The Mapmaker's Children, page 12
Her mother moved on to finishing the tallow candles. A hung line of dipped wicks hardened in the window draft, waxy icicles that reeked of gaminess.
“Must we use those?” asked Sarah.
“It’s either these or we eat in the dark,” replied Annie.
“They’ll leave soot on the ceiling, and we’ll be up on chairs through the New Year cleaning.”
The point resonated with their mother, who paused in mid-dip. “We’ll put lamps over them. Like the Hills.”
Both Sarah and Annie stopped and stared at each other. It was the first time Mary had spoken of their time in the South or the execution since returning to New York. They’d assumed it was a subject not to be broached.
“What was their town’s name?” Mary tapped her chin. “Charles Town, was it?”
“No, that was the old town where Father was jailed,” said Annie, continuing to plunge tapers into the greasy white fat.
“New Charlestown,” corrected Sarah. “The Hills live in the new.”
“New Charlestown. Yes, that’s it.” Their mother wiped her hands on her apron. “We received a letter from there this morn. It slipped my mind in the preparations for Mr. Stearns and Mr. Sanborn.”
From her pocket, she pulled a square letter, sealed with the letter H in thick red wax:
To Missus Brown, the Misses Brown, and Family
North Elba, New York
Sarah cracked the seal. Inside was a card with a black-and-white lithograph of Queen Victoria and her family around the royal Christmas tree. Painted by James Roberts some years ago, the image was common enough, but Sarah had never seen it reproduced on such luxurious paper and with such attention to detail. She could make out nearly every toy hanging between the branches, the dollies and jesters and horse-drawn carriages, and the children’s dimpled faces and the king’s and queen’s glad expressions.
Like Dickens’s Ebenezer Scrooge being shown around by the Ghost of Christmas Present, Sarah felt as if she were staring through a window into another’s life, one happy and full. She held the card up to the firelight, attempting to imprint every corner of the illustration on her mind’s eye, breathing in the smell of expensive ink and paper and miles traveled.
“Go on, child, read it to us.” Mary had moved over to the cookies, patting the top of one to check its spring, then pushing them deeper into the oven’s mouth.
Sarah cleared her throat. While alive, her father had been a staunch proponent of proper elocution. From her first recited word, she’d been taught to sit or stand with a straight back, chin raised, a full breath in the lungs, and clear diction on the tongue. She didn’t know how to read any other way. She took the rhetorical position, with one arm holding the card at a proper distance so she could follow the sentences uninterrupted.
“ ‘Dear Family Brown,’ ” she began. “ ‘Despite the brevity of your visit and its dire nature, you left no less of a lasting impression on our household. You are greatly admired.’ ”
Sarah paused for effect and speculation as to who exactly was admired and by whom. Before the wonder-flies in her chest had a chance to beat their wings, she continued: “ ‘Though we know it will be arduous in light of those missing round your table, we pray that the peace of Christmas be upon your house and bless those within. Alice has included something for Miss Annie Brown, as she shares Alice’s affinity for floriography. Freddy asks after Missus and the Misses Brown’s healths. He hopes that you are engaging in many—many good nature walks for consti—’ ”
Sarah stumbled over the words, embarrassed that Priscilla was penning Freddy’s coded greeting, though it pleased her that he’d dared to include it at all. She understood his true meaning—about their secret meeting in the barn and discussion of the UGRR.
“ ‘…constitution. Fondest tidings, Mr. and Mrs. George Hill, Freddy, Alice, and, by special request, Gypsy. Postscript: Siby and the Fishers have asked that I pass along their merry tidings, as well.’ ”
“How kind of them.” Annie pinned her last dripping candle to the window line, then came to Sarah’s side with renewed interest.
Inside the envelope was a perfectly pressed set of snowdrops. The blooms flared from long-stemmed buds that’d been cut precisely to fit the envelope’s dimensions. They reminded Sarah of fairy staffs.
Annie held one gently between her fingertips. “They say God sent Adam and Eve snowdrops as comfort after they were cast out of the Garden of Eden. Their message is hope and consolation.”
