“You’re saying this goes back a long way? Before us?”
“What’s your point, Meg?” Seth asked.
“I do have one. It comes back to the sampler. Wait, let me show you.” She stood up and went to retrieve the sampler, and the family tree charts she had been working on all morning. When Meg returned, she carefully unrolled the sampler, still in its white towel and turned it so it faced the two men. John looked baffled.
“John, I found this sampler in the house a couple of weeks ago. I was really curious about how it came to be here, so I’ve been looking for answers ever since.”
John shifted in his chair. “What’s this got to do with me?”
“This is what’s known as a family register sampler, and as you can see, it was made in 1798 by a girl named Violet Cox. I’ll keep it short: Violet’s mother Unity was a Warren, and sister to the man who lived in this house. Unity and three of her brothers all moved to Vermont. They all married there, and she had one child, Violet, by her first husband. Then her husband died. Unity remarried pretty quickly, and had four more children by her second husband, Jacob Lampson—who, as it turns out, also came from Granford originally. But then the Lampson children started dying.”
John made the connection quickly. “You’re saying you think it’s the same thing? This damn disease?”
Meg nodded. “I think it’s possible. Unity’s first husband was born in Vermont and had no ties here, and their daughter was fine. But all the younger ones died early.” Meg pointed to the lines on the sampler. “I’ve seen some of the town records from that era, and they say things like ‘sickly,’ ‘poorly,’ ‘feeble’ about the Lampson children. Some of them had fits. Does that sound familiar?”
John nodded, his expression grim. “Sounds like Batten, all right. Our kids have what they call the infantile kind, the one that hits earliest. They don’t have good muscle control, and they have seizures and jerk a lot. Eli doesn’t only because he’s on some pretty heavy-duty meds. They sometimes go blind, too.”
Meg reached across and laid her hand on his. “I’m so sorry, John. It must be a terrible thing to watch your child suffer like that.” Meg hesitated, unsure whether her next conjectures would give John relief or cause him pain. “But that’s not where this story ends. Take a look at the sampler: not long after the youngest child died, Jacob Lampson died, and two days later, so did Unity. Violet had family in Vermont, but she came back here to live with Eli Warren, her uncle. And she married here in Granford, and had children of her own. Her husband’s name was Abiel Morgan.” She stopped, watching John’s face.
“You mean, Jenn’s descended from this Violet? And her mother?” he said at last.
Meg nodded. “There’s more. I read some early records that hinted at some awful event that made it wise to let Violet grow up somewhere else, away from the scandal, and there’s a diary that spells it out. Unity watched her babies die, one after another—like you and Jenn, John. Back in those days, with little medical knowledge, she probably blamed her husband. After all, she’d borne one healthy child, so the problem couldn’t be hers. It obsessed her, so much that after her children were gone she killed him. And then herself, a few days later. All those deaths just pushed her over the edge. And that’s what may have happened to Jenn. This whole thing with your mother and her crazy scheme was the last straw.”
They were all silent for a long minute. Meg found herself thinking of young Violet, all her near family dead, sent away from the only place she’d known in her short life, to end up here, in this house. Had Eli welcomed her, been kind to her? Violet had set about commemorating her lost family in the sampler, and then she—or someone—hid or put it away. It had lain in the house, forgotten, for two hundred years.
Meg began again, “John, Jenn did something foolish, but I can understand why. She’s fighting for her son, and for you and whatever happiness you can find. Maybe she’s a little out of control, but I can’t blame her. Nobody got hurt. I’m not going to press charges, against any of you.”
John stood up abruptly. “Thank you, Meg. Maybe it helps a little, to know that this didn’t happen just to us, that it goes back a lot further. It’s just lousy luck.” He turned to Seth. “You want me to come by tomorrow morning?”
“Sure. Eight?”
“See you then.” Without looking at them again, John grabbed his coat and went out the back door, leaving Meg and Seth alone at the table.
Seth waited until John had shut the door behind him before saying, “Wow. That’s quite a story. Unity Warren Cox Lampson was a murderer and a suicide, and now John and Jenn Taylor are part of the same story, two hundred years later. Donna Taylor was driven to harassing you because she saw getting this house as the only possible bright spot in an otherwise lousy life, and she felt she deserved it. And you’re descended from Eli Warren?”
“That’s about it,” Meg agreed.
“Tell me you’re going to explain how Jacob Lampson and his wife died?” Seth joked.
“Maybe. I think Violet left us another clue.” She pointed to the sampler. “See the Bible verse? I thought it was just a reference to the deaths of the children, but I think there’s more to it.”
“What?”
“The verse includes the word ‘flower.’ What do you see next to the row of tombstones there?”
“Lily of the valley, clearly. So?”
