Thread Herrings

by Lea Wait

  How lucky we were to live in the United States now. If a mother or father felt he or she had to give up their child now, adoptive parents were ready—and eager—to raise their child in a safe and comfortable home. Agencies ensured that. What heartbreakingly desperate circumstances parents and their babies had been in years ago.

  But how could the billet for one of those poor babies end up hidden behind a coat of arms? Those infants must have been children of deep, bone-chilling poverty, not children whose fathers would have had a coat of arms. And what was the connection to Maine? In the late eighteenth century Maine had been the District of Maine, a part of Massachusetts referred to as “the Massachusetts wilderness.”

  Not a place a titled man with a coat of arms would be found.

  One sentence on the London Foundling Hospital’s website might explain it. From 1756 until 1801, despite the limits on the number of babies being accepted into the hospital, any child who came with a donation of one hundred pounds was guaranteed a place in the hospital, no questions asked. Seventy-five babies were admitted that way.

  How much would that be today? Google had the answer. One hundred British pounds in 1757 was the equivalent of about $15,000 today.

  Much more money than most families—certainly any poor families—would have had.

  Had Charles been one of those special seventy-five babies?

  I had no way of knowing.

  But I had a lot more questions.

  I’d turned off my computer, but not my imagination, and was climbing into bed when Patrick called.

  “How was your day with Sarah at the auction?”

  “Fascinating,” I admitted. “And guess what I bought?” I explained about the embroideries Sarah and I had bid on, and the packet I’d found, and its apparent connection to the London Foundling Hospital.

  “Curious,” he agreed. “Are you going to do more research?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Could someone at the Maine Historical Society Library help?” he suggested. “I just talked with Steve Jeffries. You remember, the sculptor?”

  “Clem Walker’s friend,” I agreed.

  “I’m going to drive to his studio in Biddeford tomorrow morning to see more of his work, and talk about his possibly having a show here in Haven Harbor. I could drop you in Portland at the Maine Historical Society and pick you up on my way home. We’d both have company on the drive.”

  I hesitated only a moment. I had work to do for Mainely Needlepoint. But I liked both the idea of spending time with Patrick and of checking out the MHS. “Sounds good. When are you leaving?”

  “Pick you up about nine?”

  “See you then!”

  I curled up under my quilts. Packed snow blanketed the Haven Harbor Green across the street, but the night was clear, and moonlight reflected the silhouettes of trees and houses on land that wouldn’t be green until summer.

  Trixi curled up on the pillow next to me.

  Some Mainers headed south in February. But they missed so much.

  What would I discover tomorrow in Portland?

  Chapter 5

  “Embroidery is, at the date of this writing, the most popular of all kinds of [needle]work, both in dress and ornament, and it is a fortunate circumstance for many women that it is so, for hundreds have been kept in employment in the last two years who would have starved had not the fashion of elaborate ornament on every article of dress been revived.”

  —From The Ladies Guide to Needle Work, Embroidery, Etc., being a Complete Guide to all kinds of Ladies’ Fancy work, by S. Annie Frost, New York: Adams & Bishop, Publishers, 1877. Note: The Panic of 1873 was the beginning of a financial depression that lasted from 1873 until at least 1879 in both the United States and Europe.

  Trixi woke me at seven, when the sun rose. Winter days were short, and she didn’t want to miss a minute of daylight. Especially when it was breakfast time.

  I managed to take a hot shower alone, Trixi purring me on as she walked back and forth from the bathroom to the top of the stairs. Had I forgotten? Breakfast was in the kitchen.

  I picked a blue sweater that more-or-less went with my blue and green plaid flannel shirt, found clean jeans and wool socks, and headed downstairs.

  Trixi was gulping her dry food and I was brewing coffee when Sarah texted. “One Charles on Providence list, but not born until 1824.”

  A descendant of “my” Charles? But Charles was not an unusual name. There might be no connection.

