by Lori Avocato
Sam was elated by the journal. Not only was it an important piece of history–a journal of an officer of the American Revolution–but, it was part of his family’s history. A piece that had apparently been missing for centuries.
We agreed he would come back tomorrow morning after he’d had time to study the journal. The hope was it would give some insight as to why his family heirlooms were in a secret room in my family’s ancestral home.
For once, I was looking forward to my dreams. To my guest, now known as one Benjamin Winston, invading them. My one hope was that if I could help him, he would go away and never return. It was time to move on with my life and leave my past behind. Bad marriage, bizarre dreams and all.
After dinner, I curled up on the sofa to watch television with Emma-Kate. She’d spent the day at the beach on Isle of Palms with my brother and his family and so much fun in the sun had her conking out before the show was half over. I carried her to her room and tucked her in bed. She rolled over, hugged her stuffed dog to her chest and entered the innocent dreams of children.
I went back downstairs to grab a glass of wine to take up to my room. I tried to read a book, but the wine went straight to my toes and I couldn’t stay awake if a hurricane hit.
“Benjamin Winston. Your name is Benjamin Winston and you were an officer during the American Revolution.”
He looked at me like I had horns coming from my head. “Does your name sound familiar to you? Does any of this help you at all?”
“I thank you for your help, miss, but I just can’t remember.” He was sitting on the sofa in my room. He put his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He looked so much like Sam, it was unnerving.
“I want to help you, but right now, that’s all I know.” My heart broke for him, but I wasn’t sure what else to do at this point. I was so hoping telling him his name would cause at least a spark in his memory.
“Mommy. Mommy! Wake up!” Emma-Kate was straddling my chest, covering my face in sticky jam kisses. “There’s a man at the door and he looks just like the man in your dreams.”
I sat up, carefully placing my daughter and her biscuit full of grape jam off me and on the bed. It was close to ten in the morning and Sam was already here, punctual as ever. I quickly brushed my teeth, washed my face and put on a clean T-shirt.
As I practically ran down the stairs to the library to our meeting, I said a silent prayer he found out information in the journal that could help me with his ancestor, Benjamin Winston.
9
The bags under his eyes told me Sam had gotten very little sleep. I had known he would be enthralled by whatever stories the journal told. Who wouldn’t be after such a find?
Bless Bitsy, she’d set out coffee and biscuits. I motioned for him to sit while I poured. The strong brew smelled wonderful and I couldn’t wait for the much needed caffeine jolt. Sam looked as grateful as I felt for the coffee, but waved away a biscuit.
He sipped the coffee while looking around the room. I got the feeling he didn’t want to look at me.
“Sam? What was in the journal?” Suddenly, my biscuit felt like lead in my stomach. “Any clues as to why some of your family’s artifacts were in my home.”
“I don’t quite know how to say this, Maggie.”
“Well, straight out, of course. Tell me what you found.”
“My family’s belongings were here because Alston Plantation is not your home.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s something you should know.” He looked at me dead on and if I thought we’d broken the ice at all yesterday, the terse Dr. Winston had returned.
“Go on.” I braced myself.
“Your plantation isn’t Alston Plantation. It is really Winston Plantation. It belongs to my family.” He held the journal in his hands like it was the Holy Grail.
I wanted to burst out laughing at the absurdity of his comments, but the look on his face quelled any laughter I had inside me. “There are deed documents in that centuries old book?” I tried to sound light, but it didn’t work.
“Benjamin Winston, the man in the portrait—my ancestor—built this plantation.”
“Go on.” Though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he had to say.
“He fell in love with a woman by the name of Margaret Alston.”
Seriously? My family never told me I was named after an ancestor.
He took a swallow of his coffee before he continued. “Apparently, she and Benjamin Winston fell in love and wanted to marry.”
“They did marry, though.” He looked at me, shocked, and I realized I had just put my foot in it.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m assuming. It would explain why some of your family’s heirlooms were in my family’s attic.” Phew, good save. Telling him about my dreams was not an option.
“You have a point.” He gently opened the book to the back where jagged edges showed pages had obviously been torn out. “If only we knew where to find these missing pages.”
“Can we please get back to the part where you own my home?”
“After Margaret and Benjamin married, they wanted to settle into a normal life.”
“Okay, but how do you know this was the plantation he writes about? Maybe he and Margaret lived on his plantation and my family lived here.”
He gave a half smile. “A little research can go a long way and being a historian, research is one of my strong suits. This plantation was one of the foremost rice plantations of its day.”
It was true. I’d heard that way back when this plantation was a rice plantation. “Rice and Indigo were huge to Charleston back in the day. I am sure this wasn’t the only rice growing plantation.”
“You’re right, it wasn’t, but…” He paused and his exhaustion really came to the fore on his face. “Look at this.” He handed me the fragile journal where he’d carefully put a scrap of paper in a page.
Reluctantly, I opened to the marked page. My eyes and my brain couldn’t connect on what was drawn on the page. Though small and showing some smudges, there was no doubting I was looking at a drawing of Alston Plantation. Of course, it was an 18th century drawing, but there was no mistaking the architecture.