“Most people don’t know it, but lily of the valley is poisonous, and it grows throughout the Northeast. My guess—which I know I’ll never prove—is that Unity poisoned her husband and waited long enough to make sure that he died, and then took the same thing herself. And I think young Violet knew what had happened. Why else would she have included that particular flower in her sampler? Either her mother told her what she had done, or Violet witnessed it. Poor child! She left this one tiny clue, and then she put the sampler away and went on with her life: she married Abiel Morgan here in Granford, and had children. And Jenn Taylor is her lineal descendant. Sad to say, Violet couldn’t have known she was passing on a defective gene; and even then it might not have mattered if Jenn hadn’t had the bad luck to marry another carrier here in Granford, where it all started. That’s one of the downsides of small-town living.”
“I guess so. Do you think you’re a carrier? I mean, if it’s on the Warren side then you’re descended from the same line, if you go back far enough.”
“I haven’t had time to think that far. Although as far as I know, no other local Warrens have had this problem—not that I’ve looked. I only figured it out this morning. For that matter, the Chapins could be carriers, too.”
“Let’s hope not,” Seth said, smiling. “And now I really had better get some work done, if John’s coming back in the morning.”
“Go.” She waved him off. “I’ve got plenty of genealogy to keep me busy.”
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Epilogue
Saturday morning Meg found Seth pounding at her back door yet again. “It’s Saturday. What are you doing here? Are you working today?”
“Nope, but I’ve got a project. We need to find you a Christmas tree.”
“Christmas? Oh, my goodness—it’s next week. Where do you want to go?”
“Uh, you’ll notice that you have a woodlot back there?” Seth made a sweeping gesture toward the back end of her property.
“You want to cut down a tree?”
“Yes, I do. Don’t worry—there are plenty. Nobody’s taken a tree out of there for decades, and the woods can use some thinning.”
“Okay, if you say so. Sounds good. But I don’t have a tree stand.”
“I have plenty. You have any more quibbles?”
“I guess not. You have an axe?”
“We’re not taking down a huge tree. I’ve got a saw.” Seth waved it at her.
“And how do we get it back to the house?” Meg said dubiously.
Seth recoiled in mock horror. “And here I thought you were a farmer, not a city gir
l. We carry it. Put your boots on.”
Meg complied.
She had to admit it was lovely, walking across the uneven fields that lay behind her house, toward the tree line. The sky was blue, the snow was still clean and fluffy, and they were going to cut down a Christmas tree from her own property. She couldn’t have imagined any of this a year earlier.
“I did some more research, after you left yesterday,” Meg said.
“Oh?”
“About Batten Disease. Like Jenn said, there are studies going on, and even if they don’t promise a cure, they may extend life, or at least improve the quality of life.”
“Well, that’s good news.”
“Maybe. John said his insurance wouldn’t cover the experimental drug because it hasn’t been approved. But I had an idea.”
They’d reached the trees, and Seth was scanning for a likely tree for cutting. “And?”
“I want to give John and Jenn the sampler. It’s worth a good deal of money, according to the Sturbridge expert, and it is Jenn’s family, after all. Maybe it won’t save Eli, but it could make his life easier. It’s a shame to lose a part of the town’s history, but I think it’s the right thing to do. The Taylors need it a lot more than I do.”
Seth stopped, and Meg stopped, too, looking up at him, their breath fogging the air between them.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea. So, any decisions?”
“About what? The next apple season? Us?”
“Both. Either.”
“I’m staying, Seth.”
Meg’s last coherent thought was, Have I ever been kissed in a snowy wood?
Acknowledgments
This book was inspired by two unrelated and widely separated events.
Years ago, when I was a professional genealogist, I was approached by J. Michael Flanigan, one of the producers of the Antiques Roadshow, to do some research on a sampler that he had acquired through the show. The story was that someone who had bought an old house in Cleveland discovered what he thought was a dirty rag in the back of a closet. It turned out to be a piece of needlework, so the owner decided to bring it to the Roadshow, and learned that it was an early nineteenth-century sampler made in Pennsylvania. I remembered the segment, and I was thrilled to be able to investigate the sampler’s history. (If you’re interested, you can see the segment at www.pbs.org/wgbh/roadshow/archive/199907A26.)
The other event is sadder but no less important to the story. More recently I was asked to give a talk to a chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution about the Orchard series and the genealogy behind it. Afterward I met a young woman who had brought her two-year-old daughter. She said something that made a profound impact on me: her child had Batten Disease, which is both hereditary and incurable. Yet at that time, the child looked completely healthy. I couldn’t begin to imagine the pain of watching a child deteriorate in a few short years, but I could see that it might lead parents to act in desperate ways. Since the disease is passed down through families, and since my fictional Granford has been home to the same families for centuries, it was easy to envision such an unhappy genetic heritage there.
