Thanks,
Michael
I read the e-mail again slowly as the full spectrum of emotions washed over me. His request required a simple and straightforward answer. And yet, I was clueless as to how to proceed.
Answer the boy. An e-mail took less than five minutes. So little time. But what were the right words? I didn’t want to ruin our first interaction. What if he wanted to know why I gave him away?
“Holy shit!”
Startled from my thoughts, I found Margaret standing in the doorway. A look at the clock and I realized an hour had passed.
Margaret held a letter in her hand, her eyes dancing with excitement just as they had when she stood on my porch with that old bottle.
Pulling off my glasses, I quickly closed the e-mail and rose. I cleared my throat. “What did you discover?”
“Patience feared Faith.”
Grateful for the distraction from the e-mail, I moved from my desk, hoping to distance myself from a new and violent restlessness rubbing against the underside of my skin. “Why?”
“I’ll get to that.” Margaret looked up at me, eyes dancing. “How much do you know about Patience?”
“Only what’s written in the family Bible.”
She clasped her hands like a teacher addressing a class. “She and her husband, Michael, had five children. Two of those children survived to adulthood. One was a boy, Patrick, and the other a girl, Hanna.”
I remembered the feel of my empty arms after I gave the boy away. The emptiness was so acute my skin burned. God only knows what it felt like to bury a child. Absently, I folded my arms over my chest and rubbed my forearms. “I’ve counseled women who’ve lost a child. The pain is devastating.”
“Death was a fact of life in those days, but you’re right, the loss must have been excruciating. Patience McDonald must have been heartbroken.”
“What happened to the children?”
“Despite my colonial script deciphering skills, parts are hard to understand. Time and improper storage had taken its toll.”
“Improper?”
She raised a hand. “I won’t lecture you on proper storage when you’ve done a fair job for an amateur. But there are better ways to preserve these papers.”
“I’ve never done any task fair before.”
“Well, there’s always a first.” And then, presuming my response didn’t matter, she said, “All these papers need to be in a special room, Rae. I’ve photographed each page before I touched them for fear they’d break apart. Consider yourself lucky none has.”
“Noted. What did Patience McDonald say to her mother?”
“I’m still sifting through that, but I do know she lost a son in 1749 and another in 1750. In 1751 she references her third son, Patrick, and later a daughter, Hanna, born a few years later. They both lived.”
Margaret scrolled through images on her phone. “After Faith’s witch trial, she and her sons came to live here. Odd that Faith would return to this place, but then again, this was the only other home she would have known in Virginia. And she was likely smart enough to know that she couldn’t survive alone with her babies. Also, the McDonalds might have needed help. Faith must have suspected Patience wasn’t in good health.”
“You figured all that out from two or three letters?”
“That and what I already knew. Survival was always at the forefront of every decision back then.”
“What does Patience say about Faith?” The answer didn’t matter to me beyond the fact that it would keep Margaret talking. When she talked, my focus shifted away from the boy’s e-mail.
“Patience actually nursed one of Faith’s babies. She says her breast milk still stirred, suggesting a child might have recently died. But that doesn’t jibe with the Bible, which records Patrick’s death in 1831.” Margaret shook her head. “Always missing puzzle pieces. It’s maddening and exciting all at once.”
“Why would the McDonalds take Faith back if they feared her?”
“Faith was a healer, a midwife, and the early 1750s was a tough time for the McDonalds. She could have helped tend to Patience, or nursemaid her baby if it were still alive. She would have been a valuable asset.”
“The loss of the children was good reason to keep Faith out of their house,” I argued. “Why invite a witch into your home?”
“To keep the other two children alive.”
“What became of Faith’s sons?”
“There’s mention of one of them in the history books. Marcus Talbot Shire. He became a prominent innkeeper in Alexandria. There was a time when I thought Ben married Faith, but I don’t think he ever made it legal.”
“What happened to the other son?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly.
“What about the McDonald boy?”
“Patrick McDonald became a successful lawyer and farmer,” Margaret said. “Lived to be eighty.”
“So Faith arrives with two infants and there is a reference to an empty cradle,” I said. “Only one of Patience’s sons survives and Faith’s second son . . .”
“Cullen.”
“Cullen vanishes. It didn’t require a historian to figure out what had happened.”
Her head crooked to the side and I imagined her thoughts swirling. “Rae, are you suggesting the McDonalds took one of Faith’s children?”
“It’s a guess.”
Margaret snapped a finger. “What if the McDonald son did die and Faith was invited to stay provided she give the McDonalds her baby? Maybe Faith had to give up rights to one son to save them both.”
“Interesting theory.”
She wagged her finger at me and I sensed theories swirling. She was forever consumed with piecing together the past, at the expense of the present. “I like the way your mind works. Of course, proving this is another issue.”
“Adoption is as old as time,” I said.
Margaret jabbed her thumb back toward the kitchen. “Do you mind if I make a pot of coffee? I’ve been on the go since the crack of dawn and I need a second wind.”
