I moved away from the closed doors and gazed about the room. The sofa and armchairs looked pristinely uncomfortable. Each pillow was perfectly situated, and the upholstery bore no wrinkles, pulled threads, or the sheen of having been sat upon. The thick wool rug in the middle of the room looked like it had just been rolled off the boat from China. There wasn’t a scuff mark, a smudge, or any other evidence of human touch on the walls or baseboards.
Along a wall of multipaned windows was a mahogany table decorated with framed photographs. Intrigued, I walked toward it, suddenly glad to be in a room where a bit of Abigail’s past lingered.
The first photograph was a sepia-toned eight-by-ten of a man with a handlebar moustache and wearing a suit, sitting in a Queen Anne chair. Behind him was a woman with dark curls wearing a white dress and matching white shoes with button closures. She held a small bouquet. Neither smiled. Abigail’s parents, no doubt, on their wedding day, looking like they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Perhaps they loved each other very much and the photographer had told them to stand still and not move a muscle, which meant no smiling. But looking at those dour faces, it was easy to imagine Abigail grew up in a cheerless home.
The next photograph, also in sepia, was of a black-haired young girl in a sailor dress, who was also no doubt sitting quite still but whose tiny features bore a smile under wraps. I recognized the shape of the eyes and the lift of the cheekbones. This was Abigail at five or six. She looked happy.
The third photo was also of Abigail, now a few years older, sitting on a porch railing with another girl with lighter hair. Dorothea, perhaps? The two girls wore matching ruffled dresses and carried unopened parasols. Their heads were bent toward each other, and they looked content to sit that way for hours.
The fourth was another bridal photo, this one black and white and with the look of the 1940s. The man in the photo wore an army uniform and the woman, a white peplum suit with a matching netted hat. In her arms she carried a nosegay of teacup roses. She and the man both smiled from ear to ear. The woman looked like an older version of the honey-haired girl sitting with Abigail. The fifth and last photo was of the same woman holding an infant in her arms. The woman was smiling at the camera, and the baby was smiling at the woman. I picked it up.
Dorothea had had a child.
I wondered at that moment if the baby in Dorothea’s arms was the guy in Maine who expected to inherit Abigail’s estate. Abigail told me the day I met her she had only one living relative. Just the one. And it was a man who lived in Maine.
Abigail had also said she had a mind to will that man her books and nothing else because he saw so little value in them.
And it occurred to me with a tantalizing jolt that this was who she was talking to, at that moment, in the library.
Graham.
Her cousin Dorothea’s child.
Her only living relative.
And clearly someone she did not admire.
I had the photo of Dorothea and her baby in my hand when the sitting room doors opened and Abigail came into the room.
“Sorry I kept you waiting, Lauren,” she said, looking at what I held in my hands, not at me. She walked toward me.
“No problem.” I kept my voice casual, like I hadn’t just figured out something curiously tragic. I set the photograph back on the table where I found it. “Is this Dorothea?”
“Yes.” Abigail’s tone revealed nothing.
“And her child?”
“Yes.” And this time Abigail’s voice seemed to falter. She looked at the photograph, and I could see hushed pain in her watery eyes. I had touched a place that still ached.
I wished I had said nothing, so great did the anguish appear to yet be.
“I’m sorry, Abigail. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She took her time answering. “You didn’t pry. You merely asked a question. Yes, that’s my cousin, Dorothea. Her husband, Joseph, died in the war, and she died within a year of giving birth. She never got over losing her husband. And Joseph never even saw his child. He left for Africa when Dorothea was six months pregnant.”
“I … I really am so sorry, Abigail.”
“It was a long time ago.” She inhaled heavily, and I could see her gathering up her composure to move away from a past that still stung. Her eyes lingered on the photograph I had replaced.
I pointed to the photograph of the two girls. “And this is you and Dorothea?”
“Yes. At the beach house. We spent a few weeks every summer at my aunt and uncles summer place on Pismo Beach.” The muscles in Abigail’s face relaxed as her mind floated back to sandy beaches and salty air. For a moment, she looked young and nearly happy. But then the muscles around her eyes and mouth tightened again, and when she turned to me a second later, her gaze was polite but stiff. “Ready to work?”
“Um, sure.”
I moved away from the table and followed Abigail toward the double doors. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the wood floor, and she seemed to hurry into the entryway so the squeaking would stop. We moved wordlessly from one room to another, from the room of the dead to the room where time lay in pages everywhere I looked.
As Abigail retrieved the diary and I took my place at the writing desk, I laced my thoughts together. Abigail had probably promised to look after Dorothea’s baby, and she tried, but Graham grew up to be a man who cared only about money. Perhaps Abigail’s aunt, Grahams grandmother, raised Graham, but she and her husband didn’t have the money Abigail’s father did. Maybe they didn’t care for Graham the way Abigail wanted him cared for. And Abigail felt like she had failed Dorothea somehow. She wanted to do more for Dorothea’s child, but something prevented her. Just like Mercy wanted to speak out on behalf of the wrongfully accused, but saw no clear avenue by which to do it.