  I texted back. “Send full list of names and dates? E-mail? Heading to MHS this a.m. with Patrick.”

  “Will do,” came back.

  I scrambled a couple of eggs with Gruyère and pepper and toasted a muffin. I’d be in Portland today, but not for an elegant lunch.

  I took my coffee mug to the living room, opened the drawer where I’d hidden the treasures from yesterday, and put the billet, the ribbon, and the coat of arms in a padded envelope. I wasn’t sure whether the historical society library would be able to help, but with the list Sarah was going to e-mail me, I could show them all the information I had now.

  I was about to turn on my computer when my phone rang. Dave Percy, one of the Mainely Needlepointers, was on the line. “Fast call, Angie. My class starts in a few minutes. But when do you need the needlepoint cushion for the Drake family?”

  “March 1,” I answered, without checking my files. “Any problem finishing it?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just wanted to check. I’m setting up a field trip for my sophomore biology students, and it’s eating up more time than I’d hoped. Got to go now!”

  Haven Harbor High School was lucky to have Dave. He was probably the only biology teacher in the state who had his own poison garden, and emphasized botany as much as zoology in his classes. Plus, he was the man to call if I needed to know something about a plant. Or a poison. It had happened.

  Sarah’s e-mail came a few minutes later.

  FAMILY REGISTER

  Joshua Providence, born Dec. 12, 1772,

  died Nov. 10, 1814

  Verity Providence, born May 26, 1773,

  died Jan. 2, 1797

  Mary Providence, born April 24, 1791, died May 26, 1792

  Amity Providence, born June 7, 1792,

  died Dec. 4, 1810

  Elizabeth Providence, born March 2, 1794

  Hannah Providence, born Sept. 3, 1795,

  died Oct. 6, 1795

  Hannah Providence, born Aug. 20, 1796,

  died Aug. 21, 1796

  Joseph Providence, born Jan. 1, 1797, died Dec. 10, 1838

  Sarah Providence, born July 15, 1800,

  died Jan. 11, 1857

  Charity Providence, born Aug. 29, 1793,

  died June 10, 1824

  George Providence, born July 4, 1821,

  died Feb. 28, 1832

  Charles Providence, born Nov. 28, 1824,

  died March 1, 1832

  I’d hoped there would be more names and dates, although there were a dozen.

  The last date listed was Sarah’s death in 1857. Who’d filled in that date? It must have been someone who’d outlived him. Maybe Elizabeth, whose date of death wasn’t listed.

  Joshua and Verity might have been married. Verity had died the day after Joseph was born.

  Had his older sisters helped raise him? Had Joshua remarried?

  The historical society would have genealogical information.

  But I didn’t know if the Providence family was connected to the Charles named on the foundling hospital document, or to the coat of arms. The coat of arms might have had nothing to do with the other embroideries.

  Or maybe it did.

  I printed Sarah’s list and added it and my few notes from last night to the padded envelope.

  Patrick was right on time.

  “’Morning, lady,” he said, kissing me lightly as I got into his car.

  “’Morning. So you’ve decided to have a showing of Steve Jeffries’s sculptures?”

&nbs
p; “Not officially. I haven’t issued an invitation. First I want to see what he has in his studio. I like his work, but, although part of my gallery is two stories high, most isn’t. I’m hoping he has some smaller works. If not, I’ll offer to show one of his larger pieces. I’d have to plan the rest of the exhibit around it so other work wouldn’t be overwhelmed by his.”

  “Clem will be pleased you’re following up with Steve,” I said. “I’m surprised she didn’t call to thank us for looking at his work in that Portland gallery the other day.”

  “You deal with her. I’d rather deal with Steve directly. He seems like a nice enough guy. I know Clem’s your friend, Angie, but she’s a little pushy.”

  She had to be pushy to change from an overweight brunette in high school to a slim blond television reporter ten years later. Not to speak of being a woman in the workplace. If she were a man would Patrick think she was pushy? “She didn’t have an easy time of it growing up.”