“I’ll make us a pot.” My heels clicked on the wooden floor, echoing through the house with a purpose, just like my world.
Margaret strolled behind me and took a seat at the large marble island. “So, do you always wear high heels?”
The question caught me off guard. “Though I work out of my home, I do consider this my office and want it to be professional.”
“Yeah, but high heels? The last time I wore heels was to my senior prom and they hurt like hell. I kicked them off five minutes after Ronnie Stevens and I arrived at the school gym. I lost the heels.”
“What did your mother say about that?”
She laughed. “I suggested there were worse things I could have lost.”
“Let me guess—she wasn’t amused.”
“Not at all. Before the prom she gave me a serious lecture about sex. One look at Ronnie’s van and she was sure I’d get knocked up. I told her I wasn’t throwing away my upcoming summer in Greece by having Ronnie’s kid.”
I removed two white porcelain cups from the cabinet and carefully set them on the countertop along with the milk from the refrigerator. I recalled the night I’d slept with my beau.
His name was Dan Chesterfield and he was a year older than I. Three months after Jennifer died, Dan came by the house and offered to take me out. I was desperate to get away from the grief that engulfed my family, so I agreed. We drove along the George Washington Parkway and parked in a spot offering a stunning view of Georgetown on the opposite side of the Potomac. He had a bottle of whiskey and offered me the first sip. So polite. I drank and immediately coughed as liquid fire burned my throat. I shoved the bottle back in his hands, certain I’d had enough. But as the warmth of the whiskey spread through my body, I realized the pain had numbed a little. I tried anot
her sip. Coughed again. He laughed. Called me a lightweight. And the pain eased a little more.
There were no high heels to lose that night, but my virginity went by the wayside in an awkward and painful exchange. Nine months later, I gave birth to the boy.
“I wear the heels because they make me feel in control,” I said as the coffeemaker dripped out a fresh pot.
Margaret leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “You’re about the most controlled person I know. I can’t imagine you need the heels to keep you on the straight and narrow.”
“They’re a reminder not to get too well acquainted with my circumstances.”
“Control is an illusion, Rae, believe me. It’s like El Dorado, the mythical city made of gold. It isn’t out there. I stopped looking a long time ago.”
“I’m not searching for great riches.” As the coffeemaker gurgled the last drops of coffee, I removed the carafe and poured a cup for each of us. “Peace is more to my liking.”
Margaret ladled in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. “And you find peace in black high heels?”
I poured two splashes of milk into my cup. “I find it in routine and predictability. I’m not a fan of surprises.” And yet, this day was unlike any I’d had in a long time.
“So tell me about this matchmaking gig of yours.” She splashed milk in her coffee and took a sip. And then another. “Don’t suppose you have cookies?”
“Sorry. I don’t eat sugar.”
“My God, woman, how do you function?”
“Sugar isn’t good for you. No nutritional value.”
“It’s a major food group, along with fats and chocolate.” She grinned. “You’re a doctor, you should know that!”
“I’m not a medical doctor.”
“Rae, we need to work on you detecting sarcasm. In the meantime, explain how you became the matchmaking queen. Is there a degree for that?”
“I’m not a matchmaker. I find people who share similar traits and introduce them from time to time.”
“But they come to you and ask you to find someone?”
“Sometimes.”
“The paper called you a matchmaker and the paper is always right.”
“Hardly.”
She winced. “Sarcasm alert, Rae.”
“Right.”
“I’ll say that ‘heart of stone’ crack was below the belt. Though, if I have to be completely honest, Rae, and please don’t take this the wrong way because anyone who saves history like you have is a goddess in my book, but you’re a tad reserved.”
“I’m objective, not Victorian,” I said. “I’m able to see couples, people, situations, and analyze their strengths and weaknesses. I keep sentiment out of the equation. Introduce it and it’s a free-for-all with completely random results.”
“What about the chemistry, Rae? What about the bow-chicka-wow-wow? Isn’t that what makes the world go around?”
“I’ll concede that sexual attraction is a key ingredient. But other factors must come into play, otherwise you just have two hormonal people who soon realize they’re ill-suited. Eventually, the sex suffers and there is no glue to hold them.”
“I’ve had a couple of relationships like that. Sex was great, the project ends, and we go our separate ways. We promise to call and write, and yada, yada, yada. Two months later, it’s gone completely. I’ve never been good at planning the future.”
“The past is safe. Its ending is known. Certain.”
She leaned back and grinned. “Could be.” She picked up her phone and typed in several notes. “Which reminds me, have you wondered why Patience wrote her mother so many letters? Normal to write Mom, but why not post the letters?”
“Perhaps they were returned after her mother’s passing.”
“Solid theory.” She sipped her coffee.
When I first met Margaret on that hot day in July, she had irritated me. If not for Addie Morgan, I might have closed the door in her face, treating her like a solicitor. But now she was growing on me. And she could build a history of this family that might be of real interest to the boy.
