Echoes
“On the morning of February 8, 1862, Letty Madsen rose at her usual time.” I directed everyone’s attention to the painting hanging above the first floor landing. “After eating breakfast, she returned to her room to write letters. She was later found lying on the balcony in terrible pain. The housekeeper sent for the doctor and Letty’s husband. The doctor assumed she had the fever, so he used leeches and bled her. Finally, three days later, after great suffering, Letty died. She was eighteen years old. Any questions?”
They were bored. Two boys in the back were busy poking each other, another had his finger up his nose, and the girls were sharing secrets. They could have cared less what happened to a woman one hundred and forty-eight years ago. Nor did they care that the Madsen Mansion was a fine example of Gothic Revival architecture. They were more interested in stopping at McDonald’s when the tour concluded.
“What killed her?” a child in the back suddenly asked.
I looked at the boy who asked the question. A spark of interest, maybe this kid didn’t like McDonald’s.
“She died of poisoning,” I replied.
The shuffling, poking, and whispering stopped.
“What kind of poison?” another child asked.
Of course, they would want to know that. Eleven-year-olds are such a bloodthirsty lot. McDonald’s was momentarily forgotten.
“Arsenic. Some women in the 1800’s used small quantities of it daily. They thought it improved their looks.”
“That’s pretty dumb,” scoffed the boy in the red shirt.
“Yes, it was. Eventually it killed her.”
“What happened to the captain?” The little girl in the front asked.
“The captain and Letty had only been married a few months. He was so sad when she died that he sold the bank he owned and became a virtual hermit, living alone until his death forty years later, at the age of eighty.
The portrait I had pointed out to them was of Letty. Captain Madsen had commissioned it shortly before her death, and every time I looked at it, I was struck at how beautiful she’d been. There was a gentleness and vibrancy about her that the artist had captured. It was easy to see why the much older Captain Madsen had fallen in love with her. Such a tragedy. A young woman so full of life, only to lose it chasing something so transient as beauty.
“Is the house haunted?” Another question from the boy who’d asked about Letty’s death.
“No, of course not,” I replied, giving the standard answer expected of me.
The board who oversaw the management of the Madsen Mansion didn’t want it to earn the “wrong” kind of reputation, but I could see it wasn’t the answer the boy wanted.
His eyes, a startling green, drilled into me. Small for his age, he stood apart from the rest of the children like he didn’t fit in. The kid was probably some kind of junior Ghost Hunter. There always seemed to be at least one on these school tours.
Suddenly he looked away and I became aware that the other children were shifting nervously back and forth. Time to move on. For the rest of the tour I kept an eye on him, half expecting him to slip away to do a little “investigating” on his own, but he stayed in the back of the group.
He didn’t speak again until they were leaving. Almost out the door, he abruptly turned.
“She wants you to find the truth, you know.”
Startled, I gaped at him.
He assumed I hadn’t heard him.
“She wants you to find the truth,” he repeated, “You have the power. I can see it in your eyes.”
With that, he whirled and ran to join the rest of his class.
*
Other than conducting an occasional tour, my real job was a historian on loan from the university. After the tour I was supposed to be cataloging the Captain’s papers in the library, but thoughts of the kid from the tour and what he’d said kept bugging me. What did he mean...‘I see it in your eyes’? He’d made what I do sound like some investigation into the unexplained. What a bunch of balderdash. I was a historian. I made my way in this world by studying diaries, letters, and old artifacts. And from them I pieced together the daily lives of those who lived a century ago. Nothing inexplicable about that, and from what I uncovered in the Captain’s papers, there was nothing inexplicable about Letty. She wasn’t an enigma. She’d been an unfortunate woman who had died young. No more, no less. And for that kid to hint...
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself, “you need to focus.”
I picked the papers up. I laid the papers down. Finally I paced over to the window, looking out at the overgrown gardens and the folly.
“He was a just little kid for Pete’s sake,” I told myself. And probably one who’d watched too many “reality” shows. He’d come on the tour expecting something more mysterious than old portraits and antique furniture, and when he didn’t find it, he tried to create it. The kid had been trying to mess with my head.
It worked.
Disgusted at letting myself get distracted by a child, I left the library and wandered over to the portrait of Letty. I stood, gazing at the portrait, trying to figure out what it was about her that had triggered the kid’s imagination. All I saw was a lovely young woman of over a century ago.
“Jennifer, how did the tour go?”