Abigail set the diary in front of me.
“I’ve had a busy day, Lauren, and I’m not feeling well. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t join you for supper tonight. Esperanza is making a salmon quiche. It’s very good. But I think I will retire for the day. I … I need to lie down.”
Abigail hadn’t lost her indomitable polish, but I saw cracks in her armor for the first time. She didn’t just grieve for a lost love; she grieved a lifetime of loss. I wondered how much I had accurately guessed.
“Can I do anything for you, Abigail?” I had never been more sincere.
She smiled at me. “Thank you, no.”
Abigail walked slowly away, leaving me alone with Mercy.
Twenty-Three
14 May 1692
Papa felt better today. He went to the Village as he had ledgers to balance and letters to write for people. I went with him to make certain he would not collapse from weakness along the way. He tucked his letter inside his satchel before we set out.
There was word from Boston that the new governor for the colony, Sir William Phipps, has arrived from England. I pray this man will put an end to this horrible situation.
We came home. Papa still has his letter.
19 May 1692
There was book work to be done for Uncle’s ship so Papa rode his horse to Boston, though I implored him not to. He is still not entirely well. When he came home this evening, tired and hungry, he told me Mary Easty had been released from jail and then just as quickly rearrested when her accusers protested.
John Peter came for eggs today, but he did not stay because Papa was not home.
But he looked as though he wanted to.
23 May 1692
Prudence Dawes is seventeen today. I found a lovely stone by the creek. It was smooth and near-white, and I wrote her name and age on it. I spent some time making the letters. I thought the result was rather beautiful. She did not seem to be taken with it. She thanked me but what came out of her mouth were just words born of politeness. I believe it is not the stone she does not like but the fact that it was I who gave it to her.
28 May 1692
Papa should not have gone into the Village today. He was pale
and weak, but he went nonetheless. I do not think Governor Phipps will put an end to anything He has issued a commission for a Court of Oyer and Terminer, which Papa tells me means “to hear and determine.” The court will hear the complaints against those accused of witchcraft and will determine their innocence or guilt. Sir William has assigned seven judges to sit on the court, including John Hathorne. I am afraid for everyone in chains. I asked Papa what would happen to the ones found guilty, and he would not answer.
The call from my dad came on Thursday. I expected to hear from him Sunday night or Monday morning at the very latest. When I had heard nothing by Wednesday, I began to believe he had no problem at all with my added paragraph to the gallery proposal. Surely he had read the finished product. When I left Sunday afternoon, Dad told me he planned to look at the completed proposal—my part of it at least—later that evening after an hour at the driving range.
He had seen the rough draft the weekend before and seemed pleased with the way I described the scope of the project. He was particularly happy with the descriptors I used to portray the different galleries.
“The matriarch of this family is going to love that,” he had said. “Actually, the other women will too.”
I’d asked him what he meant by “other women,” and he said this family of investors included a grandmother, two brothers, a sister, and a granddaughter, all passionate devotees of culture and fine art.
“You’ve captured images with your language that will appeal to women,” he said.
“Meaning what, exactly?” I’d replied, aware I was his daughter, not his son. I didn’t want to hear that I appealed to a feminine eye and mind-set, which typically had no forte for hard facts and bald analytical truths, but I waited for him to say it anyway. Isn’t that what he meant?
“It means you’ve done a great job.” He had handed the rough draft back to me. “An excellent job.”
Eleanor had called us to dinner. He changed the subject as we walked into the dining room, and I let him.
I knew my father expected no big changes to the final draft. And my suggestion that the investors fund an endowment to make the galleries accessible to art lovers of any social class wasn’t a monumental change to the project’s dollar amount. What was another half million to billionaires?
No, my change altered the scope of the project, not its bottom line. Broadened it. Enhanced it. Added a deeply philanthropic layer to what would certainly become an icon in West Los Angeles’ art community.
These were the bald, analytical truths I was prepared to use in defense of my tiny additional paragraph.
And I waited to use them.
On Thursday, when I finally heard from Dad, I had lost some of the steam I needed to convince him it was a good idea. It was about eight in the evening when he called, and I had been home from Abigail’s for half an hour. I was alone in the dorm, as usual.
“What’s this added paragraph all about?” Dad stated the question simply and without a trace of displeasure right after I said hello.
“It’s not all about anything. It’s just a nice, magnanimous gesture that will further cast this project into a unique light. People who love art don’t usually want to keep it to themselves.”
“Yes, well, scholarships are for colleges and learning institutions. The galleries are for appreciation and enjoyment.”
“But you said yourself there will be lectures, book readings, concerts. This project is both. It’s part entertainment, part education.”
“Okay. Point taken. But we make buildings happen, we don’t tell people how to run them.”
“Suggesting a broader use for buildings you’ve made possible isn’t arrogance, it’s more like … enhancing the scope of the investment.”
