The Caged Graves (3 page)

Verity glanced at the road, but no one else was in sight. Her uncle seemed to guess her thoughts. “My wife and my daughter couldn't come this afternoon,” he explained. “They're up to their elbows in blueberry pies. But I couldn't hold back the boys any longer—they wanted to come up here last night, and I had to restrain them. So I availed myself of a pie and brought them for a visit, not knowing what mischief they might cause if I didn't.”

The boys rampaged past Verity, heading straight for the kitchen. Beulah took the pie from John Thomas's hands, sliced it, and served it. As the children devoured the warm pastry, their father introduced them.

The oldest and quietest of the lot was John Jr., who alone among the boys had not thrown himself into Verity's arms upon arrival. At twelve Johnny seemed awkward and tongue-tied, although he held the promise of one day being as handsome as his father. By contrast the middle child, Piper, didn't stop talking for a second. His face aglow with excitement, he bombarded Verity with questions about the trains she'd ridden from Massachusetts—what types of engines, how many cars, what speed, how much coal, and other queries she was ill-equipped to answer.

The six-year-old twins, Samuel and Stephen, were indistinguishable even before they smeared blueberry all over themselves. “How will I tell them apart?” Verity exclaimed.

“
I
can't tell them apart,” her uncle admitted. He put a hand on the top of one twin's head and turned it to face him. “Which one are you?” The child just grinned at his father with blue teeth.

While the boys begged second slices from Beulah, John Thomas turned to Verity and raised the subject everyone was still talking about—the War Between the States. “Is Worcester recovering from the war? Did the city lose many men?”

“There wasn't any family unaffected,” she said. “Everybody lost a husband, a son, or a brother, or had someone return gravely injured.” Her uncle Benjamin Gaines had left for war in 1863 a strong and confident man and returned in 1865 with a permanent limp and a tendency to cringe at loud noises.

Uncle John nodded his understanding. “The same can be said here. I'm just grateful the war ended before Johnny came of age. It would have cost us a fortune to keep him out.”

Verity knew some men hired a substitute or paid a commutation fee to avoid conscription. Looking at the dapper and cheery man seated across from her, Verity wondered if he had done so. Her uncle didn't look as if he'd ever seen a battlefield. The Gaines family hadn't been able to afford such a luxury. Neither had her father, who'd served briefly at the end of the war.

Mindful of Polly's advice on tact, Verity kept back her opinion of men who paid their way out of service and agreed it was a very good thing her cousins would not have to go to war.

Uncle John looked around. “Where's Ransloe? Out in the fields working?” He turned and spoke to Beulah Poole. “Even with his daughter just come home after fifteen years away?”

“He works hard,” Verity said in her father's defense. John Thomas had his own farmland to tend but somehow found time to make social calls in the middle of the day. “I understand it's a big property,” she continued. “He has only two men to help him. Beulah's grandsons, I think.”

“Grandsons, nephews, cousins,” her uncle said glibly. “They switch off periodically, don't they, Beulah?” The woman nodded without even looking up from the sink. “We've got passels of Pooles around here; it's one thing we're never short of.”

He spoke as if Beulah's relations were weeds choking out the better crops. Verity frowned. She'd grown up among people committed to social reform and the rights of all men and women. She understood that country townsfolk might not be as enlightened, but her uncle's comment had been downright rude. Verity glanced at Beulah, but the woman never turned around.

“It'll do Ransloe good to have Nathaniel here to help run things,” John Thomas went on, apparently unaware that he'd offended his niece and possibly his brother-in-law's housekeeper.

Verity nodded. She knew that her return and her proposed marriage were primarily a business arrangement between Ransloe Boone and the McClure family. The McClures wanted to acquire the land; her father didn't want to let it go, but he was willing to pass it on to a son-in-law. It had been a frightening idea to Verity at first, but Nate had put her at ease with his letters and the book he'd sent as a gift. The volume of love poems, written by Elizabeth Barrett during her courtship with Robert Browning, had completely won her over.

“Nathaniel's a sensible boy,” her uncle said. “He'll be an asset here, and it'll be good to see life in this old house again.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Will you live here? Or with the McClures?”

“We haven't decided that yet,” Verity said. The subject had not come up in their letters.

“You should live with Ransloe. Trust me, Verity; you don't want to throw yourself into the stewpot at the McClure house.” Nathaniel had three older sisters, all married and living at the McClure house with their husbands and children. “You'd be better off establishing yourself here—wouldn't she, Beulah?”

“I couldn't say, Mr. Thomas,” the housekeeper responded without looking up.

Verity thought her uncle was probably correct, but she didn't wish to speak for her intended—or her father.

Beulah handed John Thomas the pie plate, now washed clean. The children had eaten every bite. “Not much of a gift, boys,” he remarked. “We bring it over and devour it ourselves. Verity will bar the door next time she sees us coming.” The proud expression on his face belied his words. “Clara and Liza will come calling in their own time.”

“How old is your daughter?” Verity asked.

“She'll be fourteen this fall.” Then her uncle added in a thoughtless manner that Verity was beginning to suspect was typical of him, “Come to think of it, for a long time Liza had her cap set at your Nathaniel. I expect she's shifted her affections to someone else now, since your engagement was announced.”

Grand,
thought Verity as she watched them all leave.
A jealous cousin. That's just grand.

 

Perhaps Aunt Clara and Cousin Liza would come calling later, and there might be other visitors as well. She decided to bake a cake. Beulah put her hands on her bony hips and protested, “I'm expecting a delivery from the butcher. You'll be in the way.”

“I won't take up much space,” Verity said, then promptly spilled flour all over herself, the table, and the floor. Beulah's expression soured even more. “I'm not a very tidy cook,” Verity admitted, “but I clean up after myself when I'm done. I won't leave it for you.”