Mary leaned closer to see. “I’ve always thought snowdrops a strange flower. Blooming summertime in the midst of winter.”
“Like a specter,” said Annie.
“Like a miracle,” corrected their mother.
Priscilla’s penmanship reminded Sarah of miniature snowdrops in a row, looping petals at the end of narrow lines. She drew her finger across the sentences, feeling the grooves of the pen in the ecru paper and wanting to paint the lines grass green and the letters eggshell white. How lovely that would look. She wondered if Freddy had been by Priscilla’s side as she wrote. Gypsy at his knee. Alice sewing apple branches with the strands of hair she’d left behind. Siby’s corn-bread pie in the oven. Her chest tightened. She trusted them more than any other family she knew, more than her own in some ways.
A spiteful newspaper commentator had written that her father ought to have been sentenced as those in the Far East were. There, treason was considered a plague of the mind, infecting those in close contact; thus, the man, his co-conspirators, friends, and family were all guilty by association and condemned to a similar fate. She thought it the most dreadful thing to wish upon people he’d never met. She’d thrown the article in the fire. The words had curled and shriveled to ash.
The Hills had welcomed them graciously, without a hint of scorn. The entire town had shown kindness despite so many reasons not to. For that and more, Sarah was devoted.
“Are the Christmas cookies done?” Ellen asked.
“Patience is a virtue,” Mary reminded her.
Ellen puckered her mouth incredulously and sat on the stool, tapping out the seconds with her feet.
Mary pushed aside two hanging candles and looked to the dusky sky. “Mr. Stearns and Mr. Sanborn could arrive at any hour, and look at us—a waxy mess of Browns.” She turned to Annie. “Save the leftover fat for soap and fetch the mold from the cellar. Sarah, dust the decanter. The men will want a sip against the chill. Then hurry up and change, girls. Rinse your faces and run combs through your hair. Use my good perfume to ward off the tallow smell. Just a dab on your wrists, mind you.”
“Imperial Tea Rose.” Ellen slurred it into one word: Impeewee-all-tee-rose. “Oh please, me, too?”
“Absolutely not,” said Mary. “Only for older girls.”
Ellen bit her lower lip, on the precipice of tears, until Sarah pulled the tray of cookies from the oven. Golden hearts and stars, twinkling-hot butter. One bite and Ellen had forgotten the rose perfume, smiling and humming carols as she munched. Sarah wondered when a person outgrew that—the ability to be unshackled from memory and desire, past and future. To live purely in the present moment. She hoped that unlike Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, one could achieve it without being haunted.
Sarah slipped the Hills’ Christmas card into her front pocket. It’d be lost or ruined in the kitchen. Her mother would be grateful for its safekeeping when she went to do her weekly correspondences. Perhaps she’d ask if she could send a reply along, too, and maybe, just maybe, Freddy would cordially write back.
NEW CHARLESTOWN POST
North Elba, N.Y., January 14, 1860
Dear Mrs. Priscilla Hill,
Thank you so kindly for the beautiful Christmas lithograph and greetings! This comes with my mother’s note of gratitude, but I wished to send my own as well.
To Alice, please thank her for the beautiful pressed snowdrops. Nothing could brighten Annie’s disposition until they arrived. We are grateful for the cheer and the deeper meaning of their bestowment. Annie plans to place them in a silver frame. I’ve included a sketching I did: a scene of apple blossoms that reminded me of Alice and warmer days to come. As well, herein is another coil of hair from my brush for whatever purposes it may provide in needlepoint artistry.
We are all in good health, as Freddy so inquired. Nature walks are excellent practice no matter the climate. They have been medically proven to clear the mind and improve the body’s stamina. I hope to engage in more as the season warms.
Please tell Freddy that I would be glad to loan him my personal signed copy of Walden should he care to broaden his education on the subject. Thoreau was a trusted friend of my father’s. I could post the book straight off on the promise of noble stewardship. I shall have to send him my new address, however, as Mother has consented for Annie and me to attend Mr. Franklin Sanborn’s private school in Concord, Massachusetts.
