Bitter Harvest

by Sheila Connolly

  “And I’m sorry if I jumped on you—Bree wasn’t here when I arrived, and I didn’t know where to find you.”

  “I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking.” She turned to John, who looked embarrassed by the exchange he had just witnessed. “Hi, John. Thanks for plowing the driveway. I just met your mother, at Gran’s.”

  “Yeah, she’s been working days there since it opened. Nice place. Seth, I’d better get going. Let me know when you need me. Nice to see you again, Meg.” He climbed into his ageing pickup and pulled out onto the road.

  Meg turned back to Seth. “You actually have jobs at the moment? The town or your business?”

  “I do. That blizzard, combined with the melting that’s going on now, has revealed a whole lot of structural problems to people. If we get a wet spring, I’ll bet there’s a run on French drain installations.”

  “If you say so,” Meg said dubiously. “Is it supposed to be wet?”

  “How should I know? You’re the farmer—you tell me.”

  “Ha. You’d do better to ask Bree. I’m going to go inside and try to write down what I learned today about the sampler, and see if I can find a trail of my own there. Gail’s been a tremendous help—she gave me some great leads on how to find out who the people in it are.”

  “Is there a Warren connection?”

  “It looks like it, but I’ve got some more work to do. And I do want to keep Gail happy—why do you think I volunteered to do that cataloguing for the Historical Society? I can see that there isn’t time enough in the world to upload to the Web all the information that exists, stuffed in boxes in old societies like the one here. Which means we see the barest outlines of our history, and a few tantalizing hints, but not all the wonderful details that make it human, and more real to us. Gail’s lucky to have access to some of that for Granford. When you have time, I’ll tell you about the sampler and how it connects to the Warrens here.”

  “Over dinner?” Seth looked hopeful.

  “Sure, no problem. After I get done on the computer.”

  Meg threw together a hurried dinner. Seth’s greeting earlier had startled her: she didn’t expect to have to account for her whereabouts, even to him. Nor did she like the feeling that she was looking over her shoulder all the time, waiting for the next incident, not knowing what it would be or what direction it would come from. And it was absurd: she’d moved from a big city where violence was an expected part of daily life, to the peaceful countryside where she had mistakenly thought she was safe.

  Bree called to say she was still at Michael’s and planned to stay the night. While dinner was simmering, Meg seized a moment to check maps on the computer. Pittsford, Vermont, wasn’t that far away. According to the town’s Web site, there was a Pittsford historical society; when she clicked on that link, she got the impression that it was small, and there was little said about local records. Worse, the Web site said it was closed between November and April, and open only limited hours the rest of the year. Meg sighed. Some part of the answer lay in Pittsford, but she wasn’t sure how she could find it, or when.

  She spent some time online trolling for historic information about Pittsford, and she was still mulling over her options at dinner, when Seth broke into her thoughts. “Earth to Meg?”

  “Huh? Oh, did you say something?”

  “I just wanted to know if you were still in there. No aftereffects from your night in the barn?”

  “Not even a sniffle. I was thinking about the information Gail gave me today, and trying to figure out how I can see if there’s any relevant information in Pittsford, Vermont.”

  “You’ve lost me,” Seth said.

  “Oh, sorry—I haven’t told you about it yet. At lunch today Gail told me that there was a mention in the Granford records that a bunch of the local Warrens packed up and headed for Vermont as a group. Since one of them was a daughter, it’s possible she married a Cox up there. And if he died after Violet was born, mom could have remarried. At least, that’s the most likely scenario I can think of. Then we know from the sampler that they died in 1795, and there’s another town record that says that Eli Warren took her in—and then asked the town for money. So that puts her in Granford about the time she made the sampler. Anyway, that reinforces the idea of the Warren connection, or why else would he have done that?”

  “Makes sense to me. And there’s more you want to know?”

  “Well, actually, yes. So let’s say that Violet made the sampler in honor of her mother’s second family—the children listed must have been half brothers and sisters. And then everyone in the family died, and poor Violet got shipped down here to her Uncle Eli, which is how the sampler ended up in this house, most likely. We can prove that she was here. But she must have had uncles in Pittsford—why did they send her away?”

  “And you think you can find an answer to this?”

  Meg laughed ruefully. “Maybe that’s too much to ask. But at the very least I could check the vital records in Pittsford—which aren’t online. Shoot, I don’t know what to do. I want an answer now, but it’s a long drive, and the historical society there won’t even be open until spring, and there’s no guarantee they’ll have anything useful anyway. But by spring I won’t have time to do this kind of research.”

  “Is there a library in Pittsford?”

  “Yes, of course. I was looking at the town’s Web site—you know, it looks a whole lot like Granford.”

  “Is the library open on Saturday? If so, we could take a road trip tomorrow.”

