The Secrets of Water

by Wendy Nelson-Sinclair

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she said, exhaling slowly with incredulity. “You have got to be kidding me.” Her eyes widened with genuine surprise. Written across the page was the hand of Edith Blackwell.

  Edith Blackwell was an early-twentieth-century British writer widely reminiscent of Virginia Woolf with a touch of Edgar Allan Poe’s macabre. Edith was Lizzie’s favorite writer. Lizzie had discovered her at fifteen years old when Virginia brought home Edith’s first novel, Sands of Time. The gothic tale entranced Lizzie’s younger self, holding her completely captivated to the point that she read it and Edith’s other two novels, The Price of Love and The Wages of Sin, over and over every year since. A copy of Sands of Time flanked the corner of her desk, forever resting beside her mother’s pocket watch, always tempting Lizzie to forget her work and crack it open instead.

  In the British Lit class she taught, Lizzie assigned The Wages of Sin as required reading. The intense subject matter—a story about a troubled young woman who comes to live with her reclusive best friend and tries to kill her— turned disinterest into complete enthrallment by the time the novel was through. Lizzie saw the novels as examples of what Edith longed for in her lonely, repressed life. Receiving a letter written in Edith’s own hand gave Lizzie the same thrill as when her students peppered her with questions on the novel’s contents. The same thrill she’d savored each time a scrap bearing Edith’s scrawl needed to be typed, catalogued, and safeguarded during her time as an intern in England.

  Lizzie breathed deep with anticipation as she adjusted the light to see the faded scrawl better. As she read the letter, the words it conveyed matched nothing of what was known about Edith’s life. In fact, if proved to be true, it would show that her life was a far cry from lonely, repressed spinster.

  My dearest friend,

  Oh, Elsie! It is such a shame that you are away in London. Tonight, E asked me to marry him! My dear American painter proposed tonight! Tragically, it comes on the heels of his wife’s death (which I told you about--pneumonia, terrible thing), and his beloved uncle’s passing, as well. The same uncle that bequeathed E a farm of more than one hundred acres in California! We are moving to America, my dearest friend. Can you picture it? California! I’ve decided that this damp, dreary house—even with its few, wonderful memories—is bad for my mental health. The golden sunshine of California is just what I need to dispel the constant melancholy that I can never seem to shake. We are scheduled to leave just after the new year. Once we get settled, I hope to welcome you and J as our first guests…

  The note ended abruptly. Lizzie read it again, her heart pounding inside her chest as she took in every word.

  “Shit,” she swore, laying the letter down and stared at her reflection in the window. “Where did you come from?” she asked as if the letter were a flesh and blood person who could provide an answer.

  Lizzie plucked the envelope from the trash and eyed the front cover. There was no return address, no postmark, just her name written in black Sharpie in uniform blocked letters. Lizzie glanced back and forth between the letter and the envelope. Who had sent this? she wondered. Who was it that entrusted her with such a find?

  Curious, Lizzie stuffed the letter back into its former home and tucked it back into her bag. Several questions ran through her mind. Where had the letter come from? How did it end up in her hands? Why wasn’t it sent to the Lake District Museum instead?

  The letter was delicate with age. Whoever had initially stored it had not shown it the care that antique paper required. In Lizzie’s minds’ eye, she saw an old attic and a trunk filled with bits and pieces of paper, news cuttings, and faded birthday cards with the letter sitting upon the top, slowly decaying across the years.

  Lizzie was dumbfounded. She made a mental note to ask Abby on Monday if it had come through the regular mail circulation or if someone had handed it to her. No matter how it arrived, she needed to know.

  As Lizzie sat contemplating, she knew that she needed to inform Jacobs about what she found—or rather, what had found her. Lizzie met Jacobs when she was in the study abroad program in England. Jacobs was the assistant to the program director, Dr. Linda Trelawney and later worked as a research assistant for Katherine Sargent, who wrote Edith Blackwell’s biography and the top expert on all things Blackwell. If there was anyone in the world who she could trust with this letter, it was him, despite the fact that he seemed wishy washy and was overly fond of doling out parental suggestions. There was one problem, though. Jacobs was in England. He and his wife were in the Lake District visiting her family over the holidays. In his email announcing his vacation, Jacobs stated that cell phone coverage was sparse where he was staying and that if any non-emergency arose, to email him. In the case of emergencies, speak to Mae, whom he left in charge.