Mr. Sanborn visited at Christmastime and, over dinner discussion, insisted that Annie and I continue our scholastic pursuits under his keen tutelage. Father would’ve insisted, too, he argued, and none could call it untrue. Mr. George Stearns has generously offered to be our patron.
Annie will stay in North Elba until our widowed sister-in-law, Martha, gives birth to brother Oliver’s child. I am to be sent ahead to Massachusetts by enclosed cabriolet. It will be my first time traveling as a passenger of such modernization. Mr. Sanborn and Mr. Stearns have assured Mother that I will be delivered forthwith with nary a speck of mud on my boots.
That is all the news from here! Again, our sincerest thanks to you and Mr. Hill for your hospitality. I have yet to taste corn bread or johnnycake as delicious as Siby’s. While some might say the northern grains are different, I’m sure it is my cooking that is the obstacle. I haven’t the Fisher family secret. Please give Gypsy a good pat on the head for me. She is possibly the most agreeable dog I have ever met. We pray the New Year brings great blessing to the Hill household.
Sincerely,
Sarah Brown
Eden
NEW CHARLESTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA
AUGUST 2014
Ms. Silverdash’s store reminded Eden of a book: seemingly skinny through the spine, but open the front door and it was wide and full, and smelling earthy like a midsummer night’s forest of paper and glue. In the front window, books of varying sizes and colors had been stacked so that they formed a miniature village replicating New Charlestown’s Main Street. Rainbow-swirled trees made of carefully folded atlas pages lined the boulevard; colorful ribbons from shredded maps were strung across buildings of city guidebooks; a red octagon the size of a quarter stood tall on a Popsicle stick with the word READ instead of STOP.
But Eden had stopped to marvel at the meticulous construction. She hadn’t initially noticed the display when Cleo had parked her bike under the store’s sunshade and taken up the grocery bag. The too-bright glare of midday and a HELP WANTED sign taped to the glass obscured the view.
“Ms. Silverdash is an artist,” Cleo explained. “She makes dioramas. Summer’s was called Follow the Reading Road. Last winter, she used only silver and white book covers and stationeries so it looked like Main in a blizzard. She’ll unveil the fall one soon, during the Dog Days End Festival. She’s still deciding on a theme, she says.”
Eden was impressed. Bookstore owner, historian, and artist.
“Come on.” Cleo pulled at Eden’s elbow. “They’re finishing up the Children’s Story Hour.”
The air changed as they moved deeper into the store, made rich and hearty by the oak bookshelves and pine floors. Braided ficus trees shaded the checkout desk with an arch of leaves. Philodendrons draped the bookcase like tangled Rapunzel locks.
Cleo slid the book she carried onto the desk: Ghost Stories of Harpers Ferry.
“You like scary stories?” asked Eden.
Cleo rolled her eyes. “Ghost stories are nothing but unsolved mysteries. Ms. Silverdash knows a lot about everything, but she knows an awful lot about Harpers Ferry and New Charlestown. Like Tom Storm’s ghost, for instance. You know about him, right?” She absentmindedly squeezed the fleshy leaves of a jade plant beside the register.
Eden didn’t but was sure she was about to find out. “Tom Storm’s ghost?” she repeated, and Cleo took it as an invitation.
“His mother was a slave and his father was a white plantation owner in Virginia. He was a freedman, but his wife and kids were still slaves. Their master told Mr. Storm he could have his wife and two daughters if he came up with fifteen hundred dollars. So he worked and saved up to the exact penny, but then the master raised the price on him!” Cleo’s voice crescendoed. Remembering herself in the bookstore, she quieted.
“So like any man in a rotten spot like that, he decided to do it his own way. His wife and daughters came up on the UGRR—the Underground Railroad. He met them somewhere in New Charlestown. But the night they were supposed to be forwarded north, an awful hailstorm—just like his name!—hit, and a posse looking for blood came to the station house where his family was hiding. The baby girl started to holler, so to save his family, Storm got the townsmen to chase him through the forest. They’d been drinking and were so riled by the stormy night that instead of capturing him for the bounty, they cut off his head and tore up his body, then dragged the pieces to Harpers Ferry for the hogs to finish.” Her eyes were wide as purple pansies.