  Meg grinned at him. “Let me check!” She went back to her computer and pulled up the town’s Web site and then the library’s, which mentioned a local history collection. Miracle of miracles, the library was in fact open on Saturdays—that would be tomorrow. Maybe there wasn’t much else to do in Vermont in winter than read, unless you were into skiing? When she returned to the kitchen, Seth had half finished washing the dishes. “You don’t have to do that. And, yes, the library is open tomorrow, noon to four. We can be there by lunch. But don’t you have other things you need to do?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait. Besides, it’s a good idea to get out now and then. I’ll even drive—I’ve got four-wheel drive, and I’m more used to snow than you are. And I can guarantee you there will be snow in Vermont.”

  Meg wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you! I hate leaving things like this unresolved, and maybe getting out of town for a day will discourage my stalker person.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  20

  They set off early the next morning. It was a blindingly beautiful New England day, the snow still pristine, save for a few animal tracks, the sky an intense and unmarred blue. Meg felt like she’d fallen into a holiday card.

  She had dutifully called and left Bree a message on her cell phone, telling her where she’d be and indicating that she planned to be back the same day, but to please feed the goats and Lolly if she was late. She wasn’t used to being accountable to people. Seth had called her on it, the day before, and he was right—she should have let him know, given what had been going on lately. It felt odd having someone looking out for her. But nice.

  “So, where do we go?” Meg asked, once they were on the road.

  “Almost due north. We follow I-91 for a while—that road runs all the way to the Canadian border. Then we veer west a bit to get to Pittsford. We should be there in under three hours. You impatient?”

  “A bit. As a kid, my folks and I used to go to the shore, and even though I think it’s about half the distance of this trip, it seemed like it took forever.”

  “We never got into the whole beach thing. Or family vacations, for that matter. You want music?”

  “Depends on what you call music.”

  “So that’s the way it is? Take a look at my CDs. Or we can talk. What is it that you’re hoping to find up there in Pittsford, anyway?”

  “Well, original documents that prove that Violet’s mother was a Warren, for a start. And then there’s
something about the sampler that troubles me—all those babies dying, and then the parents, and then Violet is sent to live with someone she probably hadn’t even met, when there was family nearby. Something just seems off. I’d like to know something more about the Coxes and the Lampsons. I guess I’m saying, even if there was some awful event, I’d rather know than not know. If there’s any way to find out.”

  “Fair enough. So, we have limited time at this library, and there’s no guarantee that whoever is there is knowledgeable about what you’re looking for. Let’s focus. What specifically do you want to know?”

  “Well, I’d like to know more about the settlement of the town of Pittsford, and why the Warrens left what seemed like a decent existence in Granford to try out somewhere new. From what I can tell, the town of Pittsford hadn’t existed all that long when they arrived.”

  “You find people in New England did that a lot back then. Hard to say whether they felt cramped, or bored, or they thought the next big thing was right over the horizon. Bunch of optimists, don’t you think?”

  “The men, maybe. Of course, they left all the packing and hauling stuff—not to mention taking care of the kids—to the women, who had little choice but to follow. Hubby goes haring off with his pals, looking for adventure, and Wifey trails along trying to keep the family fed and clean and healthy. To go back to your question, I’d guess that at the very least the library will have copies of whatever town histories exist. If I’m lucky they may have a genealogy section with the vital records. Or they can tell me what the historical society has and if it’s worth it for me to make a second trip in the spring. And if the snow isn’t six feet deep, we can go check out the local cemetery.”

  “I love your idea of a good time. At least you’re a cheap date.”

  “Hey, you offered to drive.”

  They bantered happily for the rest of the trip, pulling into Pittsford around eleven. Meg had read the bare description of the town online, but seeing it brought home to her how much it resembled Granford, and probably hundreds of other old New England towns. Several roads converged in the center around a small green, with—no surprise—a large white church at one end. She wasn’t surprised to find the library close to the green as well, along with the post office and a small town hall.

  “Not much to see, is there? I hope this isn’t a total waste of time,” Meg said.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You want to eat lunch first?”

  “Sounds good to me. And I’m not picky—not that there’s much to choose from.”

  They were lucky to find a shabby diner not far from the center of town and ate something forgettable. Meg kept one eye on the clock, conscious of the passage of minutes. Would the library actually be open? Should she have called ahead? But she couldn’t have—they’d hatched this plan late yesterday, and left before the library opened today. But even if it was open, would there be anyone there who knew anything?

  After lunch they drove back to the library and parked in the small lot. There were a few cars there already, and Meg felt a spurt of relief. She shoved the folder with her genealogy notes into her bag, then climbed out of Seth’s car and beat him to the front door. “Twelve-o-three. Here we go!” Meg pulled open the door, and Seth followed.

  She approached the central—and only—desk, heartened to see that there was a competent-looking adult woman rather than a high-school fill-in behind the desk. The woman looked up, as if surprised to see a patron. The only other people in the building appeared to be a couple of teenagers working on homework. That would have been me in high school, Meg reflected wryly, hard at work in the library on a weekend. “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I hope so,” Meg said. “I’m looking for information about some of the families that lived in Pittsford just before 1800, and I was hoping that you’d have some town records here. I know there’s a historical society, but I understand they’re not open at the moment. I only got started on this search recently, so I haven’t had time to contact anyone there. Do you have a local history section in the library here?”