“I'll get the broom” was Beulah's only response. She left by the back kitchen door and let it slam shut behind her.

Verity returned to her work, wiping flour off her nose with her sleeve and humming happily. She liked to bake. Once the war shortages had let up, she and Polly had spent hours cooking for the pure joy of it. There wasn't a charity bake sale in Worcester that hadn't held a table full of cakes and sweets prepared by Verity Boone and Polly Gaines.

She heard the back door open again but didn't bother to turn around until Beulah called her name. “Miss Verity!”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Beulah standing in the doorway with a broom in her hand and, behind her, a young man lingering on the threshold. “Are you from the butcher?” Verity asked. “You can just put everything in the springhouse.” She used her sleeve again to wipe her face and went on beating the batter.

Nobody moved. The fellow cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He's not from the butcher, Miss Verity,” said Beulah.

Her tone gave Verity pause. Very carefully, she laid down the spoon and turned around again, wiping her hands across her apron. The housekeeper smiled smugly.

Verity took another look at the young man in the doorway.

“Hello, Verity,” he said.

“Oh,” she replied. “Hello, Nate.”

BELATEDLY SHE recognized his face—those dark brows and that stern gaze. His eyes were a surprise. They had appeared dark in the photograph, but they were blue—the deep indigo of a stormy sky. He looked quite different dressed in the casual attire of a gentleman farmer, a shirt open at the throat and a coat that had been patched several times. His dark hair was tousled, as if he'd been riding or walking without a hat, and he had a rugged look, quite unlike the stiff young man in the photograph.

At the moment Verity didn't much resemble the formal portrait she'd sent him either. She forced herself to untie her apron slowly, with dignity, rather than ripping it off. Removing the apron wouldn't help much. She was wearing her oldest dress, her hair was messily tied up out of the way, and her face was smudged with flour.

“I'm sorry I came unannounced,” he said.

She summoned a brave smile. “I didn't expect to see you until Friday.”

That seemed to puzzle him for a moment, but then he nodded. “Oh, the party. My mother wanted to welcome you home with a celebration. She also thought,” he added slowly, “that if you and I met for the first time in front of my family and yours and everybody in town, it would be highly
amusing.
For her and everybody else.” Nathaniel McClure watched her intently; Verity found herself unable to look away. “I decided I'd come meet you on my own terms.”

An admirable plan, Verity thought, but he still could have sent a calling card. He could have arrived by the front door and allowed her to meet him in the parlor, dressed to receive company.

“I thought we might go for a walk down the lane, if you like,” he said.

He'd already seen her looking like a kitchen drudge; it was too late to cater to her vanity. Verity would have to make the best of it. “Very well.”

When he backed out of the doorway, she followed. He waited while she shook out her skirts and then started down the road, away from the Thomas house and town. He didn't offer his arm to her, and she was relieved. This was just too strange—and he was too much a stranger.

They walked side by side in silence, not strolling so much as trudging. Verity glanced up at him curiously and caught him looking down at her. “How do you like Cata­wissa?” he blurted out.

“It's very pretty, although I haven't seen much of it yet. My father brought me straight home from the station, and he's been in the fields ever since.” Immediately, she wished she could take that back. It sounded like a complaint.

Nate defended her father with almost the same words she'd spoken to her uncle earlier. “He works hard. It's a big property. And this is a busy time of year for a farm.”

“I know that, and he doesn't have a lot of help.” That sounded like another complaint, she realized.

“My family has always lent him a hand when he needed it.” Nate glanced at her again, looking pained. “He and my father were friends—”

“Yes, I know,” Verity hurriedly assured him. “He wrote about your father many times and was grieved by his passing. And, of course, I'm grateful for the help you gave my father during the war.”

When Verity's father had been called up by the army three years ago, Nate had taken over the running of the Boone farm. He'd been only fifteen at the time, and he'd had guidance from his family, but according to what her father had written in his letters, it was primarily due to Nate that the property hadn't fallen into wrack and ruin while Ransloe Boone was absent.

Ahead of them the road split in two, one branch continuing uphill and the other turning sharply left and winding down a steep incline. “Where do these lead?” she asked.

He nodded uphill. “That road takes you to my family's land. The other heads down to the church.”

“Can we go this way?” Verity indicated the path toward the church. She was already embarrassed that Nate had seen her in her current state of dress; she didn't want to encounter any of his relatives. “It's downhill.”

He shrugged. “If you like. We'll have to walk back up again, though.”

So far, this had been a very awkward meeting, entirely lacking the ease of their correspondence. Verity collected her thoughts, determined to change the course of the conversation.

“I want to thank you again for the book of poems. I cannot tell you how much I've enjoyed them.”

That provoked a small smile—his first. “I'm glad you liked it.”

“I think she was a very talented poetess,” Verity went on.

They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then Nate shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and frowned. “You're referring to the Portuguese poems?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “They're not
really
Portuguese poems. She wrote them all herself.”

“Who did?”

“Elizabeth Barrett.” Now Verity was pointing out his mistake, and that was even worse than complaining. She wanted to return to the top of the hill and start over—possibly take the other path—but it was too late. They were both breathing heavily as they descended a steep section of the road. Below them a building had just become visible, and beyond it a graveyard.

“
Sonnets from the Portuguese?
” Nate asked. It sounded as if he wasn't sure they were talking about the same book.

She wanted to change the subject, but if she dropped it now, she might offend him more. “She only pretended she was translating poems from another language,” Verity explained, “because they were her love poems to Robert Browning and highly personal. I thought you knew.”

Nate's blue eyes seemed a bit hunted now; he looked everywhere except at her face. “No, I don't read poetry. I asked my sisters to pick out gifts you might like.”

Verity caught her breath at the word
gifts.
Not just the one, but all of them.