by Lea Wait
Chapter 6
Untitled, c. 1870. Beautiful German chromolithograph of four snakes. Realistically unlikely to be together in any similar wooded scene: an Indian cobra, a viper, a python, and a grass snake. (Python is holding a frog in its mouth.) Light fold mark vertically down the center. Originally published in an unidentified natural history book. 12.5 x 16 inches. Price: $75.
Carolyn and several other people were already gathered around the table in the Waymouth Library’s seminar room when Maggie arrived, her new tourmaline earrings catching the light as she walked.
“I couldn’t believe the number of papers in the trunk,” Carolyn was saying to a heavy woman in her forties whose curly blond hair fell over her face.
“What period are they from?” the blonde asked.
“Do they mention other families in Waymouth?” asked a young man with interest as he opened his laptop.
“I don’t know yet; I’ve only looked at a few. But I’m so thrilled. I wanted to share the news, since you’ve all been so supportive in helping me with my research. I know how important newly discovered papers can be.” Carolyn beckoned to Maggie. “Everyone, this is Maggie Summer, the professor from New Jersey who’s going to help me make sense of the new information. Especially anything to do with nineteenth-century art.”
Maggie joined them at the table. For years Aunt Susan had kept the existence of those papers, and whatever secrets were within them, hidden. Now Carolyn was almost flaunting her possession of them. What if there were something significant in that old trunk? Clearly her aunt had thought there was information that might be upsetting to people in town. What was Carolyn thinking?
“Maggie, I want you to meet some wonderful people. This is the director of the Waymouth Historical Society, Allison Griggs.” Allison nodded and smiled and then turned her attention back to the papers in her briefcase. “And Kevin Bradman, who’s writing his Harvard dissertation on Maine artists.”
The young man stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Summer. Princeton?”
Maggie managed not to giggle. “No. Somerset County Community College.”
“Oh.” Clearly dismissing any contribution a community college professor might be capable of making, Kevin Bradman turned back to his laptop.
“And this,” said Carolyn, as a red-haired woman wearing an orange-and-green paisley shawl that contrasted with her hair, but did somehow match her orange slacks and green fingernails, entered the room, “this is Betsy Thompson. Her husband is an artist, and so was her father-in-law. Betsy, this is Maggie Summer, who’s going to help with my research.”
Maggie reached out to shake Betsy’s hand. So this was the woman who was going to prove that Winslow Homer was in her husband’s family tree. Very interesting.
“Betsy, I’ve had the most marvelous luck! Aunt Susan’s found a trunk of old papers and letters and diaries from my family.”
Carolyn was conveniently not mentioning that Susan had found the trunk fifty years ago, and chosen to keep its contents private. Why hadn’t Carolyn waited to share her news at least until she’d had time to read through the papers? Researchers could be predatory.
But maybe Carolyn didn’t know that. She didn’t work in ivy-bound halls.
“Carolyn, these papers would certainly be a wonderful addition to the Waymouth Historical Society’s collection,” said Allison Griggs.
“Possibly. But right now I want to go through them quietly, myself,” said Carolyn.
“I didn’t mean this moment, of course. After you’ve finished your research. They might contain information invaluable to other people interested in Waymouth and its families.”
“They might,” said Carolyn. “Especially the journal that starts in the nineteenth century. I can hardly wait to read it!”
Betsy Thompson moved closer. “A nineteenth-century journal? What years does it cover?”
“It begins in 1890. I haven’t looked at it in detail yet,” said Carolyn. “Maggie, I tried to make you a copy this afternoon, but the ink is faded, and the machine here won’t make a clear copy.”
“Carolyn, dear, you mustn’t try to copy such a precious document on an ordinary copying machine,” Allison put in. “Bright lights will fade the ink even more. And that beautiful nineteenth-century script is hard enough to read when it’s clear. If you want to make a copy, why don’t you bring it over to the historical society? We could scan it and put it on a disc for you.”
“I think I’ll just read it as it is,” said Carolyn. “But, thank you. I’ll remember that for the future.”