I jumped. Mrs. Emory, the curator, stood behind me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, smiling as she looked up at the portrait. “Letty Madsen was radiant, wasn’t she? By all accounts, the captain doted on her. Her death absolutely knocked the pins out from underneath him.”
“So I’ve gathered from his papers. The Captain was quite a pack rat.” I gazed back up at the portrait. “I can’t understand why such a lovely woman would feel it necessary to enhance her looks with arsenic.” I said, shifting my attention to Mrs. Emory.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Jennifer, women of Letty’s time weren’t any different from us when it comes to pursuing beauty. How many women today have cosmetic surgery?”
“You’re right. It just seems like such a waste that she died so young,” I said, shaking my head. “What happened to Letty’s family after her death?”
“Oh, even though the captain was heart broken, he still cared for her family financially.” Mrs. Emory turned and started back toward her office. “The marriage was quite a coup for her family, you know,” she called over her shoulder.
I ran to catch up with her. “Why?”
“Letty’s family was poor and didn’t move in the same circle of society as the Captain. It was definitely a step up for them both socially and financially.”
“Okay, her parents were pleased, but what about Letty? Was it a love match?”
“Whether it was or it wasn’t wouldn’t have made a difference to her. I imagine she did what was expected of her. Women did back then, you know.” Mrs. Emory stopped at the door to her office. “And it gave her a better life than the one she’d had.”
“But no one knows what she thought about the marriage?”
“No.”
“No diaries, no letters?” I asked.
“None.”
“What about the morning she took ill?” I pursed my lips. “Hadn’t she gone to her room to write letters?”
“That’s what the housekeeper said at the time, but no letter has ever turned up.” Mrs. Emory shrugged and gave me a speculative look. “I thought your main focus was the Captain. Why all the sudden interest in Letty?”
It was that kid’s fault. His oblique statement about “finding the truth” had stirred my curiosity. Yeah, I did believe he’d made it in an attempt to turn a boring tour into something more interesting by imagining a mystery, but what if one really did exist? Given the fact that during his long life, the Captain had saved all sorts of odds and ends, it was unusual that he hadn’t kept anything of Letty’s. He had been distraught over her death. Maybe any reminder of her was too painful for him. Why hadn’t he moved the portrait then? Had he left it there as the only keepsake of his lost love? Had he stood, a lonely old man, and gazed at it while mourning what might have been?
“Jennifer, did you hear me?” Mrs. Emory asked, giving my arm a light shake.
“What? Umm...sorry...I heard you,” I said, pulling myself out of my thoughts. “I was thinking about Letty and the Captain. You wanted to know why I’m interested in Letty.” I shrugged. “Letty’s death changed the course of the Captain’s life. To understand him, I think I need to learn more about her.”
Mrs. Emory gave a polite snort. “Good luck on that. The only possession of hers that remains is her writing desk. According to the documents, the Captain gave all of Letty’s things to her mother.”
The words “writing desk” caught my attention and I felt a bubble of excitement.
“Desk?”
“Yes. It’s in the folly. Would you like me to show you?”
Three hours later I was hot, sweaty, and frustrated. My clothes were sticking in all the wrong places and my skin was covered with a fine layer of grit. And I was totally empty-handed. Nothing in the desk, nothing in the numerous boxes, and nothing in the trunks. Not a trace of Letty to be found. The only treasure I did find was a very fine mourning pin. A rather macabre little keepsake Victorians were crazy about, a pin with the hair of the dearly departed woven in a design and placed under glass. Mrs. Emory was going to love it.
Looking up I noticed the light. The trees, their untrimmed branches drooping, shrouded the folly even at mid-day and now the dim light was fading fast. Soon I wouldn’t be able to see. I looked around at the mess. The boxes lay scattered around me. Repacking them, I thought about Letty. It was as if she had never existed, save for the portrait of her. Her life hadn’t left a thing behind.
Finished, I scanned the room. One trunk stood alone, in a dreary corner. It was dirty and rusted, and all manner of crawly things had made the area their home. Obviously, the trunk hadn’t been opened in years. I hesitated as I walked toward it. I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was standing, the next I was face down on the floor with my foot stuck through the floorboards.
After pulling my foot out, I crawled over to the hole and examined the damage. It was a sizable hole. Mrs. Emory would not be pleased. As I stood, the faint light refracted off a piece of glass. The mourning pin. I’d dropped it. Gingerly, I placed my hand in the hole, afraid of what was waiting to skitter across it. But instead of something warm and furry, my fingers felt something smooth and slick. I sat back with my treasure in my lap. Wrapped tightly in old, cracked oilcloth was a book. With trembling hands, I removed the bindings. A diary.