“You’re family never lived on a plantation. Not until, Miss Alston, your family stole it from my family.”
“Well, if true Dr. Winston, I am sure the statue of limitations has run out on stolen property if it was stolen over three hundred years ago.”
We were back to formal names. Appeared the gauntlet had been thrown down. There was no way Dr. Samuel Winston was going to take my family home.
~ * ~
“An old journal with torn pages doesn’t give one ownership of a home.” Anger was rising in me.
“Look, Miss Alston–Maggie–obviously more research needs to be done into this matter…”
“Matter?” Anger was no longer rising; it was there. “There is no ‘matter.’ This is my family’s home and has been for centuries. Even with more research, are you telling me you’re going to try and claim Alston Plantation?”
There were no words for the absurdity of this.
“Please understand, as a historian, the implications of all this are mind-boggling.”
“I’m sure being a Winston doesn’t hurt, either, in your curiosity.”
“I’ve upset you and I’m sorry.” He walked toward the door, journal in hand. “I’d like to hang on to this journal for a bit longer, if that’s okay with you. I really do want to get to the bottom of this–for everyone involved.
I opened the door for him and showed him out without saying good-bye. Really, what could I say? He left without answering my question about coming after my home if, indeed, this foolishness were true.
I needed to take my mind off everything because tomorrow would be enough time to scour law books for some kind of precedent about ownership of historical homes. I would be surprised if I found anything. Spending the rest of the day with my precious daughte
r was the perfect medicine. Emma-Kate was beyond excited that she could plan the day with mom. Seeing her happiness relaxed me.
She decided she wanted lunch downtown and a carriage ride. Basically, she wanted to see Charleston like a tourist and I was more than happy to oblige.
We ate candied pralines and drank sweet tea while we walked all over downtown. I’d barely pulled out of downtown when Emma-Kate fell asleep. After I put Emma-Kate in her bed, I realized I was exhausted. A wonderful exhaustion after a long, beautiful day with my child. A nap sounded like a great idea.
My head had barely hit the pillow when Benjamin was in my room.
“The war was so horrible, but we had to fight for what was right and just.”
“I understand. Are your memories returning?” I noticed he seemed calmer, not so confused.
“I wanted to live a quiet life when it was over—” his brow furrowed—“with my lady. He tried to stop us.”
I hesitated, but had to check every possibility. “Who? Who tried to stop you?”
“After the war, I never wanted to fight again.” A light must have gone off inside him and he looked me directly in the eye. “But, he wouldn’t stop.”
We were getting somewhere, finally, and while I didn’t want to push too hard and stress him, I had to continue. “Who wouldn’t stop? What was his name?”
“No…I don’t remember…I just wanted to live in peace,” he said emphatically.
“Who was the man?”
“I…I don’t remember.”
“I’ve found your journal, but there are missing pages. Maybe those pages can answer questions. Give us answers to everything. Do you know where they are?”
“A journal? I kept a journal…” The blank look was back in his eyes. “Help me, ma’am. Please.”
He was gone. Damn it! I was trying to help Benjamin Winston, but my frustration was mounting. Two steps forward and a hundred steps back.
10
“Answers are always right in front of us.” Bitsy took a large bite of her biscuit, butter dripping onto her plate.
I’d slept restlessly after my dream ended. I was tired, frustrated and terribly grumpy. Philosophical platitudes were the last thing I wanted with my breakfast.
“Bitsy, just tell me what you know about all of this. My dreams, my being…sensitive.” Whatever you want to call me.
“Some people are just chosen to help others, Maggie. You’ve been chosen to help those that have passed.”
Great. I see dead people.
“Help them what?”
“Do what they need to do.”
“Which is what?” I pushed my hair out of my face, but I really wanted to pull it out. “Bitsy, please, stop being so cryptic.”
“I’m not trying to, dear child, I’m really not. Some things just can’t be rushed.”
With that, she took the breakfast dishes away.
I tugged on my lower lip while trying to make a plan of action. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to plan at all. Just let things happen as they were supposed to happen. Not easy for my Type-A personality. What was I supposed to do? Sit on the floor in the lotus position and wait for the heavens to open up and show me what I needed to know?
“Bitsy, please take Emma-Kate for a few hours. “I need to be alone while I wait for the spirits to talk to me.”
Bitsy let out a chuckle. “Now you’re getting it, Maggie.”
I was joking.
~ * ~
All the items were still lined up like soldiers in the hallway outside the attic. I looked at them again, picked them up in my hands and studied them. I knew nothing about antiquities so I felt like my efforts were a huge waste of time. I did wonder how everything was in relatively good shape for being so old. Maybe the hidden room was more airtight then I realized.
