Season of Angels (9781101612170)

by Kinkade, Thomas; Spencer, Katherine

  * * *

  Jonathan set off for the Cape Light Historical Society right after breakfast but had a little trouble finding the place. He could see from his map that it was located outside of town on a long, curving route with few houses and many stretches of woods and meadows covered with marsh grass. The houses he did spot along the way were all old and unique, some Victorian and even colonial-era architecture. Claire had told him that the historical society building was past the Potter Orchard and Sawyer’s Tree Farm, but even those two landmarks did not help much.

  Finally, he backtracked and noticed a small sign that hung on high wrought-iron gates set in a long, stone wall. LILAC HILL—THE WARWICK ESTATE, he read, and below that in even smaller lettering, HOUSING THE OFFICES OF THE CAPE LIGHT HISTORICAL SOCIETY.

  He’d read a little about village history, and as he drove through the gates and down a long drive bordered by trees, he realized he was passing the famous row of lilac trees that gave a spectacular show every spring. The first mistress of the house had planted the trees and named the estate in their honor.

  He remembered that Lilac Hill had been owned by the Warwicks, the most prominent family in the area during the nineteenth century. They had made their fortune in the late 1800s with canneries and built the massive stone mansion just after World War I, copying one of the great houses in Europe. Jonathan had read that not only had the stones been brought over by boat, but with them came a team of masons, who lived on the grounds for several years while the mansion and outbuildings were constructed.

  The estate covered more than three thousand acres and the house held about forty rooms, he recalled, with several wings to the building and too many chimneys to count. He parked the car and walked up a gravel path to the front entrance, feeling a little unsettled by the stares of stone gargoyles, which were perched at various points on the edge of the roof.

  Enormous mansions and huge estates of this type were nearly impossible to keep up these days. This one had become impossible to keep for its last owner. Oliver Warwick, the last heir to live here, went bankrupt. His widow, Lillian, sold the estate and many of the furnishings in the mansion to the village to cover their debts. But she required that the property be maintained as a historical landmark and never sold for development. She must have been a strong woman with foresight. The mansion certainly was a landmark and well worth preserving, he thought as the looming stone building came into view.

  A stone portico covered the entrance. Jonathan walked beneath it and climbed the steps to the large wooden front door. Just as he was about to enter, the door swung open. An older woman with a gaunt face, silver hair, and an expensive-looking wool coat with a fur collar swept by. She was followed by a man about her own age, who wore round spectacles and a bow tie.

  The woman spared Jonathan a quick glance as he held the door for her, but she didn’t thank him. It was as if he were paid to do that job, or as if she simply expected such service from the world at large.

  “I don’t know why they keep electing me to the board if they overrule all my motions and barely listen to a word I say,” she complained to the man. “They just want someone with the name Warwick on the letterhead. I’m an endangered species . . . and I’ve been totally exploited.”

  “They do listen to you, Lillian. They just don’t always agree with you. And your last name is now Elliot. Need I remind you?”

  They walked the short distance to a shiny black sedan parked by the entrance. He held the door open for her on the passenger’s side, and she made a grumbling sound as she got in. “Very funny. You ought to do stand-up comedy on a TV show.”

  “I’m glad you’re amused, dear. That’s why you married me, to keep you smiling.” The husband had come around to the driver’s side now.

  Jonathan could see that the man was chuckling, having gotten the last word in with his wife. Jonathan stood there a moment and watched the car drive off. Was that really Lillian Warwick, the woman he had read about? She seemed about the right age and had the right attitude. The old man, Elliot, must have been her second husband. He certainly had an amazing disposition. Jonathan did not see himself marrying for a long time, but when he did, he would never choose anyone like Lillian Warwick or Elliot or whatever she called herself.

  Love chooses for you. You don’t have much say, someone had once told him. Jonathan recalled the words though he didn’t really believe that.

  He entered the building and found himself in a large foyer with a black-and-white tile floor. It looked like marble, but he couldn’t be sure. There was a long circular staircase and a lot of carved woodwork and antique furniture.

  He finally noticed a desk, like the kind you see in a library, and spotted two people working there. An older woman was already helping someone, showing them a self-guided tour map to the mansion and grounds. A younger woman stood with her back to him, answering the phone. He cleared his throat noisily and waited. She finally finished her call and turned to face him.

  She just stared and he stared back.

  It was the waitress from the diner. Tess. She even wore a nameplate again. She was hardly recognizable otherwise. Large black-rimmed glasses framed her blue eyes. Her hair was loose, pulled off her face by a wide black band. She wore a tailored shirt, pearl earrings, and a slim black skirt. She was exceptionally pretty.

  “Oh, it’s you.” She frowned at him. “Did your research paper ever dry out?”

  He had to think a minute; he was so shocked meeting up with her again. Then he realized that she was asking about the paper by his professor. He quickly nodded. “It’s fine. A few pages are a little blurry.”

  “Good to know.”

