Harvest of Secrets

by Ellen Crosby

  Last but not least was Thelma. Did she know what really happened to Susanna? Did she have letters or documents belonging to Charles Montgomery that explained how Susanna died? And if so, did Thelma want that information brought to light, especially if it proved Charles had played a role in his fiancée’s death—maybe even murdering her himself? At the end of the day, whether Thelma chose to release information that had come down through her own family was her call, not mine.

  David’s birth mother did not want to acknowledge him and, as difficult and heartbreaking as that was for him to accept, she was within her rights to do so. As I realized when I opened Pandora’s box and explored my DNA and my family history, I couldn’t stuff what spilled out back inside. Sometimes—like now—you just had to live with knowing and that’s it. I told Ginna I wasn’t sure Thelma would be eager to share what information she had about Charles.

  “It’s all right, Lucie,” she said. “Everyone needs to follow their conscience on matters like this. Who wants to reveal alcoholism, physical abuse, pedophilia … all sorts of unpleasant details about ancestors and relatives? Many people want the past to be dead and buried, so to speak. I happen to believe that these are the things that need to be out in the open. To make sure the next generation is aware of less-than-desirable character traits in order to change the paradigm. And also to be aware of good traits—a generous and giving heart, kindness to the less fortunate, a teacher or doctor who was beloved by students or patients, someone who adopted foster children or a disabled child. It cuts both ways.”

  I could live with a philosophy like that. The blood of your parents is not lost in you. But it didn’t have to define you.

  “I’ll talk to Thelma,” I said. “And see what she says.”

  “Let me know,” she said. “And call me when your schedule is a bit less hectic.”

  “You might not hear from me for a while—at least until harvest is over.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “These documents aren’t going anywhere. But I will tell you that this could be a very exciting discovery for the library—for historians—especially if we’re able to establish that the house on your land was actually a stop on the Underground Railroad. Plus you also own a rare kente quilt made by Rejoice Wells. A lot of people will be interested in it.” She smiled and sighed. “Including, I’m sure, the Smithsonian.”

  Robyn Callahan had said practically the same thing. A very exciting discovery. Now all I had to do was tell the people who really needed to know about this: my own family. Plus I needed to tell Eli and Mia about David, our half brother. As Quinn said last night, do it sooner rather than later. Keeping that secret was no different than lying to them.

  On the way back to our cars Kit said, “Where are you off to now?”

  “Meeting a friend who might know something about Henry and Rejoice.”

  “Oh?” She waited and when I didn’t elaborate she said, “Well, good luck, then.”

  “Thanks. And thanks so much for introducing me to Ginna. She was terrific.”

  “You’re welcome. Look, Luce, don’t worry, okay? Everything is going to work out.”

  I hugged her and said, “I hope so.”

  I waited until I saw her taillights disappear in my rearview mirror before I started the Jeep. Kit and I told each other everything. She knew I was holding something back.

  It had been a week of secrets, deceptions, and outright lies. I wanted it to end and I wanted the truth to come out.

  Except for knowing the identity of Jean-Claude’s murderer.

  That truth still scared me.

  * * *

  THE NAVY BMW CONVERTIBLE was parked with the top up on the grassy lot behind the Goose Creek Meetinghouse, which was located at the intersection of four roads in the tiny Quaker village of Lincoln. I pulled in next to it and got out of the Jeep. Except for our cars, the place was deserted.

  The Meetinghouse, a long, low redbrick building with its white-columned flagstone front porch, reminded me more of someone’s home than a place of worship. I climbed the steps to the porch and opened the screen door. David was inside, sitting on one of the long wooden benches, eyes closed as if he were meditating, his camera lying next to him.

  A rush of memories flooded my mind. A sweltering summer day years ago when my mother brought me here seeking a sanctuary after Leland had come home drunk once again and they’d argued over where he’d been … and who he’d been with. The large room was exactly as I remembered it, open-armed, nonjudgmental, and welcoming as an old friend. Wooden benches were still arranged as three sides of a rectangle surrounding a fireplace with a much-used woodstove and a basket of logs and kindling ready for the next chilly meeting day. No ornamentation on the whitewashed walls except an antique clock above a doorway that led to rooms used for classes and socializing. The small one-room library was directly opposite that doorway on the other side of the meeting room.

  David straightened up and turned around so he was facing me, his irresistible smile lighting up his face. “You found it.”

  I grinned and went over to join him. “I’ve been here before.” I leaned my cane against the bench and sat down.

  “For a meeting?”

  “No, my mother was looking for a peaceful place to come for a while. She brought me with her. We sat here quietly until she was ready to leave.”

  He nodded, without asking the logical question: Why?

  “The Friends call their meetings ‘expectant waiting,’” he said. “An entire meeting can pass in total silence. There’s no leader and everyone is welcome. But Friends also believe the still, small voice they hear in that silence may be the voice of God coming from within.”

  “I think that’s lovely.”