“If you’re free, you can come back on Saturday.” I could explain to Margaret that tomorrow was Jennifer’s birthday, but I didn’t want to crack that door yet.
“I was really hoping I could take the letters home. I’m a night owl and do some of my best work in the wee hours of the morning.”
“They’ve likely not left the property in generations.”
“If you don’t want to lend them out, I get it. But I can tell you I’ll move faster if I can work at home. And I’m a trained professional when it comes to this.”
I could imagine my mother stiffening at the idea of lending out the papers. My mother never, ever would have given Margaret the letters.
“That would be fine,” I said. “I know you’ll be careful with them.” First, the kitchen remodel. Then, the stones. Now, the letters. No need for a Ph.D. to recognize rebellion.
She paused, the cup close to her lips. “Really? You’re saying yes.”
“I am.”
“You aren’t practicing sarcasm, are you, Rae?”
“No. I’m sincere. The letters are yours to examine. Though they’re for your eyes only. I’d like to know what’s in them before any information is shared with the public.”
“You bet. I’ll keep them safe and show them to no one.”
“Then we have a deal,” I said.
She gulped the last of her coffee and absently tapped a ringed finger against the side of the cup. “And when I return on Saturday I’ll bring you an assortment of cookies and prove that sugar and fat are vital to a healthy life.”
I calculated the average calories of a cookie and balanced the number against the calories burned during my Saturday morning run. “We shall see.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
“When do you think you’ll know more about Patrick McDonald?” I changed the subject. “If there were no formal adoption papers, then there can really be no real way to determine if he was Faith’s or Patience’s child.”
“I would argue that if Old McDonald—excuse the pun—had wanted a son, he’d have seen to it that there’d be no way to prove the boy was not his. He’d want a direct line of succession. Maybe Patience hinted at the truth in her letters.”
“The McDonalds had another child that survived,” I said.
“The surviving child was a girl named Hanna,” Margaret replied.
“Real, as in biological.”
She cringed. “Poor choice of words. My sister Daisy is adopted and she gets a little tense when I say ‘real’ in association with a parent.”
I’d not met Daisy, but she was an adult adoptee. She would understand some of what the boy might feel. “How old was she when she was adopted?”
“Three. Her birth mother abandoned her at the bakery.”
“Abandoned?” The word’s nasty ring needled up my spine. “She didn’t make a plan for her?”
“No. It was more like: here are some cookies, baby girl, Momma’s gotta jet.”
“That’s horrible.”
“But Daisy wasn’t alone for more than two minutes before my mom swooped in and rescued her.”
I culled the interest cropping up among the syllables in my tone. “Did your sister find her birth mother?”
“Yeah.” Margaret shook her head. “Whoever said adoption reunions are all happy endings is full of it. They’re complicated.”
If the boy showed up on my doorstep, would I welcome him? Or would I be so fearful that he might hate me that I’d reject him as I had almost all other feelings? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Daisy keeps trying to connect. She’s stubborn, so maybe one day she’ll get her reunion.” Margaret held up her empty cup to me and automatically, I filled it. She sipped, savorin
g the taste. “But common law back then stated property was passed to the eldest son with no rights for the daughter. Therefore, Patrick became the sole male owner of this farm.”
Margaret rubbed her hands together, her rings clinking together. “Don’t you love digging up old secrets? God, I live for digging them up.”
“I imagine you’re good at this.”
“I can hold my own, if I do say so myself.”
Patience and Michael McDonald’s secret was so old, there was no one left alive for it to hurt. Time had long washed away the pain, rendering it safe to be exposed.
But other secrets . . .
Well, they were too powerful to ever see the light.
November 16, 1751
Dearest Mother,
The snows have arrived and the air has turned bitter. We spend most of our time inside the cottage. I still have not recovered from my loss and my head spins with grief each time I stand by the open hearth to cook. Daily tasks are impossible. After I burned the stew last week, Faith, without a word took over the cooking and now prepares all the meals for us. She is a good cook, and though Mr. McDonald has not said a word, he clearly relishes the hot fare waiting for him when he returns from the fields and barn. He enjoys the babes who lie on their pallets, fat and cooing. In the span of days, Faith has given Mr. McDonald everything I cannot.
Several times, I caught Faith staring at the empty cradle. Though she rarely speaks, her expression softens. Maybe even a witch can understand.
—P
Chapter Four
Lisa Smyth
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17, 9:00 A.M.
With the Hello, my name is Lisa tag pressed to my shirt and Charlie at my side, I sat at the early-morning AA meeting fidgeting with the sobriety chips I’d collected over the past years. One year. Two year. Five year. Decade. After all this time, the process of staying sober should have been easier. I should have finally vanquished the demons. I should have this figured out. Wasn’t sobriety like a muscle? The more I use it, the stronger it becomes.
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