Page 16 of Because I Could Not Stop for Death

Carriages, wagons, and carts lined the driveway to the stables and shone with fresh black paint. To our right was a large paddock with a dozen horses wandering around the pasture plucking at the grass with their wide teeth and swatting their tails. Since it was winter, some of the horses wore blankets on their strong backs and the grass was little more than tufts of brown peeking out from crushed snow.

I opened and closed my hands at my sides. They were impossibly cold, and I wished that I had thought to bring my mittens. I rarely carried them until it was below freezing for fear of losing them. It would take me such a long time to make another pair, not to mention to afford the yarn. I didn’t feel like I could risk it. Henry used to tease me about this and say, “What is the point of having mittens if you don’t ever wear them for fear of losing them?”

Henry had lost dozens of pairs of mittens that I had knitted him over the years. He went through at least three pairs each winter when I had had my one pair for many years. All my yarn money and knitting skill had been spent on making more mittens for Henry, at least up until now. My brother had never feared losing anything, not even his life.

As we drew closer to the stable, which was the largest building that I had ever seen up close, I noticed a house to the left of it. Miss Dickinson—no, Emily—noticed my gaze. “That’s the home of the livery and stables owner, Mr.Elmer Johnson.”

“Have you met him before?” I asked.

She wrinkled her nose. “Yes.”

I thought she would say more than that, but she didn’t utter another word and walked toward the stable. Carlo looked as happy as he could be every time he saw a horse.

“Don’t you want to go to the house and tell Mr.Johnson that we are here? Shouldn’t he be told?” I asked.

“No.” She continued on the gravel path. As we drew closer, I started to see young men move around the stables. Some were raking, and others were hooking horses up to wagons and carriages as if they were preparing to go into town.

We were the only women there, along with a giant dog, and surely stuck out, but no one stopped us. No one asked any questions at all.

The giant barn door stood open. The sunlight made it difficult to see inside. I caught flashes of movement before I saw anyone, and then a person appeared.

A young Black man with close-cropped hair and glasses met us at the door. “I’m Jeremiah York. You must be Henry’s sister, Willa. I’ve been waiting for you to come.”

Chapter Seven

You have been waiting for me to come—to come here?” I asked in disbelief.

He held on to his suspenders. He wore a white work shirt, brown trousers that were a bit too long and rolled up several inches to keep them out of the mud, and a pair of worn black boots. Leather gloves stuck out of the pocket of his trousers. “I have. Henry said you would.”

My heart was in my throat. “You knew my brother?”

He cocked his head. “I did. He was the best friend I’ve ever had.”

I frowned.

As if Jeremiah could read the confusion on my face, he said, “I worked with Henry at the warehouse for a few months before leaving and working at the stables. We stayed in contact after I left and remained friends.”

Why had I never heard of him?

“I’m Emily.” Miss Dickinson—I mean Emily, as she wanted me to call her—removed her wool mitten and thrust her hand out to the young man.

Jeremiah stared at her hand. “I know who you are, miss.”

“Aren’t you going to shake my hand?”

His eyes widened and he gave her hand a firm but quick shake.

“Willa is my companion.”

I tried not to show my surprise. Companion was quite a leap up from housemaid.

“And,” Emily continued, “she wanted to see the place where her brother died. I thought it would be best to come with her and lend my support.”

Jeremiah nodded. “It might be hard to view.”

I swallowed. It wasn’t until I was there at the livery that I realized that Emily was right. I did want to see where my brother had died. I hadn’t enough money to give him a proper burial. A kind, anonymous soul paid for his coffin, which was laid to rest in the potter’s field away from town. The Calvinist minister said a few words demanding repentance and it was done. I had been the only person in attendance. That wasn’t completely true. Matthew was there too. He stood ten yards away from Henry’s graveside. He did not speak to me, and I was grateful for that. Speaking on that day would have been impossible, and I certainly didn’t want to answer any more questions about my brother’s death.

But now, I wondered why I was at the grave alone. Since Jeremiah claimed to be my brother’s close friend, I wondered why he hadn’t been there.

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