  He couldn’t quite tell if she was being sarcastic or not, but he felt a hot flush of embarrassment. “I’m sorry . . . I overreacted at the diner. I borrowed that paper from my advisor. It’s a copy, but it was something he entrusted me with and—”

  Now she looked genuinely concerned. “Did it really dry all right?”

  “It’s fine. You were right about pressing it between towels. That seemed to do the trick.”

  She nodded, looking relieved. “So, what brings you to Lilac Hall? Want to tour the local sites?”

  “In a way, I guess I do. I’m researching the legend of Angel Island. I’m looking for primary sources from that time period, firsthand accounts about the epidemic. Any records the villagers might have kept, like personal journals, letters . . . that sort of thing.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. We do have some records from the early settlement. Why are you researching the legend? Are you a writer?”

  “I’m a historian . . . Well, I plan to be. I’m working on my doctorate at Tufts.”

  She nodded again. He couldn’t tell if she was impressed. But he did realize he wanted her to be.

  “It’s a fascinating story and there are many versions,” he continued. “But, to my knowledge, it’s never been investigated and documented in depth.”

  “No, I don’t think it has,” she agreed. “So you want to document it—create some authorized, scholarly version?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  She frowned, clearly not buying his answer. “Are you trying to disprove the legend? To debunk it?”

  Was she sensitive about the story, too? She seemed so sharp and intellectual and not the type to believe in angels. He definitely didn’t want to insult her. They were just recovering from the water-spilling incident.

  He chose his words carefully. “I’m trying to piece together all the facts I can find about the event and hopefully come up with an explanation for what really happened, supported by hard evidence. I don’t think that’s ever been done. I’ve just begun the research, so I don’t know what my conclusion will be. Does that matter in regard to using the library here?”

  “No,” she said, her tone softer. “You can see t
he documents, no matter what. I was just curious.” She turned and chose a key ring from a row of hooks over the back counter. “You’ll need to give me some identification and sign the visitors’ book. And you’ll have to leave your coat and things in a locker. You’re allowed to bring a pad and pencils and a laptop, if you have one. Then I’ll take you to the room where we keep the collection from that period. Documents from that period are kept in a storage vault. But you can view copies and transcriptions and some items on microfilm.”

  “Very good. Thank you.” He wasn’t sure why, but he felt a sudden and immense wave of relief. As if this attractive, sassy girl held his fate in her hands.

  Tess handed him a form, and he handed over his driver’s license and school ID. She watched him as he filled out the form, hastily printing his answers, which she read upside down.

  Butler, Jonathan. PhD candidate at Tufts University. Local residence: The Inn on Angel Island. Permanent address: Phillips Street in Boston.

  She brought his ID cards to the copy machine and set them on the plate to make a copy. She couldn’t believe it. The guy from the diner! The last person in the world she ever wanted to see again. Hadn’t that first time been embarrassing enough? Why did she have to be the one at the visitors’ desk when he walked in? She wished she could pass him off to someone, but they were short on staff this week, and it was impossible.

  Funny how he didn’t seem quite as arrogant today. Though he did live on Phillips Street in Boston, which she was pretty sure was a Beacon Hill address. Then again, maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe she had caught him in a bad mood at the Clam Box? He had stuck up for her with Charlie after all was said—and splashed. Tess felt bad that she hadn’t thanked him. It seemed too awkward now.

  When Tess returned from copying the ID cards, Jonathan was still filling in the form. He was pretty cute. She noticed how his thick brown hair hung in his eyes a bit as he leaned over the counter. His square jaw and dark eyes gave him a serious air as he squinted at the form. But when he smiled at her before, she had seen deep dimples and noticed how he could be friendly—even charming—when he wanted to.

  He was also clever. The legend about the island was a little known but fascinating tide pool, which no true scholar had ever investigated. The epidemic was an event she had thought about digging into herself.

  He finished filling out the form, and she handed back his IDs and then stapled his form to the sheet from the copy machine.

  “Is that it?” he asked warily. “I don’t need any personal references? Or emergency contact numbers?” He was teasing her, of course.

  Tess wanted to smile but managed to keep a straight face. “I have to take a small DNA sample . . . but it won’t hurt much,” she promised.

  He laughed, showing those dimples again.

  “Let’s stash your stuff in a locker. Then we can go upstairs and I’ll get you started.”

  Jonathan looked cheered by that news. He grabbed his book bag and stood at attention. “After you,” he said politely, letting her pass.

  He quickly deposited his things in a locker, then Tess led the way, feeling a bit self-conscious as he walked beside her up the winding staircase and down the long, dim hallway on the second floor. He didn’t offer any conversation, and her mind drew a sudden blank, though she usually had a lot to say to other visitors she helped with research. Something about him made her nervous.

  Just chill, Tess, and don’t go near him with any liquids. You’ll be fine, she coached herself.

  Tess stopped at one of the doors about halfway down the hall and unlocked the door, then led Jonathan into a large, elegantly furnished room with tall bookcases that held rare, old volumes. There were also many antique cabinets, whose shelves held cardboard folios filled with copies and transcriptions of the documents and cassettes of microfilm. Jonathan could hardly wait to get his hands on them.