April 15, 1861
It has begun! We are at war. The rebels have fired on Fort Sumter! All the men can speak of is fighting and the glorious cause that lays before us. Many of the young men are anxious to join the ranks of the fighting. Some are leaving to join regiments from other states. I fear that T. might be one of them.
My heart is shattered. The heaviness lies so deep in my breast I can scarce breathe. He is gone, left to join the 1st. Minnesota Regiment at Fort Snelling. T. told me not to fret and assured me the war will not last, that it will end in a few months. I pray he is right! Mama was glad to see him go. I think she suspects the depth of my attachment to T. and does not approve. I tried to hide my distress, but she knows. May the Good Lord and all his angels watch over my beloved and bring him home safe to me!
May 29, 1861
These past weeks I have been so downcast, I have been unable to write in this journal. I have spent every free minute writing T., but have had trouble avoiding Mama’s watchful eyes to mail them. I was rewarded for my efforts by receiving a letter. His regiment is being assigned to the Army of the Potomac in Washington D.C. So close to the rebels! I shall know no peace till this wretched war is over!
July 1, 1861
T. has arrived safely in Washington. It has eased my mind some to know he is safe. Mama almost caught me with T.’s letter. I must be more careful. Capt. Madsen was here again today to talk to Papa. He seems like a kindly man and very solicitous in his attention to me. Mama flutters and fusses so when he is here. It allows me to slip away unnoticed.
July 30, 1861
I have no time to write, not even to T.! Capt. Madsen is here almost every day for one thing or another. He seeks me out now and Mama will no longer allow me to go quietly to my room when he is here. I overheard the captain and Papa talking on the porch after supper about a battle in a place called Bull Run. A feeling of dreaded premonition came over me as I listened. It is my fervent prayer that T. is safe.
August 1, 1861
This is the last time I shall write in this journal. The events of my life are no longer of any importance to me. The light of my life is gone and with it all hope of happiness. T.’s regiment was engaged in the terrible battle of July 21st. His name is listed as ‘missing in action’. I know he would never desert his comrades, so he must be dead. Obliterated by the awful cannons. It is my prayer he did not see his death coming. The pain I feel shall be my constant companion for the rest of my miserable days.
Poor Letty. Her marriage to the Captain took place in September of 1861. I wondered if her parents knew or cared about her unhappiness. Or was she simply a tool to be used to advance the family fortunes? I doubted we’d ever know.
I rose stiffly to my feet, weighed down by the sympathy I felt for Letty.
Suddenly I heard it. Softly at first. It sounded like the breeze whispering through the trees, but it slowly grew louder. I strained to listen. Not the wind...a woman weeping. Every inch of my skin prickled. Mustering my courage, I turned.
I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. The folly was no longer the folly. The boxes, furniture, and trunks were gone. The walls were clean and freshly whitewashed, no cobwebs drifting down like cotton from the rafters. Placed around the room were wicker chairs and a chaise. On the chaise sat a young woman reading a letter and crying. Letty. She was dressed in a simple blue day dress with her hair falling in a soft cloud around her shoulders. She looked impossibly young and the atmosphere in the room was one of incredible sadness.
As I watched her, the air around me changed. Tension began to build until it was so thick that I felt it clogging my lungs. I fought for breath.
Letty had stopped crying and was looking up at a woman dressed in black standing over her. I hadn’t seen the woman approach though my eyes never left Letty. They were arguing, but I couldn’t hear their words. I felt the woman’s fury. The woman bent and slapped Letty with such force, her head snapped back.
I blinked, and in the space of that blink, the room was as it had been—the boxes, the trunks, the cobwebs. Whatever had just happened was over. Gasping, I turned on my heel and ran.
*
I didn’t realize that I still clutched the pin and diary until I’d reached my rented room at the local bed and breakfast. I should return them to the mansion. Glancing at the window and the darkness beyond, I imagined creeping through the old house at night. No, I told myself, it would wait until morning.
Finally safe in bed, with the quilt pulled up to my chin and every light on, I thought about what I witnessed. As a historian, one hears stories all the time about ghosts. I’d never put much stock in them. Now I felt like the Cowardly Lion in the ‘Wizard of Oz’, “I do believe in ghosts, I do believe in ghosts!”
Unless what I’d witnessed in the folly had been a product of an overactive imagination, there was more to Letty’s story than everyone assumed. But what? Had the arsenic poisoning been intentional? Had Letty been so despondent that she committed suicide?
