Chapter 36

In Which I Discover the Maple Tree and a Few Truths About Chemung County

The memories suddenly came rushing back to me: Jemma used to put grasshoppers in my hair to frighten me, and I liked to put June bugs on her shoulders to give her a shock.

A little chill of excitement ran through me as I realized how good Jemma’s clues had been. I marched along the dirt boulevard, the weather bright and sunny despite the February cold. I skipped over a puddle as I hustled past homes painted bright white or yellow. They had wide wooden porches and pointy roofs. There were one or two stone mansions tucked behind thick shrubs and wrought-iron fences.

Finally I reached the corner of Seventeenth and Locust Streets. Staring up at a gray stone house with a wide black door in the middle of it, I was breathless—more from nerves and a tight corset than actual exertion. I saw someone moving across the yard with a rake, tending to the broken twigs and dead leaves. But otherwise the house was silent.

Now that I was here, I had no earthly idea what I was going to do. I couldn’t just saunter up to the door of these refined Philadelphians and ask to have tea with the Maple Tree. What was I thinking? I began to pace back and forth, turning ideas around in my mind.

“You’ve grown into a real lady, Miss Cornelia,” came a deep voice. I turned, peering over a spindly shrub, and found myself gazing into the gentle face of Jemma’s father, Old Joseph Tuthill. He was a solid man, just half a head taller than I was, though I remembered him being as big as a tree—a maple tree. Sturdy and strong, that was Old Joseph. His hair was white with age, but his face was the same as when I knew him back in my days with Jemma in Chemung County. “You’ve got your father’s eyes and mouth, that’s for certain, but you’re a real lady.”

I caught my breath, searching for where to begin.

“That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Tuthill,” I stammered, my joy at seeing him nearly leaving me speechless. “I wish I could see how Jemma grew up. I bet she’s a real lady now, too.”

He nodded sadly and hesitated for a moment, and I wished I could scoop the air around me and pull those words back into my mouth. It probably pained him to think about Jemma and the rest of his family. Jemma said she hadn’t seen her daddy for years.

He pointed over toward a cluster of fir trees on the far side of the yard, where we could speak more privately. A few ladies pushing baby prams passed us, and Mr. Tuthill tipped his hat to each of them in a friendly manner. His eyes seemed to take in everything around us, and the thought struck me that as a conductor on the Underground Railroad here, he was probably a good detective, too.

“I got word from Saint Catharines about you coming. I hear you’re wantin’ to know about your daddy and his brother, Mr. Matthew,” he said, running his fingers through his trim gray beard. “I’m real sorry for your loss.”

I nodded, unsure of whether my voice had left me. I noticed Old Joseph’s hands were calloused and scarred, as knobby as tree bark. “Miss Cornelia, your daddy was my friend, and what happened to his brother Matthew that night was a tragedy. I’ll never forget it. Drove his widow right out of town, as I recall.”

“That’s right,” I said. “She’s my aunt Kitty. I’m trying hard to set things right with her. But she’ll need more than my word about what happened, Mr. Tuthill. She’ll need evidence.”

He nodded some more and stared into my face like his mind was falling back through time, and I suspect it was. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment—it suddenly felt reckless being here with Old Joseph, stirring up the ashes of my family’s past. Why didn’t I just let it die out? Why was I chasing down ghosts like this?

“When I heard Matthew Warne on his horse that night, we were in the woods a good ways off from the farms. Jemma’s mama was at the front with the babies. Jemma was with me at the back. She was sad to leave you, her best friend, that was for sure.”

I didn’t speak, the pictures of that night coming to life in my mind like I was there, too, instead of tucked safely away in my bed and sleeping.

“Your daddy, Cornelius, was out in front, leading us to the river. The babies were crying, they were so tired and out of sorts—it was long past midnight, and we’d been walking along a dried-up creek bed for a few hours already. That’s when a man came riding up toward us—we could almost feel the hoofbeats. There had been slave hunters thereabouts, so every one of us was shaking with fear. This man on horseback, he must have heard us, heard one of the babies crying. And he came riding up, and he called for us to stop. But nothing was stopping your daddy.”

Old Joseph paused and scratched his beard before going on.

“There was no moon that night. Sometimes I think if there had been, maybe Cornelius Warne would have recognized his own brother. But he didn’t. And in the rush of panic that swept over all of us, your daddy fired his gun.”