  He slowly looked around. “Wow, this is a beautiful room. Was it always a library?”

  “Yes, this room was the original library when the mansion was built. Though some of the cabinets and furnishings have been changed since.”

  The ceilings of the room, like those throughout the mansion, were twenty feet high. Walls that were not covered with bookcases were covered by beautiful wood paneling and elegant moldings. There were two wooden library tables in the room, set up with low glass reading lamps and machines to view the microfilm.

  The room was cool and dry, kept at a certain temperature and low humidity to preserve the paper. Wooden shutters kept out the sunlight, which was also damaging to the documents. Still, the scent of old books was unmistakable. Perfume to his soul.

  Tess opened a glass cabinet with a key and carefully removed two maroon binders then brought them to his table. The white labels on the outside of the cases read: CAPE LIGHT 1633–1650 AND ANGEL ISLAND 1633–1650. “These are the earliest documents we have,” she explained. “As you probably know, the village was founded in 1633. The settlers arrived in June of that year and the epidemic and quarantine occurred about six months later, during their first winter. This binder contains copies of the village records. They had appointed a governor back in England, John Ames, and there are a few pages of his journals here as well. We have other material that would be relevant,” she added. “I can show you more when you’re done with this. The curator, Mrs. Fisk, doesn’t like us to take out too much at once.”

  He quickly opened his laptop, eager to get to work. “This is a great start, thank you.” He realized that he was almost as curious about her as he was about the old artifacts. “So do you work here as an intern?” She was too young to be librarian with a full degree, he guessed. She was younger than he was, a few years anyway.

  “I’m just a docent. I’m a senior at Boston University. In the history department, in case you were wondering.” Her tone had that challenging edge again. But he was starting to like it.

  “I was wondering,” he admitted. “But I should have guessed that next. You seem to be in your element when you talk about village history. I bet you know everything about it.”

  “Enough,” she admitted. She stared at him a minute. Did he want her to stay and help him? She would have liked that. His research topic was exactly the sort of thing that interested her, and being stuck down at the visitors’ desk was unbelievably boring.

  He had put on a pair of reading glasses and was squinting at the documents as he removed them from the binder, handling them with reverence and care. Even though they were just copies. He seemed the type who preferred to work alone, and she didn’t want to seem pushy. If he needed help, he would ask, she decided.

  “I’ll be downstairs if you have any questions. When you’re done, just return the documents to the cases. I’ll re-shelve everything later.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks for your help, Tess.” He didn’t even realize he’d used her name—until he saw her surprised expression.

  “No problem . . . Jonathan.”

  She turned and left the room, and he pretended to be focused on the documents. But couldn’t help but sneak a look at her as she walked away.

  Her voice seemed to echo in the emptiness after she disappeared. He liked the way she had said his name and wondered when he would see her again. Probably not until he left, he realized. Then he caught himself. You can’t sit here thinking about a pretty girl all day. You have a lot to do and better get started.

  Despite the distraction of meeting up with Tess again, Jonathan soon found himself totally engrossed in the carefully written records kept by the area’s first settlers. There was a ship’s bill of lading; some sort of dry goods inventory; three land grants; an agreement to purchase a horse, a cart, and five chickens; and records from a few of the town’s early meetings.

  The handwriting, written with a quill pen and sepia-toned ink, was difficult—almost impossible—to read. After several hundred yea
rs, the lettering had faded and the pages had practically deteriorated. Many were torn, with pieces missing and some were only fragments. Luckily, researchers before him had painstakingly studied and translated each mark, and the copies of the original documents were accompanied by a neatly typed and easy-to-read version on the opposite page.

  Still, he read very slowly, carefully considering the information as he made notes on his laptop. He never tired of reading about this time period: The great hope and optimism of the early colonists, who left the thriving cities of Europe behind for a strange, wild land. How they willingly began to build a new civilization where there was absolutely nothing familiar. What optimism, what energy, what courage . . . and faith. He could never imagine doing such a thing. Maybe that was why this period of history and the people who lived then were endlessly fascinating to him.

  Jonathan sat studying the documents for several hours. He only noticed the time had passed when the grumbling in his stomach became too loud to ignore. He decided to pack up and return to the inn. He had plenty of information to work on back there and would return again tomorrow to read more of the village records.

  He was shutting down his laptop when Tess walked into the room.

  “Oh . . . you’re still here. Did you find anything to help your research?”

  “Yes, I found plenty. I guess I’ll be back tomorrow. Are you open the same hours?”

  “Yes, ten to four. There’s a card at the front desk. You ought to take it.” She had come over to the table and looked over the binders before she put them in a stack. She looked very pretty standing there. Today she did look like the kind of girl he might ask out. It was funny how she seemed so different. Or maybe he had rushed to judge her too quickly at the diner. He had made a lot of dumb assumptions.

  “It’s a fascinating period of history,” Tess said. “Is this the area that you’re specializing in?”