  The woman smiled. “We do, and I guess you’d have to say we share the records with the historical society. We have better storage facilities than they do, but they retain title—it’s a legal thing. So you want history of the founding and the early landowners?”

  “Yes, that sounds good. Are there church and municipal records?”

  “Some. Record keeping was a bit spotty, early on, and like almost anywhere else there was at least one fire, so some records are gone. We have them on microfiche, if you know how to use that. I’ll be happy to show you what we’ve got. What names are you looking for?”

  “Warren and Cox, mainly, specifically a marriage between a Unity Warren and a man with the last name Cox. I’m descended from the Warren family, the branch that stayed in Massachusetts. And anything for a Jacob Lampson, too.”

  “Plenty of Warrens and Coxes around here. Lampson, Lampson . . . why does that name ring a bell? Anyway, why don’t you let me show you our local history books, and I’ll dig around in the paper files and the microfiches and see what I can find. It’ll save you time.” She led them to a small room at the back of the building. Its walls were lined with bookcases, and there were a couple of freestanding ones as well, which left little room for a battered oak worktable and a few chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll let you orient yourselves, and I’ll be back in a bit.”

  After she’d left, Seth turned to Meg. “That’s a good start. What do you want me to do?”

  “Let’s divvy up the published histories and see what we can come up with. We’re looking for any mentions of Warrens and Coxes, plus information on the people who settled the town and the ones who came after them, up to 1800.”

  “I’m on it.”

  They pulled out a series of books, all but emptying a couple of shelves, and sat down to begin reading. Many of the books had been written in the later nineteenth century, and the language was rather effusive, but Meg quickly found that they provided a wealth of detail, often quite personal. She wondered how accurate the information was in those that didn’t cite sources. On the one hand, the writer no doubt had direct anecdotal knowledge of the community; on the other hand, if he was writing the history late in life, his memories might have faded a bit. Still, it was valuable information, and Meg figured if she assembled enough bits and pieces, she might be able to put together a fuller picture.

  More than an hour had passed before the librarian reappeared, holding several grimy manila folders and a short stack of printouts. She looked very pleased with herself. “I’ve got at least some of what you’re looking for here.”

  “Oh, please, sit down. And I didn’t even ask your name. I’m Meg Corey, and this is Seth Chapin. And you are?”

  She sat. “Mercy Cooper. Nice to meet you. Anyway, the bare outline is this, based on what I’ve found in the town records: there were several Warrens who all moved here about the same time, in the 1780s. They weren’t the original founders, but sort of a second wave—the Coxes were already here, part of the first wave. Even then it wasn’t a very big town—maybe three hundred people? And they all married each other.”

  Meg laughed. “Wow, that’s funny. Makes you wonder what the weddings would have been like, doesn’t it? So you’re saying there were four Warrens, and they all married Cox siblings, right?”

  “Exactly. It was John Cox who married Unity Warren in 1785, and they had one child, Violet Cox, born the next year. Then John died, and Unity married Jacob Lampson in 1787, and they had four children, in short order. And then the kids all died young, and both parents died not long after the last child of theirs, within a couple of weeks of each other in 1795. That’s the skeleton, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “So daughter Violet was orphaned in 1795?”

  “That’s right,” Mercy said.

  “That’s where I can pick up the story,” Meg said. “She ended up living with her uncle Eli Warren in Granford,
Massachusetts. I own that house now, and I found in a closet a sampler that she made after she arrived—it’s dated 1798. It includes a family register and even images of what I’m guessing are the family tombstones. I wanted to know how it ended up in Granford, in my house. The head of the historical society back in Granford gave me a good deal of information from the Granford side, but it’s great to have it corroborated through local records here. But that still leaves me with one big question. If all this happened in Pittsford, and Violet had plenty of relatives here, why did she end up in Granford?”

  “That I can’t tell you, but I’ll see what I can find,” Mercy said. “Could you send me a picture of the sampler? It would make a great addition to our records—maybe we could get a follow-up article in the local paper. Or at least the library newsletter.”

  “I’d be delighted, if you’ll return the favor and send me anything else you come across. May I keep these copies?” Meg waved the slender sheaf of printouts that Mercy had given her.

  “Sure—let’s call it two bucks, at five cents a page. And I’ll keep digging—I know there’s something odd about the Lampsons, and it’s going to annoy me until I remember what it is.”

  Meg looked at her watch, and then out the window. How much light was left in the day? “Are the Lampsons buried near here?”

  “You want to see the tombstones? Yes, they should be right down the block.”

  Meg glanced at Seth. “Do you mind?” When he shrugged, she turned back to Mercy. “Thank you so much! I’m sorry we can’t spend more time here, but I hope I can come back again. I really appreciate your help, Mercy.”

  “Thank you for saying so. It does get a bit boring, dealing with five-page research papers for the high-school kids, and now we don’t even get a lot of them anymore, what with the Internet and that Wikipedia stuff. You’ve made my day—a question with some meat on it, that I could actually answer. I’ll walk you out and show you where the cemetery is.”