“Henry!” Betsy called to an elderly man standing in the doorway, “Carolyn has made a real find! A whole trunk full of papers from her family here in Waymouth! She thinks most of them are late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century.”
Henry was perhaps in his late seventies. His glasses were tortoiseshell-rimmed, and his jacket was tweed. He reminded Maggie of a slightly pretentious history professor from her undergraduate days. But Henry’s best days were clearly behind him. He leaned on a walker, on the front of which was clipped a small basket filled with papers and a cell phone. The cuffs of the off-white shirt he was wearing were frayed, and it was a good guess he’d eaten eggs for supper, based on the crusted yellow stain on his tie.
“Hi, Henry!” said Carolyn, turning to greet him. “Come and meet my friend Maggie.” She turned to Maggie. “Henry used to teach math here in Waymouth. He’s writing a history of the schools in town.”
Maggie smiled in greeting. Her vision of Henry as a professor had been right on the money. But she suspected that other stereotype, “absentminded,” also fit. She wondered whether Henry drove himself to these meetings, or if he had a wife or son or daughter who kept an eye on him.
“Eighteen-ninety is a critical year for the research I’m doing,” Betsy Thompson reminded the room in general. “Carolyn, if the journal you’ve found was written by someone in Waymouth, it might have the key to what I’m looking for. You have to let me see it!”
Betsy’s interest was Winslow Homer, Maggie thought. When had he lived and worked in Prouts Neck? His brother Arthur had honeymooned there in the mid-1870s, she remembered.
All three Homer brothers and their parents had bought land there in the early 1880s. Winslow had made Maine his permanent home shortly after that, and had lived in Prouts Neck, a particularly scenic peninsula of Scarborough, off and on from then until his death in 1910. Anyone interested in Homer’s relationship with someone in Waymouth would definitely be interested in a diary from the late 1880s or 1890s.
“I won’t forget you. I know what you’re looking for,” Carolyn was assuring the persistent Betsy. “But Maggie and I are going to read the papers before I show them to anyone.”
Betsy shot Maggie a look of pure hate. “I know this town as well as anyone, and I’d be very happy to help you understand any information you might find in those journals. Someone from away couldn’t fully appreciate local references.”
Before Carolyn or Maggie had a chance to respond, Henry clip-clopped his walker over to the table and sat down heavily. “Betsy, you’ve made your point. And you’re not an expert on this town, much as you think you are. If Carolyn wants an expert she can come to Allison at the historical society or to me. You’ve only lived here since you married Win. When was that, six years ago? Besides, you’re not going to find a Winslow Homer connection to your family. It never happened. I don’t care what your husband’s name is, or who he was named for. There’s absolutely no proof Winslow Homer had a relationship with any woman in Maine, much less had a child with her.”
“You’re just an old know-it-all, Henry Coleman. I’ve been married to Winslow Thompson for eight years, for your information. Homer might not have put his name on a birth certificate, but who knows what really happened? There are people in this town who’ll swear he was my husband’s grandfather. There’s family evidence, too. Why do you think every generation of Thompsons has a Winslow or a Homer in it? The Thompson fam
ily is just like the Wyeths. Three generations of Maine artists.”
“You just go on believing that, Betsy dear,” said Henry. “But don’t expect the world to march to the same drum you’ve been beating all over Waymouth.”
“Of course, we know all three generations of the Wyeths could actually paint,” Maggie heard Allison Griggs whisper to Carolyn.
How much would a Winslow Homer pedigree add to the value of a mediocre twentieth-century artist, Maggie wondered. She’d never heard of either of the Thompsons. She suspected few people outside Waymouth had.
Everyone had heard of the Wyeths: the paterfamilias N.C., Andrew, and now Jamie. Of course, as the historical society director had pointed out, the Wyeths could paint.
Maggie focused back on the conversation.
“There was a television character called Homer Pyle a while back, wasn’t there? Do you think he was a relative of Winslow Homer, too?” asked Henry, clearly enjoying the confrontation.