  “Neither did you. And you’re not pushy.”

  I wasn’t going to get into a debate about what Clem or I were like years ago. Or the definition of a pushy woman. I changed the subject. “So, how long will you be at the gallery?”

  “Don’t know how many pieces he has to show me, or whether it would be worthwhile to take him to lunch. If I don’t see a future relationship with him, I’ll make my visit brief.”

  “You’ll call when you know when you can pick me up?”

  “Of course. I figure you’ll have at least two hours in Portland. Biddeford is twenty-five minutes from there, but that gives you my hour traveling, plus an hour in Jeffries’s gallery, to do research.”

  “I’m not even sure I know what I’m looking for.”

  “I’m sure someone there will help you. So you’re trying to find out who this ‘Charles’ is?”

  “Right. But I don’t know if that’s his first or last name, or even if he used that name after he left the Foundling Hospital—which I’m assuming he did, since the registration slip the hospital called a billet is now here in Maine. I’m also wondering whether the historical society would recognize the coat of arms I bought. It’s faded, and a lot of threads are missing.”

  “They might know if any distinguished Englishmen settled in Maine. Was there a date on the embroidery?”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think there ever was one. Or, if there was, it was part of the threads that have broken or worn away.”

  “So how is Sarah? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  “She’s fine. Attending a lot of auctions to buy inventory for her business.”

  “I assumed Maine winters would be long and dreary, but everyone seems at least as busy now as in the summer.”

  “True enough. I talked to Dave this morning; he’s stitching a cushion for one of our customers, but he’s also teaching, of course, and he’s spending a lot of time arranging a field trip for his students.”

  “And how’s your grandmother?”

  “She and Tom have been working at the food bank several days a week, and they have the usual choir rehearsals and women’s guild meetings and Sunday activities. I’ll admit I haven’t gotten to church for a couple of weeks. I need to do that or I’ll be getting a gentle reminder soon.”

  “And your other needlepointers?”

  “Ruth’s writing up a storm; Captain Ob’s carving a couple of signs for the gift shop downtown as well as stitching some ‘Save the Cormorants’ pillows to fill orders we’ve gotten. Word is spreading about those. Ob’s wife, Anna, is doing some, too. Everyone’s busy. When are you going to open your gallery full-time again?”

  “I’m thinking the middle of March. But it might be April. So far I have new exhibits lined up for June and July. I’ll be changing them each month then. Early spring most artists want to leave their work up for a couple of months.”

  “So more people have a chance to see it?”

  “Exactly. And I’ve been busy with my own paintings, too.”

  “Every day I admire the painting you gave me for Christmas. It’s hanging in my living room, where I can see it while I work.”

  “And your needlepoint cushion looks perfect on my couch.”

  Portland was over an hour away. We chatted along the way, admiring the sun glinting on ice-covered tree branches along the highway. Crinkled, cracked ice glistened on the banks of rivers we crossed on our way south, and ice floes drifted slowly toward the sea. The New Meadows River was frozen hard enough so a dozen ice-fishing hutches were scattered along it.

  “What are they fishing for?” Patrick asked.

  “I don’t know. I was never into ice fishing,” I answered. “A few friends used to do it, but most of their families had huts on frozen lakes farther inland, or north. They caught trout in the winter, I remember. One of Gram’s friends brought us a couple one year.”

  A long time ago.

  “Could they be fishing for herring?”

  “I suppose,” I said. “In rivers. But most herring schools are in the Gulf of Maine in summer. They migrate to warmer feeding grounds in winter.” I looked at him. “Why did you think they were fishing for herring?”

  “Seems to me I’ve seen signs for herring for sale.”

  I smiled. “Herring’s used for lobster bait. And, of course, they’re sardines.”

  He frowned. “Okay. Got me on that one. How can a herring be a sardine?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know herring canned in Maine and New Brunswick is called sardines.”