  Slapping her thigh, Lizzie realized what she needed to do. In the morning, she’d call Mae. Although this fell under the ‘non-emergency’ category, Lizzie knew that it was be better to get the opinion of a more expertized person. Feeling the weariness of a long day and unexpected stress, Lizzie yawned and decided to call it a night.

  TWO

  The morning sun cracked through the curtains, hitting Lizzie squarely in the eye and waking her from a rough night’s sleep. Try as she might, Lizzie could not rest easily. She woke multiple times over the course of the night, sweating profusely, heart racing from half-a-dozen nightmares that involved the letter being lost or destroyed. Incidents that had all been out of her control. Getting up, Lizzie tried to shake the nightmarish effects and headed downstairs to make coffee.

  Once the aroma of coffee permeated the entire first floor, Lizzie turned to go to her office when the front doorbell rang. Setting her cup down, she went to answer the door. When she opened it, she was surprised to find the porch empty. Glancing up and down the street, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Nobody was out on this bright, crisp Sunday morning except for Mr. Konstakis who was busily washing his brand-new Mercedes. Giving him a wave, Lizzie went to close the door, but something caught under its bottom edge. Looking down, Lizzie spotted another manila envelope laying between the door and the welcome mat. Scrunching her face with confusion, she bent down, picked the envelope up, and shut the door tightly behind her.

  Like its predecessor, the only thing written on the front was Lizzie’s name. With her coffee back in hand, she took it to her office to examine it further. Once the second envelope was open, Lizzie choked on her coffee. Wiping off her wet chin, she wiped her hands before picking the second letter up.

  Elsie,

  My dear friend! I write to you in a state of chaos. She wants to divide us! You know of whom I speak! She constantly tries to embarrass me and frequently asks E. to take her to London. During dinner parties, she tries to orchestrate it so that my love and I are separated, but E—he is wise to her games. What am I to do? How am I to rid her of my home and my life! Oh, Elsie, my dear, if only you and Jonathan were here to lend me support! Write to me if you can, dear one and kiss that precious newborn baby for me. I anxiously wait for your reply.

  -Your Faithful Friend,

  Edith

  “Who is ‘E.’?” Lizzie asked, amazed at another letter bearing Edith’s signature scrawl stretched across the same vellum paper. “Who is he? And who is it that is trying to tear you two apart?” Lizzie asked again as if Edith’s ghost could provide the answer.

  Lizzie went to place the letter back when the edge of a white notecard caught her attention.

  “What?” She pulled the simple lined note card, the kind she had thousands of in her office, out.

  Go to Copp’s Hill Burying Ground, Boston. You will find your answers there.

  It was the only message written on the card. Lizzie’s interest was piqued to the point that her coffee went untouched, leaving galaxies of milk floating in the black void. As the minutes ticked by, the desire to drive the hour to Boston became too much to resist. Rushing upstairs, Lizzie threw on a pair of jeans, a pink Coca-Cola T-
shirt that Sebastian had given her, socks, her hot pink Adidas sneakers, and a puffy, fleece-lined coat to protect her from the bitter winter Massachusetts wind.

  ************

  Lizzie drove straight from Harbor Place, her home for the last nineteen years, bound for the second-oldest cemetery in Boston. The drive was uneventful, save for the horrendous amount of weekend traffic clogging up the roads and highways.

  Lizzie entered the city from the south and drove northward, passing Union Oyster house, her grandmother’s favorite restaurant, the oldest in Boston, as well as the Paul Revere House. The Paul Revere House was where, at the tender age of ten, Lizzie asked the tour guide why Sybil Ludington, a sixteen-year-old girl from Revolutionary times, who rode twice as far as Paul Revere, wasn’t as celebrated or as widely known as her more famous counterpart. A smile curved Lizzie’s small mouth as she recalled how pride radiated off of her grandmother’s face at that moment.