The tin box where Sam found the journal had me curious. All the other items were ornate and looked expensive. The box, by comparison, was simple in its construction and dents and scratches. Maybe Benjamin Winston thought an unassuming box was a great place to hide his diary. Much as I dreaded it, I needed to call Sam and ask him to bring the journal over so I could read it, too. I was more curious than ever as to its contents.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. Truthfully, I don’t know how I felt about him. So many unexplainable occurrences had taken place, I didn’t know how to feel about anything. Yet, when a man who was a virtual stranger less than a week earlier tells me my family’s ancestral home really belongs to his family, it doesn’t make for warm, fuzzy feelings.
I stood up from my cross-legged position and felt the blood rush through my legs. I must’ve lost track of time because they started to tingle and felt like Jell-O. I fell against the wall when I tried to walk, hitting the portrait of Benjamin Winston. It promptly crashed to the floor, hitting my foot in the process. Letting out a loud, “ouch,” I sat back down on the floor–hard—before I fell onto the portrait.
The portrait was on its face and the fabric covering the back looked bumpy in places. I attributed that to age, but something caught my eye. I gently lifted the portrait and placed it across my lamp. It was heavy due to the ornate gold frame. I ran my hand over the back and felt something beneath the backing. I could almost trace the outline with my fingers. Whatever was under there felt oblong and thick.
Not wanting to rip away the backing material, I went to where it was tacked to the frame. The fabric came away easily due to age and I didn’t need to tear away much. Placing my hand in-between the cloth and the back of the actual painting, I touched what felt like paper. I used only as much pressure as I needed to guide a thick lump to the opening I’d created.
It was paper. Numerous sheets bound with a thin rope string. I placed the portrait upright against the wall and gently untied the string. I only wanted to handle the edges of the papers in case they were fragile.
As they straightened once the string was gone, I noticed dates on each sheet. The writing was strong, masculine and looked very old. I froze when I realized what I’d just uncovered.
Damn, if Bitsy wasn’t right. Things do have a habit of coming to us when we need them.
I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans along with Sam Winston’s business card.
I read each line as though reading a New York Time’s bestseller. While handwriting of the time period wasn’t always easy to decipher, I made my way through. Then, I re-read again–and again–to make sure I wasn’t mistaken.
He answered on the second ring. “I think you’d better come over here,” I said, barely able to keep the excitement from my voice. “I have something to show you.”
11
“I found them.” I waved Benjamin Winston’s missing journal pages above my head like a prize.
Sam Winston didn’t even have to ask me what I was talking about. From the look on his face, he knew. We sat in the den and I told him how I had found them. I handed him the missing pages while I told him what I’d read.
“My family and your family weren’t the best of friends. Margaret Alston’s father felt Benjamin Winston’s father somehow cheated him out of this land when it was for sale.”
Sam looked at me and then back at the pages. “Which is why they never married. Margaret Alston’s father, Thomas, forbid it when he found out they’ fallen in love.”
“No,” I went on in a rush, “They did marry. In secret. As was the practice of the day, they had slaves. Margaret had a slave by the name of Josephina who helped raise her from birth. She helped them elope.”
“I still don’t get it. If they were married, how did Winston Plantation become Alston Plantation?” He furrowed his brow in confusion.
“I know it makes no sense.” I pointed to the pages in his hand. “Joseph Alston vowed to get revenge on Thomas Winston for what he perceived as underhanded dealings in acquiring this land.”
I went on to tell Sam that my ancestor Joseph spent many years trying to hurt the Winston’s at every turn. When Margaret a
nd Benjamin fell in love, Joseph became enraged. He burned the rice crop for the year and practically bankrupted the Winston’s. By then, Margaret and Benjamin had married and Margaret was pregnant with their first child. The guilt and remorse Joseph Alston felt overwhelmed him.
“Why hide the pages explaining all of this?”
“At first, Benjamin wanted Joseph arrested. Margaret was so hurt by her father, she agreed. Benjamin wrote a history of everything Joseph had ever done and where to find the proof.”
“Benjamin had a change of heart?”
“Yes. Their home was intact and they were able to rebuild the crops. The work was hard, but they survived. He hid the pages so no one would ever know it was Joseph. When people asked what he think caused the fire, he just blew it off.
“After the birth of their first child, a daughter they named Suzanne, they decided they wanted family in their lives. By then, Joseph Alston was a broken man. Sickly and old. Nearly broke.”
“I’m still not getting the part about the name change to the plantation.”
“Joseph died before ever getting to know his grandchild. Margaret and Benjamin moved her two brothers and their families onto the plantation because they were almost destitute due to their father’s poor business management while on his quest for revenge. Suzanne was the Winston’s only child.”
Bitsy brought in a tray of sandwiches and iced tea. She had a broad smile on her face and I could swear she winked at me. I suddenly had the strangest feeling. Was the slave Josephina who’d helped raise Margaret Alston somehow related to Bitsy? I shook my head. I was taking all this believing in the unexplainable way too seriously.
“The Alston brothers were wonderful farmers and helped the rice crops to thrive. Out of love for his wife, Benjamin renamed the plantation the Winston-Alston Plantation. Sometime down the line, it must have become the Alston Plantation, but that’s probably for another time.”
