Samantha was up when I got there the next day. She wasn’t dressed yet. She was still in sweats, drinking a cup of coffee. We sat at the kitchen table together and she poured me a cup.
“Did you see Dylan this morning?” I asked.
“No. He left early. He left me this note,” she tossed a piece of paper at me, “and had coffee already made.”
“He thinks we were screwing around up there last night, ya know. I could see it in his face when I left.”
She smiled. “It can only add to your allure.”
“I’m going to say something to him when I get a chance.”
“There’s something wrong with you. You can stay in that house with that old woman, wander through those tunnels and that doesn’t bother you, but playing a little joke on Dylan, that gets you upset?”
I shrugged.
She smiled and stretched out in her chair. “You forget how long I’ve known you. I know what you were thinking last night. You came here and met Dylan. The two of you have been flirting over the past couple of weeks, you were kind of playing with the idea of being with him. Maybe just a little bit. In between your moments of guilt, that is.” I opened my mouth to say something but she put up her hand. “Let me finish. And then I come along and you were thinking he’d take one look at me and forget all about you. That’s why we sat out there in the car for over a half-hour before we came in.” she stopped talking and I just looked at her. “You can’t say anything because I’m right. But it didn’t happen. And personally I couldn’t care less if he thinks we’re screwing around and you shouldn’t either. In fact, if I knew it wouldn’t bother you I’d purposely do things to give him that idea.”
I took a long sip of coffee. “And why is that?”
She shrugged. “It’s funny and it breaks things up.” She laughed. “The question then isn’t whether it’s going to be you and him or me and him. It’s going to be you and me. Shut him out in the cold. Make him jealous.”
“And you say there’s something wrong with me?”
“Mackenzie, you crack me up. If he really believes that we were doing something up there last night, you won’t have to say a word; he’ll say something to you about it. Trust me.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because. He’s the type that would find it really interesting and he’d want to talk to you about it, see if he could join in.” She stood up. “I’m going to take a quick shower and get dressed. Are you sure we have to go to the historical society? Can’t we just go shopping or something?”
“No.”
“Bitch,” she muttered as she went up the stairs.
The Chestnut Hill Historical Society was right on Germantown Avenue which ran through the middle of town. Samantha followed right behind me although she voiced her objections loudly.
When we reached the front door I turned to her. “Hey, Sam, if you really want to go shopping, it’s okay. There’s tons of stores, just meet me back here in an hour?”
Her face brightened. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“No. You’d only distract me. I have a lot of questions and I know you’d be bored to death. Just make sure you’re back here in an hour because I want to go get lunch.”
“I promise.” With that she scampered away.
The building, which was really an old house, was nearly empty. Neatly folded pamphlets were displayed for perusal. I picked one up and looked at it. They contained all sorts of information about the revolutionary war, the history of Chestnut Hill, the evolution of the community. I saw a few old photographs of houses but I didn’t see Cora’s house anywhere in the literature.
I looked around to find a staff person, but didn’t see anyone. I walked from room to room, looking at the exhibits. Finally, a woman came out from one of the back rooms. She looked to be in her early seventies with skin the color of black coffee. She walked slightly bent over. Her hair was whitish gray and was curled neatly around her head. Her gold wire-rimmed glasses sat on the end of her nose. She smiled at me and I noticed she had very few wrinkles on her face, just laugh lines and a few crow’s feet. I smiled back.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m looking for some very specific information on a house in this area. The Monroe mansion?”
She interlaced her fingers in front of her. “What would you like to know?” Her voice was cracked and frail.
“Do you have any old pictures of it, or a layout?”
“We have some albums in the back that aren’t out. Let me go look. Have a seat.” She motioned to a table that was set up in the corner. It had two stuffed chairs nearby. I took a seat and waited. I read the same pamphlet four times before she came out with a big book in her arms. I jumped up and took it from her. She pulled the other chair up to mine and sat down and began to thumb through the pictures. “That house is the only one in Chestnut Hill that’s still owned by the same family that built it.” Her fingers were stiff and moved slowly through the book in her lap. “And it has a history to it. I’ll tell you.”
“A history?”
Her eyes stopped perusing the book and focused on mine. “Yes. It was built in eighteen thirty-seven by Nathan Monroe. The Monroes were one of the most prominent families in the area. They had some really big parties there at that house, everyone wanted an invitation. They were the social events of the year. Some even say President Tyler himself visited there when he was in Philadelphia.” She looked down. “And Nathan Monroe was a good man. He helped many a slave reach freedom by giving them a place to stay on their way up north. I’ve never been in the house myself, but they say there are tunnels underneath that were used to hide those slaves. It’s a shame that Mrs. Whitfield won’t allow us to open it up from time to time and let people see it.” Her hands moved over the pictures in front of her. “She’s the one that owns it now.” She was silent for a few minutes and I said nothing. “Nathan Monroe had a son the year before the house was built, name was Jonathan.” She hesitated. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Well stop me if I go on too long. Some say Jonathan wasn’t right but he inherited everything when his father died in eighteen fifty-seven. He was Nathan’s only child and he was only twenty years old. Knew nothing about business. Spent a lot of money but didn’t know how to make it. Had big parties, drank too much. His mother tried to stop him, but women in those days couldn’t even own property outright so she was beholden to her son, who held all the money. Well, by then the war was brewing and Jonathan had spent a good deal of money and was looking for a way to make more.” She leaned in towards me. “Not all of what I’m telling you is known fact. It’s just what I’ve been told.” I nodded. “Some say he was in a fix. He’d been allowing the abolitionist to use the house the way they always had when his father was alive, although I don’t think he really cared about it one way or the other. So, when he’d spent up all the money he’d gotten from his father, he did what he could do to make some more.”