“But what you’re suggesting doesn’t translate into a return to the investor. Memberships create a return on the investment. You’re talking about giving a sizable amount of money away.”
“Well, who’s to say that kind of generosity won’t actually attract members who believe in living a philanthropic life? We both know this is a not-for-profit project. This family will always be giving money away to maintain it.”
“But I don’t usually suggest how an investor runs his investment.”
“Well, maybe you should from time to time.
“Lauren.”
“What?”
“Where are you getting all these ideas?”
He sounded animated and curious, like it excited him that I was sparring with him over a business idea. I looked down at my feet and noticed I had begun to pace my tiny dorm room.
“It’s just one idea, Dad. One idea. And I think it’s a good one. There’s nothing wrong with the galleries without it, but there’s nothing truly wonderful, either. It’s just a place for the upper class to maintain their distance from everyone else. I don’t think that’s what art and music and literature are for.”
“So you think you can help bridge the gap between the classes with this, eh?” His tone was almost wistful. Is there a nice word for “mocking”?
“I’d rather shorten the distance than build a bridge, Dad.”
He laughed gently. “But, Lauren, there will always be rich men and poor men. Even the Bible says that.”
“I’m not talking about redistributing wealth. I’m not talking about changing what people have. I’m talking about changing how people think. I’ve been mulling over this for months.”
“Tell me.”
How to explain it? It was still a process in my head, these things I was trying to work through. “We use the dumbest things to measure someone’s worth, Dad.”
He was silent, but I could almost hear his thoughts.
You won’t change that with an art gallery.
Twenty-Four
1 June 1692
Papa is again abed with a wrenching cough, and I am very nearly glad of it. He needs me home with him, so I have not been dispatched to bring him news from the Village.
But news comes regardless.
Goody Trumball came by the cottage with a crock of pea soup for Papa—it was very good—and told us Bridget Bishop will be the first to be tried in the new court.
3 June 1692
I am not of a mood for stories or diaries today. Bridget Bishop was found guilty.
She is to be hanged.
She is a very odd woman and I am a bit afraid of her, but odd does not mean evil. John Peter came by the cottage with this dreadful report. He said if Goody Bishop had confessed to witchcraft they would have let her live and simply driven her from the Village. But she would not, and so they believe she is a witch who refuses to confess instead of an innocent who will not lie to the court to save herself.
I am bewildered.
John Peter stayed and talked with Papa for a while and brought him ledgers and letter requests from Salem Town so that he can work. He cut firewood for the stove and mucked out the barn.
I think Papa likes John Peter. I am glad of that.
It is good to be glad of something today.
10 June 1692
Bridget Bishop is dead.
I did not go to her execution as Papa needed me home with him. I would not have gone were he well. But though I did not go, I saw Goody Bishop’s swinging body in my mind all afternoon and no amount of hard work or prayer or story hatching would chase it away.
Who thought of such a horrid way to take a life? To snatch away one’s very breath as the mind and body are wrenched away from each other.
Papa consoled me in a whisper that it is far less dreadful to hang than to burn.
But you are dead either way.
17 June 1692
Papa’s illness lingers. I have been too occupied with his care and maintaining the cottage to write. Always before, Papa has fought off the disease that wracks his lungs, but it is different this time. It is like a monster with talons. Papa coughs up bright crimson blood. He is at war with the monster, and I fear he will not win. He grows weaker by the day.
&nbs
p; John Peter has taken over the care of the animals in the barn while I tend to Papa.
I finally let him read some of my stories.
He told me they were wonderful and that I should be writing books.
I laughed. He did not.
30 June 1692
Papa is so weak and frail. I pray every day that God will reach down from Heaven and heal him, but a little voice inside me says God is reaching out for Papa in a different way—to embrace him into His bosom.
I am afraid of what my life will be like without him. He is too weak to speak, yet he asks me every day if I have written to Samuel to alert my cousin of his illness. I do not wish to write the letter and so have a part in bringing about what I dread.
Goody Trumball helped me shell peas today. Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Goode, and three others have all been sentenced to die.
I think I knew several weeks into the transcription that Mercy’s father would not live to see his daughters execution.
Abigail told me without really telling me.
She didn’t outright say that Mercy’s father, Eli Hayworth, was already dead when Mercy met the knotted rope. But when I transcribed the June entries—when I realized, as Mercy had, that her father was dying—I remembered the quizzical look Abigail gave me weeks earlier when I mentioned it was perhaps a blessing Mercy’s mother had succumbed to the pox years ago, because it had no doubt been hard enough on Eli to watch Mercy climb the gallows.
Abigail knew Eli Hayworth had already died of whatever had been eating away at his lungs by the time Mercy was hanged. That explained her puzzled look at my comment. But she hadn’t corrected me. Like everything else about Mercy, Abigail wanted me to discover this detail as I read the diary, as her story unfurled around me.
Still, I found myself disheartened when I finished the June entries and knew beyond all doubt that Mercy’s father was dying.
The Shape of Mercy Page 14