  Lizzie arrived at the cemetery a short time later and parked her car. The small cemetery, situated at the northern edge of the city, was just ahead. As Lizzie walked towards it, passing by a short, slender woman in a beige trench coat, she thought about its long, storied history. The cemetery that had fallen into disrepair before the turn of the twentieth century and housed the remains of notable figures from history, including Cotton and Increase Mather, notable for their connections to the Salem Witch Trials, as well as Prince Hall, a soldier during the Revolutionary War and founder of the Black Masonic order. The cemetery was now well-kept due by the Boston Parks & Recreation because of its national significance and attraction as a historical site. From her grade school education, Lizzie also knew that due to its panoramic views and its height, this location had been a British vantage point during the Revolutionary fight for freedom.

  As Lizzie stepped into the sacred place, she slowly walked amongst the stones, reading the ones that were still legible, searching for a clue. Any clue. Lizzie strolled along the red-brick pathway and came to an abrupt halt. Towards the back, something yellow stuck out against the light dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. Lizzie quickly closed the distance. Her breath caught in her chest as the headstone’s epitaph came into view.

  Here lie the remains of Edward Martin Murray. Beloved Son, Brother, and Husband. His life was a landscape of color. His spirit lives in his art. May he rest in eternal peace.

  Lizzie’s body tingled with a flurry of excited frissons. Another manila envelope, a triplet to the other two, rested against Edward Martin Murray’s grave. Stooping down, Lizzie grasped the envelope but stopped short in mid-movement. All the loose strings came together with lightning speed.

  Edith’s letters. The first mentioned an American painter. Both mentioned the mysterious ‘E’. As Lizzie stood half-bent, she couldn’t help but see how all clues were integral to the mystery that she now found herself the center of.

  Momentarily, she tested its weight. This one was heavier than the others—bulkier and denser as if there were more in it. The wind picked up as Lizzie slid her fingernail across its top edge. With anxious anticipation, she reached in only to find another group of vellum pages that matched the ones from the first envelope. Lizzie’s knees nearly buckled as a gust of wind ruffled the pieces of paper, fluttering them like leaves rustling overhead. Her breath caught and erupted in a foggy mist as it rushed out between her lips. As Lizzie stood, it all quickly dawned on her that was holding something long thought lost to history.

  “What?” she gasped as a shiver trailed up the length of her spine. “The Secrets of Water,” she read aloud as a second thrill of excitement shot from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes. “This can’t be?” she said again with disbelief as a snowflake drifted downward and settled on the top page. Brushing it quickly away, Lizzie brought the contents close to her chest to protect them from the weather. Anxiously, Lizzie hurried back to her car and cranked up the heater as the snow began to fall harder. With the doors locked, she let the car idle while the cabin grew bearable, all the while staring at what the cemetery had offered up.

  Lizzie shuffled through the pages quickly, questioning what she possessed. In her hands was the missing half of The Secrets of Water. Edith Blackwell’s last novel that many believed had gone unfinished.

  Lizzie looked out through her windshield, reveling with wonder. Whoever had entrusted her with the first two notes had also deemed her trustworthy with what many scholars had long searched for. The second half of the infamous The Secrets of Water rested in Lizzie’s hands. A piece of manuscript that scholars across the globe believed to be either destroyed, unwritten, or lost to history for eternity. Lizzie drew in a short breath as she squared her chin. A gamut of emotions coursed through her as she understood that this long, highly sought-after treasure wasn’t lost. Somehow, the remainder of the manuscript had survived over the past century and somehow, found its way to her.

  “The Secrets of Water,” she read aloud once more, surprised to see an amended title page staring back at her. “By Edith Blackwell. Dedicated to E. M. M.—my love, my life, the other half of my soul… You live on, my dearest. We are eternal. Your life was a landscape of color.” Lizzie’s head shot up as the last puzzle piece fell into place. “Holy shit.” she gasped. “’E’ is Edward Martin Murray!”