“And what was that?”
“Slaves coming from the south only moved in groups of three or four. It was dangerous. And they were worth some good money, reward money if they were turned in.” I closed my eyes. I had a feeling I knew where this story was going. “Jonathan Monroe got lucky. There was some bad weather during the winter of ‘60. There was a group of fourteen adults and six children that were in his house, waiting to move on to New York. He turned them all in.” Her eyes were sad and I wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t start to cry. “Collected almost seven thousand dollars off the backs of those people. They were all sent back down south. Seven thousand dollars was a good amount of money in those days. A fortune. So he had drinking money for awhile longer.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Some say the abolitionist took revenge. You see, they weren’t all the peace loving people that we think of today. The Quakers gave them that reputation. But there were others, John Brown and the like, who weren’t above using any tactic for the cause and they didn’t like what Jonathan Monroe did one little bit.” She sighed and sat back. “So, some say they set the house on fire.”
“They burned the house down?”
She shook her head. “Well, they tried, but only the back part on the right burned. It was caught in time and put out before it spread too much. Being made of stone helped. If it was wood it might have been gone. Oh, but Jonathan didn’t have the money to fix it so it stayed that way for another…hundred years or so. It was like a symbol of his acts right out there for everyone to see and talk about.” She shook her head.
The back part on the right was where I was staying. “A hundred years?”
She nodded. “Didn’t get fixed until the 1960s.” Cora told me she redid the room. She didn’t tell me it was almost burned down. “Jonathan’s granddaughter finally fixed it. Now, some say it wasn’t the abolitionists that burned the place at all. Some say that the night Jonathan Monroe sold those slaves back to the southerners a curse was put on the family by a…” she looked at me. “Well, it’s silly really. Curses and such and I don’t believe it. But bad things have happened to that family ever since. So it makes you wonder.”
“What bad things?”
“The fire. Jonathan ended up dying broke. He only had one child when he was nearly sixty years old. People didn’t think he’d ever have any children at all. His son, ah what was his name, Edward, was born around the turn of the century. Jonathan left him nothing but the house and shame. Edward grew up angry at the world. A miserable man. No more parties took place in that house, I can tell you. He was a miser. Shut up most of the house, saved every penny. Scraped and scratched, determined to make back the family fortune. And he did. Bartered a piece of land from another man who owed him. Some scrappy acres near Scranton. No one saw the sense in wantin’ that til he sold the mineral rights to the Lackawanna Coal Company. Turns out it was full of anthracite. Hard coal. Had a steady bit of money coming in from that. He and another fellow, Whitfield, invested in copper mines out west, iron ores and then the stock market. Dumped his stocks right before the market crashed.” She stopped and took a breath. “The two of them were both the same. Good businessmen and smart.
But let me get back to what I was saying. Edward took a wife in the thirties and wanted children. Lost both his wife and second child in childbirth right before the war. They already had one daughter but he wanted a son. Never remarried after that. Became more miserable than ever. He married his daughter off to Whitfield’s son. Kept the money all together, you know.” She started looking through the pictures again as she talked. “But the curse stuck again.”
“How so?”
“Well, they say that Edward’s daughter is odd. I’ve never met her. She never goes out, won’t let the community anywhere near the house. And then there’s what happened to the child….”
I shook myself and looked at her. “What are you talking about?”
“A little boy disappeared from behind those gates. In the spring of….” She was deep in thought and then she looked up and shrugged, “Can’t remember the exact date. I wasn’t living here at that time. I just know people were all abuzz. It wasn’t well publicized at first. The family wanted it quiet. But eventually it hit the papers.”
I sat up straight. “Her child? Or someone else’s? And how young?”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead trying to access information in the back of her brain. Then she looked up. “I’m not sure. The story always was that it was a youngster that vanished. A small one. I’m much better at the older history. I grew up here and knew just about everything but I’ve been gone about thirty years, so my facts might have slipped up. But you can find out. Go look it up in the papers at the library…”
“I wouldn’t even know what date to start with,” I muttered.
She scratched her head, thinking hard. “It was after I left, but before my sister died, so I’d say in the early eighties. Start there, and when you find out, come back and tell me.”
“I will. And what exactly was the curse they say was put on the house? I’m just curious.”
She looked me in the eye. “That something bad would happen to every generation that grew up in that house. And it has.”
“Who put this curse on the house?”
She patted my hand. “It’s just a story. People talk and make these things up. Here, you can look through this if you want.” She handed me the book, and stood up. “I’m going to the back to take care of a few things. Now if you find out anything, you come back and let me know?”
I nodded and she went slowly out of the room.