“No ghost story can top that! It’s historical. To this day, the name of the road from the Bluff down to Harpers Ferry is Storm Street, and some swear a black man with a scar across his throat walks the way at night.” She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “Like I said, I don’t believe in all that heebie-jeebie stuff. My Grandpa says it’s not Presbyterian, but…” She dipped her head forward and lowered her voice to barely a murmur: “If my kin got ripped up by crazy townsfolk, I’d come spook, too, so nobody’d forget!” She nodded. “That’s my theory on the case of Tom Storm’s ghost.”
Eden leaned an elbow on the checkout desk. Rapt. “So the ghost isn’t a ghost but one of Storm’s relations coming back to remind people?”
Cleo straightened her shoulders, pleased that Eden got her hypothesis. “Exactly.”
One hundred and fifty years was a long time to hold a grudge. But revenge was like a Virginia creeper. Once it took root, you might never get it out of the ground. Maybe Cleo was spot-on.
“Is that what you want to do when you grow up? Figure out history’s unsolved mysteries?”
“And be a veterinarian. I decided that this week. I thought I only liked cats and horses, but I really like dogs, like Cricket.”
The child could change her mind again tomorrow, but for today, Eden took the aspiration as a personal compliment.
“The only animals I don’t like are snakes and spiders,” Cleo went on. “Some people have them as pets but, luckily, nobody in New Charlestown. I checked with Dr. Wyatt. He’s our vet. I told him about Cricket, and he said that puppies need a bunch of shots. Has Cricket had his? If not, Dr. Wyatt is the best—and only—in town.”
Eden hadn’t thought they’d keep Cricket long enough to need a vet or vaccinations, but now…
“I should probably call him.”
“I’ll give you his number when we get home—unless I forget.”
We, home. Eden liked the way it sounded.
Painted butter yellow and edged in periwinkle, the Reading Room door swung open and out tumbled a set of twins throwing kindergarten punches at each other. Behind them were three women in serious discussion. One of the women held an infant on her hip; another, the hand of a boy who sucked his thumb while simultaneously picking his nose with his forefinger.
The two mothers bantered back and forth while Ms. Silverdash nodded along. She had a chestnut bob that glinted of reddish dye but came off handsomely. She held her shoulders straight like a dancer, giving the appearance of stature despite her petite height. Her skin was tawny olive, her cheekbones high, with a round nose accenting her face.
“We could have a Wind in the Willows party with themed snacks and goody bags,” said one.
“And costumes!” said the other.
“I think that would be a splendid party for one of you to host at your home,” Ms. Silverdash suggested.
The mothers’ excitement was snuffed.
“Oh, I assumed…” the one with the boy began, then looked down at the toddlers biting and pulling each other’s hair on the ground. “Todd works such long hours. When he’s home, he likes it quiet. So…” She turned to the other woman. “Maybe at your house, Laura?”
Laura scoffed audibly. “You know my house isn’t big enough to have this many kids inside—that’s why all of our birthday parties are outdoors!”
They both fidgeted uncomfortably, but Ms. Silverdash took no notice. “Next time we’ll begin something new—a fairy-tale anthology. Charles Perrault or Hans Christian Andersen.” Seeing Cleo and Eden, she smiled widely. “Please excuse me, ladies, there’s a new face I’m eager to meet.”
Instead of extending a hand to Eden, she wrapped both arms around her. “May I presume you are Mrs. Anderson?”
She smelled like a giant bouquet.
“Welcome! Cleo has spoken so highly of you.”
Cleo’s cheeks blushed beneath her freckles, and she busied herself with checking the Harpers Ferry book pages for anything she might’ve left between them.
“Nice to meet you, too. Please, call me Eden.”
Ms. Silverdash tapped her chin. “Eden,” she repeated. “A beautiful name. Biblical. The Garden, of course.”
Yes and no. “It was my grandmother’s.”
“Ah, a legacy name—even better.”
Laura uncoupled her twins. “Doug, Dan, stop it right now or you’ll both get the paddle.”
The boys continued to grunt and slap at each other.
“Mama, I tried to stop them,” defended a girl only slightly older, as if she, too, were subject to punishment.
