by Lea Wait
That was complicated. No wonder I didn’t know about it. “Okay. But what has all that to do with coats of arms?”
“Some of the men originally granted patents, like Ferdinando Gorges, had coats of arms. Of course, he died in 1647, so that was earlier than the period you’re researching. But I’d guess other patent owners, or their sons or grandsons, also had coats of arms. A few came to Maine in the seventeen hundreds, hoping to revive patents their families had been granted and make their fortunes. Some died, some gave up, and a few hunkered down, survived the Revolution, and became important in the District of Maine.”
“So the embroidered coat of arms I have could have been owned by a family who came to Maine before the Revolution, believing they owned land here.”
“It’s possible.”
I was silent, thinking.
“It wasn’t simple. That’s why your school didn’t emphasize it when they were teaching classes about the history of Maine. Maine history’s not easy.”
I nodded. “So, what can I do now?”
“Do you know who owned your embroidery before you bought it?”
I shook my head.
“That’s where you should start.”
“Thank you. I may be back if I can figure out what I want to know.”
“Name’s Jonas Beale. You’re welcome any time. Wish I could have helped more. If you decide to do any genealogical research, come on in, put on some of our white gloves”—he pointed toward the basket on his desk—“and I’ll help you find the documents that might help.”
“You did help,” I said. “Now I have even more questions than when I came in.” I looked at the gloves. “Why the white gloves?”
“So the oils on your hands don’t get on the fragile documents in our archives.” He laughed. “Welcome to the world of historical research.”
I walked outside. Light snow mixed with sleet was falling at a slant, stinging my face. My telephone said it was only a little after eleven. Patrick would just have arrived in Biddeford. What was I going to do for the next couple of hours?
I headed down Congress Street. In summer I would have walked to the Old Port and gone window-shopping, but February wasn’t a time for wandering. The Portland Museum of Art was nearby, but I had too much on my mind to appreciate what was on display. Besides, Patrick had mentioned our going together soon. He could explain what I should be looking at there.
Above me, on one of the taller buildings, I saw a sign for Channel 7. Clem worked at Channel 7.
I huddled in the doorway of an insurance building and called her.
“Clem? I’m in Portland and at sixes and sevens. Any chance you could break away for an early lunch? No. He’s in Biddeford, at Steve’s studio. He dropped me off here. I’m on a quest, but I’ve come to a dead end. Great! See you there!”
I headed farther up Congress Street, toward her building, striding with a purpose. We’d agreed to meet at a coffee shop near there.
Despite my scarf, snow was blowing down my neck by the time I reached the coffee shop. I pushed through the door and headed for a warm corner booth, far from the door. Hot chocolate and menus came quickly, and the waitress assured me there was no hurry. I could order food when my friend arrived.
Ten minutes later Clem walked in, brushing snow off her hat and shoulders, and recognized by one of the waitresses. “Ms. Walker, I love watching you on the six o’clock news. You’re my favorite reporter.”
“Thank you,” said Clem, giving the waitress a special smile and sliding into the seat opposite mine. She must have been on camera this morning; she was still wearing heavy makeup, and, despite the sleet and snow and her hat, her hair was immaculate. “Now, Angie, what mysterious quest has brought you to Portland?”
Chapter 6
“Youth you must not on numerous years depend
For unknown accidents your steps attend
Some sudden illness soon may stop thy breath
And prove an inlet to eternal Death.”
—Stitched with four alphabets in silk thread on linen by Charlotte Camp, aged 13, in an unknown town in Maine.
“Order first?” I suggested, seeing the waitress hovering and looking toward us.
“Tuna salad, no dressing,” Clem ordered without checking the menu. “And plain black tea.”
Despite the hot chocolate, I wanted something warm. “A bowl of haddock chowder,” I told the waitress. “With extra oyster crackers. And a glass of water.”
“Okay,” said Clem. “Now, tell me!”
I made the story as short as possible. “Yesterday I went with Sarah to an auction in Augusta and bought an old embroidered coat of arms that intrigued me. It was in poor condition, but I hoped maybe one of the Mainely Needlepointers could restore it.”
Clem nodded.
“When I took it out of its frame last night I found a folded paper and a ribbon embroidered with flowers and a heart hidden behind the coat of arms.”
“Yes?”
“The paper was a receipt—a billet, they called it when I looked online—from the London Foundling Hospital dated 1757 for a two-week-old boy named Charles.”
“Weird!” said Clem, leaning toward me. “Did you bring it with you?”
I nodded, and carefully took the embroidery and the paper out of the portfolio.
She looked at it closely. “Fascinating. You said you looked online?”
“That’s how I figured out it was the London Foundling Hospital, from the dates. When an infant was left there, most parents left a token—like the ribbon—which would be attached to the billet, and could be identified by the family if they came back to reclaim their child.” I shook my head. “According to what I read, few families did that. But someone must have gone back for Charles, or the billet and ribbon wouldn’t be here, right?”
