The bare branches of January swung in the breeze outside the small third-floor window, and Augusta let the warm smell of dust and old wood fold in around her. Downstairs she could hear the low murmur of voices and muted footsteps as a tour moved through the house. In the late afternoon light, the book in her hands looked like any other historic book in the Harlowe collection, the yellowed pages giving no hint of the dark power they contained. She had already given Margaret’s other book to Jill and Sharon, who had promptly hailed it as one of the most important finds in the museum to date. It was a treasure trove of information about the women of Tynemouth and the lives they had lived, the wrongs they had suffered. For all that Margaret had taken from her, the book was a gift. Women who would have otherwise been lost to time would now take their rightful places in the annals of Tynemouth history, their stories known. And though she couldn’t bring herself to destroy Margaret’s book of magic, neither could Augusta allow it to get out. The spells that she now knew it contained were too powerful, too cruel and dark. Shimmying the floorboard up, she slipped it underneath, laying it to rest for the centuries to come.
Downstairs, she slipped past the tour group, pausing to listen to the guide in the dining room. “We believe this newly restored portrait represents Margaret Harlowe, the only daughter of Jemima and Clarence. Recent research suggests that she may have been the illegitimate daughter of Jemima’s sister, and was adopted by the Harlowes. If you’re interested in Margaret and the stories of some of the other women who lived in Tynemouth in the nineteenth century, then you might want to mark your calendars for May, when we’ll be having an exhibit in our new exhibit space...”
The tour moved around the corner and out of earshot, leaving Augusta in the dining room with only the ticking of the clock. No ghostly footsteps padded along the floor, no books were open on her desk when she returned to her office. Her hair didn’t stand on end, and there were no unexplainable tugs in her chest. Wherever Margaret was, it wasn’t with Augusta.
Augusta made her way to the carriage house where Reggie was busy stenciling object descriptions on the walls. When he saw her, he lifted his goggles and gave her a grin. “Hey, just the person I was hoping to see. I want to get your opinion on the color for the title text.”
Augusta studied the paint chips he fanned out before her. “The pale blue is really pretty,” she said. “It will be a nice contrast against the dark background.” It was also the color of Jack’s eyes, she realized with a pang. It was hard to shake free not just of Margaret’s memories and thoughts, but also of the way she viewed the world. Maybe Augusta would always carry that with her.
“You got it,” Reggie said, slipping the chips back into his jeans pocket and surveying the space. “It’s coming together.”
It really was. The carriage house was rapidly transforming into a state-of-the-art exhibit space, the rustic rafters soaring over the clean white walls and glass cases. It was magic to watch the exhibit come together, from nothing more than the spark of an idea, to the hours of research and coordination with different museums in the area, to helping Reggie install the cases. Sharon and Jill had lent their support and experience every step of the way, for which she was grateful, but the vision and inspiration were all Augusta’s. Here was something she could call her own, something she had seen through from start to finish. Yet, at what cost had it come about? She’d like to think that she would have put together a thoughtful, cohesive exhibit regardless of her experience with Margaret. If she could go back and do it all again, would she?
Pride welled in her chest as she walked through the carriage house. They had made graphics that incorporated Margaret’s portrait and excerpts of Ida’s letters, and other documents from the archives were blown up and superimposed on the walls. The oral histories she’d collected from the women of Tynemouth would play when visitors stood in certain spots.
The tortoiseshell comb was mounted simply in a case in a corner of the open space. It was the one object that Augusta knew without any shadow of a doubt had belonged to Margaret, and it had felt important to include it in the exhibition. Explaining to Jill and Sharon where it had come from and how she’d known its provenience hadn’t been easy, and she’d had to bend the truth a little, claiming that she had found it in storage, not in a box under her bed.
But it was Phebe Hall’s beautiful shuttle, which Claudia had generously agreed to lend Harlowe House for the exhibit, that sat in pride of place. The information the shuttle provided was invaluable; not only did it illuminate the extraordinary life of one woman, but also the rich maritime history of the area and women’s participation in the industry. And then there had been an extensive entry on Phebe in Margaret’s book, an entry that spoke of Phebe’s vast knowledge of herbs and traditional healing, of her grace and beauty. It had ended on a note of regret, though if Margaret had indeed possessed a conscience, little good it did the people who were left in the wake of her destruction.
Along with the shuttle, Claudia had lent some of her own work, her imposing driftwood sculptures gracing the entrance to the exhibit space. In fact, the idea for an entire program had been borne from Claudia’s contribution: the Phebe Hall Fellowship would pay community members to help curate rotating exhibits based on their experiences living in Tynemouth, as well as engaging local organizations working for social justice. It didn’t erase what Margaret had done, but Augusta hoped it would have made Phebe proud.
She was admiring Claudia’s sculpture of a ship with wings, when someone came up behind her, placing a warm hand on the small of her back.
“It’s looking great,” Leo said, following her gaze. “You should be really proud.”
Lacing her arm around his waist, she leaned into him, marveling at the way their bodies fit together so perfectly, as if they had been made for each other. “I wonder what Margaret would think of this,” she said, more to herself than him. It wasn’t the second chance at life that Margaret had so desperately wanted, but she would be remembered, and that was more than many were granted in this world. It would have to be enough.
Leo’s jaw tightened the way it always did when Margaret’s name came up. It had been almost two months, but in the same way that Augusta would never be free of her memories, she likewise doubted that Leo would ever be free of the anger he harbored toward Margaret. “I honestly don’t care what Margaret would think,” he said, a hard edge to his voice. Then he softened, his arm tightening around her waist. “All I care about is right here.”
He was right. Margaret would always be part of her, but Augusta didn’t have to let Margaret define her, or Augusta’s future. “Come on, let’s go to the beach. I want to watch the waves.” There was one gift Margaret had given her, whether it had been her intention or not: the gift of appreciating the present moment. She wanted to feel the cold winter sand beneath her feet, and the sun on her skin, and she wanted to do it all with Leo beside her. Fingers laced together, they left the carriage house and the relics of another time, the tortoiseshell comb winking in the late afternoon light.