  “So, you’re saying that when I’m eating sardines, I’m eating lobster bait?”

  “That you are.” I grinned.

  “That’s wicked weird,” Patrick pronounced.

  I shook my head, amused. I suspected the word “wicked” hadn’t been in his vocabulary applied to anything but witches until he moved to Maine.

  Patrick dropped me off in front of the Maine Historical Society’s building on Congress Street. “I’ll call as soon as I know when I can pick you up,” he promised.

  The historical society library was set back from the street. I opened the door cautiously. A whole library full of historical information about Maine and Maine people was intimidating. Would I even know the right questions to ask?

  File cabinets, bookcases, and tables filled the room. In the back several people were seated at desks.

  I took a deep breath and walked over to an oak desk where a young man wearing a turtleneck under his suit jacket was sitting. Strangely, a basket of white gloves was on the corner of his desk.

  “May I help you?” he asked, looking at the padded envelope I was carrying.

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’m trying to find out about a coat of arms that might be connected to a family in Maine, maybe in the late eighteenth century.”

  “Coat of arms?” He looked at me. “I don’t know a lot about them. They’re connected to individuals, not families, although after the death of an owner they can be handed down. But only one person at any time can officially use a specific coat of arms.” He looked at me quizzically. “They’re not exactly common in Maine.”

  “I know.” I paused. “I bought an embroidery at an auction in Augusta yesterday. It’s a coat of arms of some sort with no name, or date. I think it’s late eighteenth century because of other embroideries found with it. I’d like to find out who it belonged to.”

  “That won’t be easy to do, at least for me.” He paused. “Coats of arms aren’t something we have a lot of information about. We do have genealogical information here. Sometimes we can help people tracing their Maine roots, and sometimes not. If we don’t have records here, I’d suggest you check the town or towns where the family might have lived. Churches, town halls, library archives, or graveyard associations may have local historical information.”

  “Graveyard associations?”

  “Some towns have organizations that record burials, historically and today, and keep graves cleaned off. In Maine that’s not always simple, since ther
e are so many small family graveyards.”

  Interesting, but not a help. “So there’s no place I could find out who the coat of arms I bought belonged to?”

  “Not in Maine. The only place I can think of that you could go would be the College of Arms in England. They’re the official authority for coats of arms for the United Kingdom and parts of the Commonwealth.”

  I wrote that down as he continued.

  “I’ve never contacted them, but an antiques dealer I know did several years ago. Like you, he’d bought a coat of arms and wanted to establish its provenance.”

  “Were they able to help him?”

  The librarian shook his head. “I don’t know. I do remember him saying they charged a lot for their search services.”

  Not good news. I turned to leave.

  “If your coat of arms is from the eighteenth century, it might have something to do with the patents.”

  I turned back. “‘The patents’?”

  “Land grants. In the 1630s the British crown gave what they called ‘patents,’ or rights to land, to ten people. The patents included most of what is now Maine, plus some of Canada, New Hampshire, and Vermont.”

  I frowned. “I don’t remember learning that in school.” Or maybe I’d forgotten it. In school I’d found history boring. I was beginning to see how it was not only interesting, but sometimes had direct connections to people and events today.

  “Your teachers might not have covered it. Patent ownerships were complicated and vague, and most of the owners didn’t establish settlements, or, if they did, the settlements didn’t last. Most people who immigrated to New England in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries didn’t acknowledge that, officially, someone back in England owned the land where they were building their homes, farms, and villages. Some might not even have known. In other places, colonial settlers were afraid the English proprietors would make them tenant farmers, as they’d done to farmers in Scotland and Ireland. To complicate matters, the patents overlapped, since they were based on incorrect maps and written in England, and also conflicted with deeds of land Abenakis and Micmacs and Passamaquoddies had sold. By the middle of the seventeenth century the Massachusetts Bay Colony had bought out several of the early patent holders, and Maine became known as the District of Maine.”