Clem nodded. “And sad how many children ended up at places like that. But how did the coat of arms and its hidden secret get to Maine?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” I told her, putting the paper and embroidery back away gently before our food arrived. “I was just at the Maine Historical Society. The historian there told me about a place in England that identifies coats of arms, but their service is expensive. And that still wouldn’t explain the Maine connection.”
“Did he have any ideas about what the connection might be?”
“He told me land in Maine was given away by the English king way back in the 1600s, and those rights were handed down in some families. By the late 1700s some of those heirs had come to Maine to try to claim the land, but by then, of course, other people had been living on it for generations. During the American Revolution most of those English families left, or laid low, although some stayed here, and a few became prominent in Maine history.”
“How cool if we could connect this coat of arms to a notable Maine family!” Clem said. “That would be a real story! Maybe an illegitimate son, or a runaway daughter.”
“Could be,” I agreed, noting Clem had said “we” might connect the story.
“How would you like to go on television and tell your story?” she asked. “It would be a human interest feature. One of our listeners might recognize the coat of arms, or know something that would explain the story.”
“Me? On TV?” I asked. “That’s your job, Clem, not mine.”
“What if you’re just on for a few minutes? We’ll show the coat of arms, and the paper, and the ribbon, and you’ll say you bought it all at an auction, and you’d love to know the real story; know the family it belonged to back in the eighteenth century.”
“I guess,” I said, hesitantly. It did sound like fun. And Clem was right. Someone watching television tonight might know the connections I was trying to figure out.
“I’ll introduce you as the head of Mainely Needlepoint,” Clem tempted. “A little advertisement for your business. Couldn’t be bad, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, only slightly reluctant.
Our food arrived,
and we both started eating. The chowder was thick with haddock and bacon and potatoes. Almost as good as Gram’s.
“When would we do this?” I asked.
“How long will you be in Portland?” Clem asked. “Patrick’s going to pick you up, right?”
“Right. He’s with your friend Steve Jeffries. He said he’d text when he’d be back.”
Clem hesitated a moment. “I should tell you: I’m going to break it off with Steve.”
“I’m sorry. He seemed like a good guy.”
“We’re on two different career tracks. I can’t see myself living with someone who spends hours each week collecting metal trash at dumps and then bringing it all home. And he wants someone who’d not only have a steady paycheck for when his art didn’t sell, but who also promised dinner would be on the table when he got home.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t mean Steve and I aren’t friends.” Clem took out her phone and started texting. A minute later she said, “And I haven’t told Steve yet that it’s over. Steve and Patrick are going to have lunch together in Biddeford. Patrick won’t be back here until at least two o’clock. We have plenty of time. Let’s finish our lunches and go back to the studio. It won’t take long to tape the segment, and you’ll be home in time to see yourself on the evening news.”
“I’m not dressed for TV.”
Clem looked at me critically. “Your sweater is fine. We’ll use headshots. Take off the flannel shirt; the pattern is too bright. I’ll have Sophie do your hair and makeup. She’s a wizard. You’ll look like yourself, only better.”
I shook my head. “You win, Clem. Television is your world. But it sounds like fun, if scary. And it might help solve the mystery of the embroidery’s history.”
“I hope!” said Clem. “It’ll be a fun story on a snowy day. I’m tired of covering high school basketball games and snow sculptures. So . . . eat up, and we’ll head for the studio.” She sent another text. “Sophie is a miracle worker. She’ll meet us there in half an hour.”
Chapter 7
“Jesus Permit thy gracious name to stand
As the first effort of an infant’s hand
And while her fingers o’er this canvas move
Engage her tender heart to seek thy love.”
—Stitched on a linen sampler by Susan B. Kinsley (1815–1901) in Grantham, New Hampshire. Susan was the second of eleven children. In June of 1841 she married John Harris Bullard. They had five children, although most did not survive past young adulthood. Susan was eighty-five when she died.
Half an hour later Channel 7’s makeup artist was putting mousse in my hair and color on my face. By the time she’d finished I had deeper eyes and sun-touched cheeks. Clem had been right. I looked like me, but a more defined me.
While Sophie had been enhancing me, Clem had the needlepoint, billet, and ribbon photographed.
“You look great, Angie. Told you Sophie was a miracle worker!”
I did look good. But had it taken a miracle?
Clem headed us out into the hall and toward another room. We almost crashed into Dara Richmond, Channel 7’s chief anchor on the evening news. She’d been on that desk as far back as I remembered. She looked older in person than she did on television, but I was still impressed. When I was growing up she’d been the voice of Maine news to me.
“Clem! Where are you headed in such a hurry?” she asked.
“I’m working on a feature for tonight’s show,” Clem answered.
“The schedule’s already set for tonight’s broadcast,” Dara said. She didn’t look happy, but no frown lines were visible on her forehead.
“I talked to the producer. He said we could squeeze in a human interest story.”
“He didn’t talk to me. What does he plan to bump?”
“Something out of local news. Nothing newsworthy came out of the city council meeting.”
“That’s my segment,” Dara said. She didn’t look—or sound—happy.