Questions, but no answers. I needed help. Who could I call without appearing crazy? I picked up the phone and dialed. He answered on the first ring.
“Eric, I need help.” I said without preamble.
“Jen, I’m fine, and how are you?”
“I’m sorry, Eric, my social skills aren’t the best right at the moment.”
“I can tell. What’s up?” Eric replied.
Eric Jackson was a brilliant historian. He was also considered to be something of a crackpot by our colleagues. His tales of the paranormal had raised more than one eyebrow at stuffy academic gatherings. He was the only one who would listen with an open mind. I told him my story. He said nothing until I was finished.
“Wow, I would have given anything to have been there,” he exclaimed.
“I wish it would’ve been you instead of me,” I grumbled.
“It was a residual haunting,” Eric said, his voice calm.
“Oh goody,” I answered, with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “And exactly what might that be?” My fingers drummed a nervous beat on the quilt.
“It’s a scene played over and over again, like an echo from the past. Not everyone can witness something like that. You were lucky.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t feel lucky. My arms are still covered with goosebumps.”
“Yeah, the first time is always scary, but this is science, Jen. Just look at it as a scientific investigation. It will be easier next time.”
His words made me shudder. I didn’t know if I could handle another vision of Letty.
“You’re sure?” I exhaled a shaky breath.
“Yeah, I could come down there to help you, but for some reason, I have a feeling you must be the one who discovers what happened. Letty has evidently chosen you.”
“Great.” His words weren’t exactly comforting. “What do I do? I guess I missed the class on ghosts.”
Eric laughed. “First, you need to find out as much information as you can. My guess is that the key is the boyfriend. I can help you with that. I’ll check the Civil War data on that regiment and see if we can figure out who he was.” Eric paused. “Interesting about the boy from the tour. Maybe he’s a psychic. Wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”
“How? Waltz into the elementary school and ask the teachers if one of their sixth graders is a psychic?”
“The kid might know something. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.” Eric replied.
“Okay,” I agreed against my better judgment. “Then what?”
“Letty died in her bedroom, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, that would be the place for the most energy. Have you ever picked up anything when you were in there? Any sudden change in temperature? Unusual smells, sounds?”
“I don’t know. I don’t go in there very much.”
“Well don’t start now, not until you know what you’re dealing with. The fury you felt in the folly, was it coming from Letty or the woman in black?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Listen, there’s a reason Letty’s spirit is still tied to the mansion. Maybe her death wasn’t accidental? Maybe it was a suicide? And it sounds like there’s some nasty energy surrounding whatever happened—” He stopped suddenly. “You need to be careful. Be sure to say a prayer for protection before you go into her room or the folly.”
I snorted. “Really, Eric, this isn’t ‘The Exorcist’.”
“I’m not kidding, Jen. This isn’t something to take lightly or to fool around with. Whatever it is, it has stayed buried for over a hundred years, and someone might want to keep it that way.” Eric’s voice was stern. “Call me tomorrow night.” With that, he hung up.
I thought talking to Eric would make me feel less afraid. I was wrong.
*
The next day I walked into the school’s office feeling like a fool. I had my cover story down. Grasped tightly in my hand was a child’s red jacket that I’d snitched from the lost and found box at the mansion. Walking up to the woman standing behind the counter, I smiled.
“Hi, I’m Jennifer Connors. We found this,” I said, holding up the jacket. “A custodian at the mansion found this after your tour yesterday and Mrs. Emory wanted me to drop it off.”
“Do you know which child lost it?”
I shook my head.
“Just a minute,” she replied and held up a finger. She picked up the phone and dialed an extension. A moment later, a teacher I recognized from the day before entered.
“Hi Jennifer,” she said with a smile. “The kids are still talking about the tour.”
“Great,” I answered, returning her smile. “One of your students left their jacket.”
A small frown creased her forehead. “Really? I don’t recall any of the kids wearing a jacket like that. Do you remember the student’s name?”
“No, I’d hoped you could tell me. The boy who lost this was small for his age and had dark hair.”
She chuckled. “That describes about half the boys in my class.”
I tugged on my bottom lip. “Umm, his eyes...they were a striking shade of green.”
“Green?” she shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone in my class. Maybe your thinking of a child from another tour?”
“No, he was definitely with your group.”
“Well,” she said, taking the jacket. “I’ll ask my class.”
