. Timothy Abbet, and Mrs. William McKelvy.

Nate's sisters.

Verity bolted upstairs to rip off Liza's horrible dress and put on one of her own. Mindful of Aunt Clara's advice, she next cornered Beulah in the kitchen and persuaded her to return one of her own calling cards to the McClure house, along with a note stating she would be home to visitors that afternoon.

Then she set about preparing her father's neglected parlor for callers. Stealing a cornflower-blue sash from one of her old dresses, Verity tied back the curtains to let in the sunlight. She found two matching vases in the dining room china cabinet and filled them with boughs from a flowering tree across the road. She removed an ugly tarnished mirror from the wall and replaced it with her mother's portrait. By the time the three women arrived to pay their social call, Verity was dressed, primped, and seated in an improved parlor, determined to make a better impression on the sisters than she had on the brother.

All three of the McClure ladies were dark haired, blue eyed, and rosy cheeked. The younger two, Harriet and Caroline, were twenty and twenty-two, respectively, and the eldest, Anne, almost thirty. Within ten minutes of their arrival, they'd convinced Verity to call them by their pet names—Annie, Carrie, and Hattie. They inquired about her health, they asked about her family in Worcester, they wanted to know her favorite color and whether she preferred needlepoint or embroidery.

But mostly they talked about Nate.

They adored their younger brother and were eager to regale Verity with all his positive traits: he was hard working and loyal and earnest and kind. Verity had to smile and couldn't help but warm toward their description of him. Oh, he had his faults, too. The sisters agreed that he could sometimes be
too
hard working—and probably too earnest—and kind to a fault. In fact, his virtues were his biggest faults. When Annie confessed that no one had ever been able to get Nate to eat carrots, as if this were the most terrible thing she could say about him, Verity laughed.

At first Verity thought they were trying to repair yesterday's disaster, but the more they talked, the more clear it became that they knew nothing about it; they thought Nate had left for Wilkes-Barre without meeting her. Verity felt relieved that he'd kept their ill-fated excursion to himself, another point in his favor. However, his sisters seemed to be the only ones to call him Nate instead of Nathaniel. This reinforced her conviction that their hands had guided all the letters he'd written, including the one in which he invited her to use that name.

“Have you been busy since your arrival?” Carrie asked. “I wouldn't be surprised if the whole town were trying to get a look at Ransloe Boone's daughter! Whom have you met?”

“I haven't had many callers yet,” Verity admitted, carefully not mentioning Nate's visit. “Today I spent the entire morning failing to mind the Thomas boys carefully enough and then helping to stitch one up.” She described her attempts to prevent her cousins from being trampled, run over, crushed, or maimed. “Luckily for me,” she said, “Piper's telling everyone his injury came from fighting a deserter over General Washington's payroll.”

“Oh, is he, now?” Carrie leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. “He hasn't said where the payroll's hidden, has he?”

“Carrie!” Annie gasped, tapping her sister with her fan. “For shame!”

“Well, if anyone knows, it's those boys!”

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,” said Verity.

The sisters seemed caught between laughter and embarrassment.

“It's the old story about the Battle of Wyoming and the lost treasure,” Hattie said. “Carrie, you silly thing! All the boys play that game; it doesn't mean anything! Nate used to act it out when he was little. He made me play old Silas all the time, running through the swamp and knifing people—”

Annie exclaimed, “Hattie!”

Verity laughed. “I don't know the story, but that does sound like what they were playing.”

“It was part of the Battle of Wyoming, in the War for Independence,” Carrie said.

“I learned about it at school.” Verity cast her mind back. “As I recall, we lost.”

“The Americans were ambushed and routed,” Hattie confirmed. “Afterward the British ordered the Indians to burn all the homesteads in the area.”

“The Indians were working with the British?”

“Indeed. Mohawks, mostly,” said Carrie. “With French blood. They had a score to settle with the Americans.”

“Dutch blood, too,” put in Hattie.

“Not Dutch,” Annie corrected.

Hattie pursed her lips. “Yes, Dutch. I know there's Vanderpooles in that line.”

“Very true! The name was shortened to Poole somewhere along the way.” Carrie raised her eyebrows at Verity. “Your Beulah Poole's ancestors were on the wrong side of that war, and most people around here never forgot it.”

“The British captured or killed most of the patriot soldiers,” Hattie continued, “but according to legend, some of the men got away with a whole packet of gold coins, a payroll for the Continental army. They disappeared into a swamp—”