“You’ll have to talk with John. He’s the one who decided. C’mon, Angie. We have Studio B for only twenty minutes.” Clem took my arm and almost pulled me around Dara and down the hall into another room. Presumably, Studio B. Two cameras were set up inside.
“Dara seemed upset,” I said.
“Dara can’t take competition,” said Clem. “Don’t worry about her.” She handed me the envelope holding the coat of arms and ribbon and Foundling Hospital paper. “We’ve already photographed this. It’s hard to see the needlepoint, it’s so faded, but we managed to adjust the light so it shows a little better, and I’ll summarize what’s on the billet. I’ll call it a registration sheet, since people would understand that. All set? You look great, Angie.”
She pointed me toward a stool on the side of the room in front of a large blue sheet of paper.
“This is where you’ll be taping?” I asked, curiously. It didn’t look like the sets I’d seen on news shows.
“We don’t need the whole set,” she explained. “The audience won’t even know you’re not live in the studio.”
I must have looked confused. I was certainly nervous. The haddock I’d eaten for lunch was swimming circles in my stomach.
“Don’t worry. You can do your bit a couple of times if it doesn’t feel right, or if it is too long the first time,” she assured me.
I was beginning to panic. But Clem knew what she was doing, I told myself. I just had to follow her directions. I sat on the stool, as she told me to, in front of a camera.
“When the red light comes on, talk to me, but look at the light,” Clem instructed.
She sat at a desk in the corner of the room and read off a teleprompter. When had she written those words? Had it taken Sophie that long to make me television-presentable? If Clem’s future was as a news anchor, I had no doubt she’d be terrific. When Clem set her mind to do something—whether it was losing weight or moving up a corporate ladder—she succeeded.
Sometimes I wished I was as focused as she was. One year ago I’d been the assistant to a private detective in Arizona. Now I was the owner of a business and a home on the coast of Maine. I hadn’t planned those changes in my life, but I was happy the way they were working out, at least for now. Would there be more changes? Probably. But I had no idea what they might be, or whether they’d be new goals I set, or just the turning of the tides. The tides had been on my side for the past year. The future? Clem might be sure of hers. Mine was an untrodden path, and I didn’t have a GPS or road map.
Clem smiled at the camera aimed at her and said, “Many Mainers love auctions. And one of the delights of bidding is that sometimes you find a hidden treasure. That’s what happened yesterday to Angie Curtis, owner of custom needlepoint business Mainely Needlepoint, when she bid on an old piece of embroidery of a coat of arms in Augusta. Tell us what you found, Angie, when you got home and took the embroidery out of its frame.”
My red light went on. I was sweating. I tried to imitate Clem’s smile. “In back of the embroidery I found a folded paper from the London Foundling Hospital, dated 1757, for the receipt of a two-week-old boy. An embroidered ribbon was attached to the paper, which the parents could describe or match when they went back to claim their son.”
My red light went out, and Clem’s went on. “The mystery, of course, is who was that little boy? Did he come to Maine two hundred years ago? Whose coat of arms was it? Angie’s asking our viewers for help. If anyone watching tonight knows anything about this mystery, please call or e-mail me here at Channel 7, and I’ll make sure Angie Curtis gets your message.”
All the red lights went out.
“How did that feel, Angie?”
“Good, I guess. But aren’t you going to show the embroidery and the paper?”
“We will. We’ll show you at first, and then use your words as a voiceover while we show the embroidery and the receipt. You’ll see!”
“Why did you ask people to contact you at the station?”
“I shou
ld have warned you about that. I didn’t want you to get any of the crazy messages people sometimes send. This way we can screen the calls or e-mails. I promise, you’ll see anything promising as soon as I do. And you won’t be getting weird calls in the middle of the night.”
“That makes sense,” I agreed. “This will be on tonight’s news?”
“I checked with the producer. He shaved Dara’s time to get it in the six o’clock time slot. Go and call your grandmother and your friends. You’ll be on about seven past six, unless we have late-breaking news, like a fire or a bad accident on the turnpike.”
My phone vibrated. I glanced down. “Patrick’s on his way back to Portland.”
“We timed that right, then! Tell him to pick you up outside the building,” said Clem. “Wasn’t that fun? Your first time on television.”
“It was fun, except for being petrified. Let me know if you get any responses about Charles or the coat of arms,” I said, heading for the elevator.
“Promise!” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Fifteen minutes later I was back in Patrick’s car, heading home to Haven Harbor.
“So you had lunch with Clem,” he said. “The historical society wasn’t much help?”
I shook my head. “Not now. They might be able to help if I find out the name of the family involved. They have a lot of genealogical records.”
“You look a little different this afternoon,” he commented as he glanced over at me. He drove down Congress Street and then turned to get on Route 295 north. “Did you and Clem go to a beauty parlor after lunch? Or did Clem do your hair and makeup?”
“No. Sophie did,” I said, excitedly. “I’m going to be on Channel 7 tonight.” I told him everything that had happened.
“Call your grandmother and tell her,” he suggested. “She won’t want to miss your television debut. And Sarah and Dave and Ruth and the whole gang.”