“That was Gomer Pyle. The only Homer I can think of on television is Homer Simpson. Although watching The Simpsons is probably below you, since you’re such a celebrated high school math teacher. And you needn’t be facetious. Family stories are often based on facts. Even historians know that,” said Betsy, her voice rising with the color in her cheeks. “Isn’t that right, Kevin?”
“Believe me, Betsy, if you can prove Winslow Homer fathered a child I would be more than happy to rewrite Homer’s biography, and American art history. I want to believe your family’s stories. A Homer dynasty could be the center of my dissertation.” Kevin shook his head. “We just haven’t found the proof yet. Family stories aren’t always myths. Many are based on facts.”
“Whoa!” said Allison, maneuvering her wide frame between Betsy and Henry. “What’s important tonight is that Carolyn’s made a discovery that may mean a lot to historians and genealogists in this area. We thank her for letting us know about it, and look forward to hearing more once she’s had a chance to examine the papers.”
“Well said,” added Henry. “I believe you were going to bring us some information tonight about the Maine Historical Society’s on-line Memory Network.” He looked at his watch. “My son and his girlfriend are going to pick me up in an hour and I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say.”
While the group talked about downloading and search tools, Maggie tuned out. She was familiar with on-line sources, and generally found them too limited for her research needs, except when she needed to check a current art gallery or auction price for a print. Then Google was her best friend. Even then, you couldn’t take one source as truth. Cross-referencing was essential. She’d seen too many student papers containing factual errors downloaded from the web. The closest guarantee of truth was a primary source, and even primary sources differed, just as three people who viewed the same crime would describe a suspect differently.
Truth was harder to find than most people thought.
But, truth or fiction, the papers Carolyn Chase now owned would be fun to read. Old diaries and letters were windows into the past, like antique prints.
Just as she was beginning to wish she’d stayed at home and shared a cognac with Will, Carolyn slipped her a note. “Would you take the 1890 journal and start reading it? You’d understand it better than I would. I’ll start with the letters.”
Maggie looked back at Carolyn and nodded. Would she like to take the journal? Would she! She wrote, “YES!” on the note, and added, “Lunch tomorrow to compare notes?”
Carolyn nodded back.
Chapter 7
Sea-Side Attractions, 1869 wood engraving by John Felmer. Three vertical fold marks, enabling it to be folded into Appleton’s Journal. Fully dressed people on sandy beach, beach houses in distance. Gentleman courting lovely woman while small boy and girl empty pail of sand into the man’s pocket. 11 x 15 inches. Price: $70.
Journal of Anna May Pratt
June 2, 1890
I have decided to begin a journal, since I have now passed my eighteenth birthday and am ready to begin my life as a woman. I intend to keep these pages so that when I am an old woman of perhaps fifty, too aged to care about anything but the past, I will be able to remember how exciting it was to anticipate the possibilities of life.
My sister Sarah, who is still a child who has not yet pinned up her hair, thinks I am foolish. But all spring, as the snow melted and the mud dried and the spring peepers began to sing, I felt certain my life was about to change. Sarah says I will marry and have seven children and gray hair and sun-darkened skin by the time I am thirty, like most women here in Waymouth.
But I am not like those women. I feel certain I am destined for a life of importance. A life that will be remembered.
I will not allow my youth to be wasted through waiting for others to act. I have resolved to set the course of my own future, and am determined to record and savor every moment of it. Yesterday may have marked the beginning of that adventure.
I attended church as usual with Mother and Father and Sarah. I wore my soft gray shawl against the coolness of the building, but outside the early June sun warmed the air enough so I could remove the shawl. Since I am bound to be truthful in these pages, I will admit to wanting to show off the new ruffled yellow dress Mother helped me to make. I wanted to remove my hat, too, so I could feel the warmth of the sun full on my head as I did when I was a child, but of course, a young woman of eighteen should not be without a hat. Especially when her hair is light brown and her skin is pale, as mine is. My hopes for the future do not include freckles.
