Augusta took her time walking back to Harlowe House after her interview with Claudia, the sharp salt air bringing her muddled thoughts into focus. If only there was some way to find material evidence of Margaret and what had transpired between her and Phebe. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack, and that was if there even was any evidence. There was one place where she hadn’t looked, so as soon as she got back to her office, she grabbed a clipboard and headed out back. She waved to Reggie, who was across the lawn weed-whacking, and let herself into the carriage house.
Ghosts or no, there was no getting around the fact that the Harlowe carriage house storage was creepy. It was stuffy and quiet, the sounds from outside muffled, the stillness amplified, and even with the lights on it seemed shrouded in shadows. Yet it was one of the best places on the property to work, just Augusta and the objects with no distractions.
This was where all the objects that had never properly been inventoried or accessioned had ended up. Jill was eager for her to get everything inventoried so they could start moving things to their climate-controlled storage in Boston and convert the carriage house into a space for community functions and exhibits.
She set herself up with a chair, propped up her phone on a shelf to play some music and then picked up where she had left off in cataloging. As much as she wanted to jump around and dig for something that could have been Margaret’s, she forced herself to go in order. Most of the objects were from when the house had been bought in the 1960s and furnished with reproduction antiques, but there was also a good amount of stuff that had been left in the house when it was abandoned. A big cardboard box filled with mildewed National Geographic magazines and rusted tools was next on the shelf, so Augusta dutifully recorded everything, snapped a picture for her condition reports and moved the box to her pile to bring back to the house.
When she reached for the next item on the shelf, her hand stilled. Amongst the cardboard boxes and rusted tools there sat a gleaming mahogany lap desk, seemingly untouched by dust or age. It was the sort that would have sat on the user’s lap, the slanted top providing an inviting surface for writing.
Carefully, Augusta opened the lid with her gloved hand, releasing a puff of warm, woodsy air. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the faint inscription of a name. Gently lifting it closer, she was disappointed to see that it wasn’t Margaret Harlowe, but Ida Foster. She frowned. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t immediately place it. Inside the writing desk was a time capsule of accoutrements for a young woman’s correspondence in the nineteenth century. Each item, from the inkwell to the pens to the faded stamps, would need to be individually cataloged and assessed for conservation. Just as Augusta was closing the lid to put it back, her fingers found a ridge underneath the lid. A false panel.
She hesitated. It could be risky to open it if the wood wasn’t stable, but just like in her hallucinations, she felt herself moving as if from beyond her control, and before she could stop herself, she was sliding the wood to the side.
Tucked flat inside the hidden compartment was a slim bundle of letters bound with the faded remnants of a pink ribbon.
She really should put the letters back in the drawer, make a note, and then let Jill know what she had found; opening them would be unprofessional at best. But instead, she found herself carefully leafing through them.
A quick scan through the first couple of letters revealed that Ida Foster had been George Harlowe’s wife. Augusta remembered now that George and Ida had inherited Harlowe House after Clarence Harlowe Senior’s death, and had lived there with their four children well into the 1910s.
For all Augusta knew, these could be duplicates, with copies already in the archives. But something told her that she was the first person to see these letters in over a century.
Scanning the looping cursive lines, she gathered that Ida had been corresponding with George Harlowe following their engagement, but before their marriage. They weren’t steamy love letters by any means; they were disappointingly mundane. Ida talked about her trousseau and plans to have some new gloves made. There was some gossip from a day trip she’d taken up the coast with girls from her church group. It wasn’t exciting, but this kind of information would be invaluable to the historical interpretation of the house and the family. Augusta was just resolving to put them back and let Jill know when a line caught her eye.
I understand if you wish the wedding to be postponed. Of course, it is not what we had hoped, but my parents will understand. It is a great tragedy, and I cannot imagine how this must be weighing on your heart. You will forgive my indelicacy in asking, but do the authorities suspect foul play?
Augusta sucked in her breath. Foul play? She flipped through to the next letter and scanned past the initial pleasantries.
You yourself often spoke of her queer ways and independent nature... Are you certain that she did not simply leave of her own accord? Perhaps she had a secret beau and has taken herself off to marry. Not of course, that such a thing would be desirable, but certainly it would be better than the alternative.
Another letter, dated nearly a month later.
As to that subject on which we were arguing, we will speak of it no more. I am sorrier than I can say, and wish only for your grief to fade so that you may be hale and hearty once more. I miss your bright merry eyes, and the laughter which we shared, and I am certain that she would not wish you to go on in such a wretched fashion.
I am, as always, your faithful and loving,
IDA
Rocking back on her heels, Augusta sat absorbing what she had just read. The letters felt heavy in her hand, substantial evidence of something very real that had happened long ago. They did not mention Margaret by name, but she was certain that they were referencing her. She did a quick calculation in her head. If the dresses mentioned in the ledgers were bought in 1858 when Margaret was perhaps four or five, then she would have been about twenty when these letters were written.
Augusta carefully put them back in order and pressed them into the compartment. She would have to tell Jill and Sharon about her discovery and how she had found it. They probably wouldn’t be thrilled that she had gone ahead and opened the compartment, but she had to imagine that their excitement over the find would outweigh any disapproval.
Her playlist had long ago stopped, and outside it was growing dark. After she packed up her stuff and locked the carriage house behind her, she stood for a moment, letting the cool evening air wash across her skin. Aside from the occasional passing car, she might have been in the 1870s. “Margaret,” she whispered into the dusk, “what happened to you?”