  Lizzie’s body sparked and sizzled with excitement. She could barely contain her enthusiasm. Somehow, someway, Edith Blackwell not only met, but had fallen in love with Edward Martin Murray, the notable Bostonian who rebelliously threw off the shackles of a lucrative career in banking to follow his passion as a painter.

  Immediately, Lizzie knew that her first goal was to get the letters and the partial manuscript into Jacob’s hands. There was no doubt that he would see them safely handed over to the Lake District Museum in northern England, where they rightfully belonged. The Lake District museum was only place that held the surviving catalog of Edith’s writings, possessions, records, and had been bequeathed her estate just before Lizzie had gone to work for the museum.

  Placing everything into her backpack, Lizzie drove home, not bothering to watch her speed. She pulled into her driveway less than an hour later and rushed everything inside, suddenly apprehensive as if someone were spying on her.

  Lizzie locked the door and quickly rushed to her office. Placing the manuscript in the same container as the letters, Lizzie moved to the laptop sitting open on her desk. Pushing the power button, Lizzie waited for it to boot up before opening her work email to compose a message to Jacobs and Mae Yu, detailing everything that had recently come into her possession.

  Lizzie was nearly finished with her correspondence when an idea came to her. In her gut, she knew that despite visiting his in-laws, Jacobs would want to see everything immediately. Lizzie took a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind her. The hands read twelve-thirty. Knowing that Boston was just a little over five hours behind London, Lizzie decided to take a chance. A chance that she wouldn’t have even contemplated a week ago.

  “I’m on my way to England,” she wrote, informing her colleagues of her decision. “I will bring what I found and will contact you once I have landed. If you have any questions, you can also reach me on my cell. I will have it on at all times, except for when I’m in the air,” she added as she finished the communication and clicked send.

  Logging off from her email, Lizzie booked a plane ticket to London. At first glance, the hefty price of the ticket caused her eyes to bulge with surprise, but it did stop her from purchasing it.

  When Virginia died, Lizzie, as Virginia’s only living relative, inherited her entire estate. Unbeknownst to her granddaughter, Virginia had had a fantastic financial planner and years upon years of savings left Lizzie sitting on almost a million dollars when everything was said and done. Spending a little bit now wouldn’t hurt her in the long run, especially if it meant rewriting history.

  Turning off her laptop, Lizzie slid it into its travel case and firmly tucked it away inside her backp
ack. With a glance about the room, she mentally prepared herself for the journey ahead.

  ************

  Lizzie called Darcy on her way to the Boston Logan International Airport. The line rang several times. Lizzie was prepared to leave a message when Darcy picked up on the last ring.

  “How are you this morning?” Darcy asked instead of the traditional ‘hello’.

  “Fine. I was wondering if you and Bobby could watch my house for a few days? I’m headed to England. There’s some museum business that I need to discuss with Jacobs. I should be back Wednesday.” Silence from the other end of the line met her as Lizzie navigated her way into the airport and headed into the central parking garage.

  “Hello?” Lizzie said, worried that the line might have dropped.

  “For months, I have been worrying about you. Making myself sick because that all you do is go to work, go to the university, and go home. Now, you're jetting off to England! Man, Lizzie! When you snap out of something, you don’t do it half-assed!” Darcy said incredulously.

  “This is just for work. It’s not like I’m going on vacation or that I’m going to have a whirlwind romance. I am meeting Jacobs at the Lake District Museum. You know, the place where I did my internship six years ago? Jacobs knows the current director and the museum is the preeminent place for anything related to Edith Blackwell.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Darcy paused. “You’re flying over three-thousand miles, across a large body of water, just to meet your boss at some museum? Why couldn’t this wait until he got back?”

  “Because I found something really important. Something that belonged to Edith Blackwell, Darcy.” Lizzie couldn’t keep the excitement from leaking into her voice. “Several somethings, actually. Potentially valuable somethings that will change everything that we know about her.”