For the sampler I created for this book, I borrowed elements from a wide range of existing pieces (with a few personal additions), but all the elements are appropriate to needlework of the time period and the region. Thanks to Ruth Van Tassel of Van Tassel-Baumann American Antiques in Malvern, Pennsylvania (who restored the Roadshow sampler), for her insights and suggestions regarding early needlework. In addition, I was privileged to visit the exhibit of Massachusetts samplers on display at Old Sturbridge Village, which enabled me to examine examples of skilled needlework up close—and the talents of some of the young makers are truly impressive. Betty Ring’s well-known book Girlhood Embroidery was an invaluable resource.
Finally, as usual I’ve borrowed a lot of my own family history for this book, because it showed me so well how people in the eighteenth century moved around, and how hard it is to find records that show the reasons why.
Thanks, as always, to my indefatigable agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds, and my extraordinary editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez at Berkley Prime Crime. Thanks also to Sisters in Crime and the ever-helpful Guppies—including Tracy Hayes who suggested the title.
Recipes
Minestrone
There are probably as many minestrone recipes as there are cooks. It’s a great dish to keep simmering on your back burner, and the beauty of it is that you can add whatever vegetables (preferably fresh, but canned will do) you happen to have on hand—especially if you’re snowed in.
1 cup dried beans (white or whatever you prefer)
2 pounds marrow bones
2½ quarts water
3 slices bacon, diced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion, minced (about a cup)
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 carrot, chopped
1 cup chopped potatoes
1 cup peas
2 small zucchini, diced
1½ cups chopped tomatoes
1 cup shredded cabbage
salt and pepper to taste
½ teaspoon powdered sage (or fresh)
1 teaspoon dried basil
¼ cup raw rice
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon minced parsley
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
Wash the beans and put them in a large soup kettle. Cover with cold water, bring to a boil, and remove from heat. Let stand 1 hour.
Drain the beans. Add the water and the beef bones. Bring to a boil and simmer, uncovered, for 1½ hours.
Sauté the bacon until golden. Drain off the fat. Add the oil to the pan, then the onions and garlic, and cook over medium heat for 5 minutes.
Stir in the carrots, potatoes, peas, and zucchini and cook for another 5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Remove the beef bones from the beans. Add fried vegetables, tomatoes, cabbage, and seasonings. Simmer, uncovered, for 1 hour.
Add the rice and continue cooking for 30 minutes.
Cream together the butter, cheese, and parsley. Add to the hot soup and stir until dissolved.
Hearty Gingerbread
There’s something very comforting about warm gingerbread on a cold night.
½ cup (1 stick) butter
½ cup granulated sugar
1 egg
2½ cups all-purpose flour
1½ teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup light molasses
½ cup honey
1 cup hot water
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9 x 9 metal pan.
Melt the butter and let it cool. Add the sugar and the egg and beat well.
Sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, and spices.
Combine the molasses, honey, and hot water.
Alternate adding the dry and liquid ingredients to the butter mixture and mix until blended.
Bake about 1 hour, or until the edges of the cake pull away slightly from the pan.
May be eaten plain or with ice cream or whipped cream.
Bree’s Jerk Chicken
Bree improvises this dish without a written recipe. Most recipes call for Scotch bonnet or habanero chiles (hot!), so you’ll have to decide just how spicy you want this to be.
2 fresh Scotch bonnet or habanero chiles
6 scallions, chopped
3 shallots, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and chopped
3 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves, or 1 tablespoon dried thyme
2 teaspoons ground allspice
1½ teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1½ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
½ teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
½ cup lime juice (if you don’t have limes, substitute vinegar)
8 chicken thighs (you may use bone-in breasts if you prefer, but the dark meat stands up better to the spices and cooks more slowly, for better flavor)
Discard the stems, seeds, and ribs from the two chiles and chop coarsely (you may want to use latex gloves for this, if you have them).
In a food processor, blend the chiles with all the remaining ingredients except the chicken until a paste forms. Make slits in the chicken pieces, then rub the paste all over the pieces. Cover and chill at least two hours (overnight if possible).
Heat the oven to 350 degrees F. Place the chicken pieces skin side up on a foil-lined pan or rimmed baking sheet and cook about 45 minutes (until the juices run clear).
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly
Orchard Mysteries
ONE BAD APPLE
ROTTEN TO THE CORE
RED DELICIOUS DEATH
A KILLER CROP
BITTER HARVEST
Museum Mysteries
FUNDRAISING THE DEAD
LET’S PLAY DEAD
Bitter Harvest Page 26