  “Want to sit for a few minutes right now?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  He leaned back, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. Then he closed his eyes. I followed suit, closing mine. Unbidden, the names came into my mind, crowding my thoughts. Susanna. Charles. Henry. Rejoice. Jean-Claude. I had no control over what had happened to any of them—how they lived and how they died. Quakers believed that God was present in all of us and by quieting our minds and listening deeply we could directly experience that divine presence. All I could do, as Ginna had said, was follow my conscience. And try to quiet my mind.

  “Lucie?” David laid a hand on my arm and my eyes flew open. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Was I asleep?”

  “More like in your own zone.” We both stood and he added, “Before we go to see Grace Church and the cemetery, I thought I’d show you the Goose Creek Burying Ground across the street.”

  “You really know your way around.”

  “I photographed this place for National Geographic,” he said as we stepped outside onto the porch. “This meetinghouse was built in 1817. It’s not the first or even the second place of worship.” He pointed to a little stone house across the street. “That was the second, built in 1765. The first was a log cabin built in 1750. The caretaker lives there now. He looks after this place, the burying ground, and the one-room school, which is that redbrick building over there.”

  “That’s a school?”

  “Oakdale School,” he said. “It was built in 1816 to educate Quaker children and the children of free African-Americans. It was one of the first integrated schools in Virginia.”

  We crossed the quiet country lane and followed a gravel path shaded by an enormous pine and surrounded by woods until we reached the cemetery. It was a large, flat, grassy area with trees that had clearly been around as long as the burying ground had been there. Many of them now sheltered well-worn mossy headstones, all of which were small, simple, and unadorned.

  “You didn’t have to be Quaker to be buried here,” David said. “Anyone was allowed—slaves, Indians, indigent or homeless people. But whoever buries someone is required to follow the rules. No ostentation or display of wealth at any grave and no flowers. That’s
why the headstones all look so similar. Generally there’s just a name and a date of birth and death. Sometimes only the name of the deceased.”

  The last time I’d been in a cemetery talking with someone like this—and not standing over an open grave as I had with Yasmin—I’d been with Jean-Claude when he told me someone wanted to kill him. And then someone did. I shivered. I seemed to be spending a lot of time in graveyards these last few days. Looking for answers from people who couldn’t give them, trying to divine their secrets. Just like I was doing now.

  “Is something wrong?” David asked.

  We’d known each other for a little more than twenty-four hours but it was uncanny how astute he was at reading me.

  I smiled. “Just thinking. All of the Montgomerys—including Leland—are buried in the family cemetery at Highland Farm. You should come and see it.”

  He nodded, the realization of what I’d just said sinking in. He would see his father’s grave. “Thank you. I would like to do that.”

  “Susanna’s remains are going to be reburied there as soon as the forensic anthropologist finishes taking DNA samples. I’m going to talk to Hunt & Sons Funeral Home since I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’m sure we’ll have some kind of service. Maybe you could come?”

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “You told me on the phone you think you know the name of the man she was in love with?”

  “Actually I found out a lot more since I spoke to you.”

  I told David what I’d learned at the Balch Library about Henry and Rejoice Wells. “They came from Ghana,” I said. “They were both Ashanti, which explains the quilt that she made that was wrapped around Susanna’s body. My neighbor, who is an artist and knows a lot about textiles, told me it’s called a kente quilt. Apparently it’s quite rare.”

  We had made a slow loop around part of the cemetery and now David was leading us over to an opening in the low stone wall that seemed to lead farther into the woods. The sky was the color of gunmetal and I wondered whether it was going to rain again. The air even smelled like rain. At this rate, by the time Lolita arrived in two days the ground would be so saturated the water would have no place to go except to immediately begin flooding riverbanks and streams, inundating low spots and washing out roads.

  “Have you ever been to Ghana?” David was asking me. “This is the back way to Grace Church, by the way.”

  I followed him through the open gate and we clambered down a grassy hill to a narrow gravel road. He had slowed his pace to match mine. We still hadn’t seen a soul, as if we were the only two people for miles around.

  “No, I’ve never even been to Africa. Have you?”

  He nodded. “Also for National Geo. Ghana, which was and still is Africa’s largest producer of gold, as well as diamonds and bauxite, has a famous series of castles and fortresses along their magnificent coastline. Hundreds of years ago they were used as warehouses for trading goods, but eventually those places—which also contained dungeons—were used to house slaves before they were sent to America. There was a door on the seaboard side that everyone called the ‘door of no return.’ From there, slaves were put on boats to be taken to slaving ships farther out to sea where they were loaded like cargo for the journey to America.”

  He spoke in a matter-of-fact way, but my stomach churned.

  “That’s horrible … it’s inhuman.” My protest sounded feeble, even to my own ears. It had happened for decades and decades and no one had done anything to stop it. It was reality.

  “If Henry and Rejoice came from Ghana, they would have come through that door,” he said in a quiet voice. “The door of no return.”

  We turned into a small driveway leading to an old fieldstone building. A sign at the entrance to the driveway said it was the Mt. Olive Baptist Church and it sat between two cemeteries.

  David pointed to another small building in the distance that looked like a twin to the one in front of us. “That’s Grace Church,” he said. “Unlike the Baptist Church, which is still in use, Grace Church was abandoned in the 1940s when the congregation moved their place of worship to Purcellville.

