I glanced away from him, feeling at once mutinous and betrayed. He was right. My eyes settled again on her name. Could this be Halcy’s child? I looked at the tiny grave through poor Mama’s eyes and a faint hope surged up. I had been a poor reader of that scene on the dock, perhaps I had misread Miss Grange’s diary after all.

The stone stared back.

“But—if she is Halcy’s, then why is she named Grange?”

“I assume Miss Grange put up the stone,” Bart answered thoughtfully. “And the name must be her way of protecting Halcy’s name.”

For several moments we stared down together at the grave. And, almost, almost I would have followed Bart Hunnowell along to his conclusion. Yet, though I did not remark it aloud, to me the moss-covered grave and well-worn stone spoke of a child buried long before last summer.

“No,” I said at last with dread conviction. “This cannot be Halcy’s child.”

And then I turned and walked away. Bart never said a word, but followed. And followed still as I crossed the broken, tumbled rocks and took my seat again in the stern, when he gathered up the rope, stepped in, and pushed us off.

He uncrossed his oars, slid them back through the locks and into the water, taking a few short strokes while waiting for me to do the same. But I could not. Bart began rowing again in earnest, and my idle oars slapped against the water’s surface as we drew around and headed back homeward, my heart heavy.

“You might speak to Miss Grange to be certain,” he remarked quietly in between strokes.

The roof of Grange House appeared through the tops of the trees, the chimneys crenellating the air. I had a sudden vision of the place in deep winter, the sharp pitch of the roof shrugging snow from off its black face.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As Bart rowed back to the dock, the sight of her windows staring out at us from under the eaves of the House strengthened my resolve. The time had come to ascend to Miss Grange’s room.

“Promise me something, Bart Hunnowell,” I demanded as he leaned to help me step out of the dinghy. I looked straight up into his eyes. He nodded and remained there with his hand outstretched, sensing I did not ask lightly.

“Tell no one else about this grave.”

“I will not.” His eyes were steady on me and I saw he marked the promise.

I put my hand in his and stepped up onto the pier, leaning on his arm as I did so. For an instant, he did not release me and I did not withdraw, so we stood together on the pier, our hands clasped. But I could hear the cries of several boys racketing down the lawn, and smiling, I disengaged my hand from his.

“You are wanted, Mr. Hunnowell.”