My dear friend Jessie Wakefield and her family then invited me to join them in a picnic down on Ferry Beach at Prouts Neck. My mother was concerned for my dress, but agreed when assured they had packed quilts for us to sit upon. The Wakefields’ carriage is very wide, and we had plenty of room on the journey.
Jessie and I talked little in the carriage, since her parents were present, but we squeezed each other’s hands in happiness at being together and admired the scenery on the ride. Fields are now greening, and lupine and bluettes are starting to bloom. Picnics with only one’s own family, no matter how lovely the location, are dreary when you are young women.
We found a scenic spot, and Jessie and I shared the lemonade and biscuits and pickles and ham that her mother had packed. Her parents let us sit apart, so we could chat, and then agreed we could walk a little on the path above the beach that leads to the top of the ledges overlooking the ocean. Of course, all Jessie wanted to talk of was Luke Trask. She and Luke have been sweethearts since they were children, but her father wants her marrying better than a Grand Banks fisherman.
I must be honest within these pages: it has been difficult for me to hear Jessie’s talk of Luke for so many years since I, too, have seen him growing into a man many women would find worth having. Although he vows his heart beats only for Jessie, I am certain he covertly admires me, and that I could win his love were Jessie’s affection elsewhere.
For the moment I must suffer my longings in silence, and look for my heart’s desire in places further from home than Waymouth.
It was while we were walking on the rough path along the top of the cliffs, when Jessie was telling me yet again how wonderful Luke was, that our lives took an exciting turn. My hands tremble to write it! Not far down the path we were set upon, in a fashion, by a small, white, black-headed terrier.
Clearly trying to be friendly, he jumped up on my dress, leaving paw prints that I hope can be cleaned. He was followed by a young man, racing along the path, calling, “Sam!” which it seemed was the name of the dog. The man was quite tall and handsome, with dark hair and eyes, and dressed in a fashion more common to the town than the shore. He was appropriately embarrassed when he saw what Sam had done to my skirt. We introduced ourselves, quite properly.
His name is Mr. Micah Wright, which I think a very elegant name. We chatted a bit, and continued walking and admiring the ocean view, when we came upon a most remarkable man.
He was even older than father, with very little hair, and what he had was covered by his straw boater. Sam went right up to him, and lay down at his feet, as though that were his rightful place, and I know now that was so. Mr. Wright introduced the man to us as Mr. Winslow Homer. He was sitting on a folding chair and painting a canvas set on a wooden easel. When he stood up to greet us we could see that he was much shorter than Mr. Wright, slight, and not much taller that I am.
We peeked at his picture of the sea, which appeared to amuse him. He then walked right around Jessie and me, looking at us closely, although not appearing at all forward, and then asked if we would consider posing for him!
He has been painting a young woman from Scarboro named Cora, he said, but is in need of other figures, and thought ours would do admirably.
We were, of course, very excited and flattered. Mr. Homer then walked back to where Jessie’s parents were seated and spoke with them. He said he would send a wagon for us, and that we would be appropriately chaperoned, and would only model fully clothed. I had not even imagined another possibility!
While Mr. Homer spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield, Mr. Wright, who is Mr. Homer’s assistant, assured us that the artist, strange though he appears, is quite well-known. He has studied in France and England, and has sold many paintings in Boston and New York!
After we returned to Waymouth Jessie’s mother talked with my parents, and they agreed. We will begin posing next week! Mr. Homer will even pay us for the privilege of being immortalized!
I cannot help wondering if Mr. Micah Wright will be nearby when we next visit Prouts Neck.
Chapter 8
Chestnutting. Winslow Homer wood engraving published in Every Saturday, October 29, 1870. One boy is sitting up in a chestnut tree and shaking a branch; below him two girls and two boys hold a quilt to catch the nuts as they fall. One of Homer’s most charming prints of rural nineteenth-century life. His wood engravings from Every Saturday, which had a limited circulation, are today much harder to find than those from Harper’s Weekly. 11.75 x 8.75 inches. Price: $500.