  “The cemetery is still in use, though,” he went on as we walked through the cemetery toward Grace Church. He pointed to a patch of rusty red Virginia clay soil that looked freshly disturbed. “They’re still burying people here. The older graves are farther from the church. We’ll take a look at them after we see the church.”

  “Do you think Henry or Rejoice worshipped there?” I asked.

  “It’s possible. They also might have come for other reasons. The basement was a vocational school where Quakers taught all kinds of useful skills—sewing, cooking, shoe repair,” he said.

  The church windows were boarded up, there was a protective tarp over part of the roof, and someone had hung a now-desiccated twig-branch wreath with artificial flowers twined through it next to the front door. A NO TRESPASSING sign had been nailed to the door and the stone steps were moss-covered. No one had been here in a long time.

  “It’s a pity the place was abandoned. It was the first legal black church in Loudoun County, built by Quakers and freed slaves, so it has a lot of history,” David said. “Come on, let’s take a look at the gravestones in the cemetery.”

  Unlike the Goose Creek Burying Ground with its plain, unadorned headstones, many of the graves here were decorated with bouquets of plastic flowers and the headstones contained epitaphs like RAMBLING MAN or GONE FISHING. A lot of the bouquets had become separated from their plastic holders so they now were scattered across the cemetery. By the time we got to the older part of the cemetery, some of the smaller markers had fallen over and whatever had been etched on them was worn away.

  Of the headstones we could read, none had the name Wells or Cooper on them. The sky had grown darker. More rain was coming.

  “Maybe the files in the Balch Library will have something that will help.” David sounded hopeful as we walked back to our cars, which were still at the meetinghouse.

  “Maybe,” I said. “There are also Thelma’s family papers. If she’s willing to let us take a look at them.”

  He threw his arm around my shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “We’re just starting to look. We’ll find answers. I’m sure of it.”

  I smiled at him. “I hope so.”

  We leaned against my Jeep as we’d done yesterday while I told him about Rejoice’s quilt and how I believed the cottage on my land could have been a stop on the Underground Railroad.

  “I’d like to document all of it,” he said. “Photograph the house and the quilt. And Susanna’s gravesite. If you don’t mind.”

  “I think that would be a great idea. First, though, you need to meet Quinn. And Eli and eventually Mia.”

  “Your call,” he said. “Just let me know.” He squinted up at the sky through the canopy of trees. “We probably ought to get going before this storm breaks.”

  “I know. I’ll be in touch. I’m not quite sure when … but soon.” I knew it sounded lame but I hadn’t told him about Dominique, how worried I was that she was going to be arrested any day now for Jean-Claude’s murder.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I understand. Take your time, Lucie.”

  He kissed me on the cheek and once again waited for me to leave before he did. This time, though, I didn’t see the blue BMW in my rearview mirror. He must have taken one of the three other roads at that intersection.

  I drove down Lincoln Road, thinking about what he’d said about the door of no return on the seaboard side of the slave fortresses on Ghana’s coast. Henry and Rejoice had probably passed through such a door and their lives had changed forever. Because of what they had done in America, their actions had reverberated through generations, changing my family’s narrative. Susanna had been gutsy and brave. So had they.

  I would have liked to know them all. And I still wanted to find out who killed Susanna and what had happened to Henry and Rejoice.

  * * *

 
; PURCELLVILLE WAS PRACTICALLY DUE north of Middleburg and Atoka, so I cut across the county to the Snickersville Turnpike and came through the village of St. Louis. By then it had started to rain, not the lashing downpour we got last night, but still a steady rain that required headlights and caution on slick, winding country lanes. At the intersection of St. Louis Road and Mosby’s Highway, I could turn left to go home or right and about a quarter of a mile down the road I’d be at the turnoff for Hunt & Sons Funeral Home.

  I turned right.

  If anyone would know what to do about burying Susanna’s remains—which Yasmin had told me would essentially be a cardboard box filled with bones—it would be B.J. Hunt. He’d been my mother and father’s close friend and when the time came, he had taken care of every detail of their funerals as if they were his own kin. After their deaths, he had been like an uncle to Eli, Mia, and me.

  I wasn’t expecting the black Lincoln Town Car that sat in front of the entrance with the engine running and a bored-looking driver, but as soon as I saw the car and got over my shock I knew why it was here and realized it should not have been a surprise. Baron Armand de Merignac was supposed to return to France today with the body of his son. Who else would he come to but B.J.—the Sheriff’s Office had probably steered him to Hunt & Sons—to handle the arrangements for preparing Jean-Claude’s body?

  I parked next to the Town Car and got a sideways glance from the driver, who returned to fiddling with his phone. The rain was coming down harder now and I had forgotten an umbrella. By the time I climbed the steps onto the porch of the old Victorian gingerbread house, I was thoroughly soaked. The front door opened and Armand de Merignac nearly ran into me.

  “Excuse me, miss. I’m so sorry.” He held the door for me, a perfect gentleman.

  “Baron de Merignac, you probably don’t remember me,” I said in French. “I’m Lucie Montgomery, Chantal Delaunay’s daughter. I’m so sorry for your loss.”