I swallowed hard, but my mouth was as dry as cotton.

“We ran as fast as we could, but a bloodhound caught our trail and started barking. Right away Jemma knew that hound dog. And she raced ahead to catch up with your daddy. ‘That’s Matthew Warne’s dog, Mr. Cornelius,’ she told him. And that’s when we knew something terrible had just happened. We were so far from home, we pushed on to the river, where a conductor was waiting with a skiff. I helped Jemma and the babies get in. I kissed Jemma’s mama good-bye. Then I sent them to follow the Drinking Gourd. That North Star would have to lead them on to Canada without me.

“I was torn. But I couldn’t leave your daddy like that, knowing his own brother might be lying dead back behind us in the woods. We’d grown up together, our families.”

We were silent for few moments. Then he reached one of his knobby brown hands into his coat and felt around over his heart. He produced a small picture frame no bigger than his palm. It was a deep crimson with gold trim, and a swirly gold inlay framed the image.

I leaned in close. My breath could have steamed the delicate glass case. It was a daguerreotype of a man and a woman. It was probably their wedding day, I assumed, judging by the bride’s veil and gown—simple though they were. Her eyes were intense, staring so fiercely up at me from the copperplate that I recognized her right away.

“Aunt Kitty,” I whispered. Then my gaze shifted to the groom. “And Uncle Matthew. I couldn’t recall his face. But seeing him here—it all comes back to me now.”

I had a sudden recollection of booming laughter and the thick smell of pipe tobacco. I remembered teasing and mischief and strong arms swinging me into the air. Uncle Matthew was like Detective Webster in his joking and boundless sense of joy.

“I held on to it to give to his widow. After I got word from Saint Catharines, I’ve been holding it for you,” Old Joseph said, his voice growing more urgent. “You take it to Kitty, now. You tell her it was an accident what happened to her Matthew. He’d gotten wind of Cornelius helping my family escape to freedom, just as some slave hunters showed up back in town. Matthew was riding out to warn us when he died. He was doing something brave, Matthew was.

“And Cornelius, he didn’t mean what happened. I saw it myself. Cornelius Warne lived the rest of his days in despair over shooting Matthew. That’s why the drinking and gambling got worse. That’s why he left your mama, your brothers, and you to fend for yourselves on the farm.”

I couldn’t speak for the knot that had tied itself around my heart. I kept staring at the image of Aunt Kitty as a bride, so soft and sweet-looking. The only picture she’d ever sat for in her life. I thought about her and Matthew.

“And my daddy?”

“He did good, too, your daddy,” Old Joseph continued. “I want you to remember that, now, you hear me? Cornelius Warne could never forget what happened to his brother. And neither could I. So that’s why we both carried on.”

And I knew exactly what he meant by that—carried on.

Jemma’s daddy was in Philadelphia helping slaves find their way to freedom. That’s why he didn’t live with Jemma and her mama and the rest of the family in Canada. He couldn’t—not with the ghosts of Matthew Warne and his own brother Ezekiel haunting his mind all these years. And my daddy had been haunted, too.

“But what about him?” I asked Old Joseph, my voice husky with sadness. “How did Cornelius die?”

Old Joseph shook his head, his eyes searching my face in confusion.

“I thought you knew, Miss Cornelia. Those same slave catchers came back again and again.” He paused for a long time, then he closed his eyes.

“They weren’t just after slaves that time. His body washed up in the Chemung River.”

I felt a sob catch in my throat, but I trapped it just in time. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, wiggling my feet in those heavy boots. And suddenly I understood what it meant to have faith in someone. Faith wasn’t about evidence and eyewitnesses, like with Aunt Kitty and Mr. Pinkerton’s other detectives. Faith was something you knew inside—from your heart all the way to the tips of your toes.

“Jemma will, too, you know,” I said gently. “Carry on, that is. She wanted me to tell you that she’s coming to join you, Mr. Tuthill. I don’t know when or how. But Jemma means to carry on, too. And I believe she will.”

I reached up my hand, intending to tuck the delicate gold frame under my bonnet, but I stopped myself. This was too important. Jemma’s daddy was looking at me with those wise old eyes, and I felt the weight of all the years and all the ghosts. I pulled a linen hankie from my sleeve and gently wrapped the delicate frame in it. Then I slipped it into the pocket of my flowing green skirt. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to let go until I reached Aunt Kitty.