Confused, I left the school and drove to the mansion. We’d only had one tour yesterday, and if the kid hadn’t been with them, who had brought him? Kids don’t just wander in off the street. I gave a mental shrug. Even if I had learned the kid’s name, it wasn’t like I could question him. Most parents don’t appreciate strangers interrogating their children.
My luck hadn’t improved when I reached the mansion. Sneaking down the hall toward the library, I’d hoped to avoid Mrs. Emory, but she nailed me before I’d reached the door.
“Jennifer, would you like to explain the large hole in the floor of the folly?” Mrs. Emory’s mouth tightened in a grim line.
“Yes, Mrs. Emory. I’m very sorry. I don’t know how it happened.” I said, trying to sound as placating as possible. “All of a sudden my foot just went through the boards. Probably dry rot.”
“Nonsense. As a historian, I would have thought you would understand the importance of preservation and shown more care, instead of tromping around like an elephant.” She huffed.
I felt the comparison to an elephant particularly unfair, but I let it pass.
“You’re right, Mrs. Emory. I’ll be more careful next time and avoid boards that look damaged.”
Confident that I had been properly reprimanded, she strode off.
The rest of the day I was buried in the Captain’s library. I went over every scrap of paper I could find containing any reference to Letty or her family.
The picture of a man who loved both his lovely home and his young wife emerged. He was so grateful, almost pathetically so, that Letty would marry a man old enough to be her father. He spent his youth in the pursuit of success and had despaired of ever finding, ‘that connubial bliss so many of my friends enjoy,’ as he put it. Captain Madsen had shown his gratitude by lavishing material possessions not only on Letty, but her family as well. His words of devotion rang true. I went over everything, line by line, looking for hidden meanings or subtle resentments, but found none. His grief at Letty’s death was real and searing.
By mid afternoon my eyes were ready to cross from scrutinizing the Captain’s small, tight handwriting, and I had a headache. Maybe Eric had better luck at finding out about the mysterious “T.”.
I was quickly disabused of that notion when I called that night.
“Sorry, Jen, no go. Three young men from there joined the 1st. Minnesota Regiment, all with names beginning with the letter T: Thomas, Thaddeus, and Timothy. We can eliminate Thomas. He survived Bull Run, but died in a Washington D.C. hospital in March of ’62. I’ll keep digging on Thaddeus and Timothy.”
“I didn’t find anything either. No kid, no clue.” My weariness was apparent in my voice.
“Well, I guess you have no choice then.” Eric said.
“What do you mean ‘no choice’?” I asked, my heart thumping.
“You have to go to Letty’s bedroom.”
“Are you kidding?” I sputtered, “You said I shouldn’t go in there unless I knew what I was dealing with.”
“I think you’ve already learned all you’re going to from the records. The idea is frightening, I know.” His voice took on a soothing tone. “But like I said, it’s science. I don’t suppose I can talk you into taking a camera and a thermal scanner with you?”
“No way,” I exclaimed, appalled at his suggestion. “If you think I’m taking on a second career as a ghost hunter, you’re crazy.”
“That’s too bad. They are very helpful in recording paranormal activity.” He sounded disappointed.
“Easy for you to say, you aren’t the one going into a room full of ghosts,” I grumbled.
By the time we finished, I was wound so tightly, I wondered if I could sleep. Eric stressed several times the importance of a protective prayer. Why did I need protection from ghosts?
*
The next morning I stood on the same small balcony where Letty had been found. What had she been doing there? Mourning her lost love? Had she already started feeling the effects of the poison in her system? My eyes searched the grounds. It would have been cold that day in February, not quite winter and not quite spring. The trees would have been still bare and the flowers still sleeping.
I leaned over the banister to see what was below, trying to imagine what Letty would have seen. Unsteady, I grabbed the finial on top of a post. It came off in my hand. Wonderful, first the floor in the folly and now the post. Was this whole place riddled with dry rot? Mrs. Emory would have a fit over this one. If I could reattach the finial, maybe she wouldn’t notice. I searched the hollow post for a screw or something to hold it in place.
My fingers didn’t find a screw—something better. Two letters wrapped in the same kind of oilcloth as the diary. With legs shaking, I stumbled into the room and over to the fireplace. I started to read.
My darling girl,
I’m sure by now you must feel you are receiving a message from a spirit. That is not the case, my darling. I still am among the living. As I write this, I lay ill in a hospital in Washington. I am told over the past several months the doctors had despaired of my life, but now believe I will live. My comrades found me grievously wounded three days after the battle. I will not tell you of those wretched days, lying alone and hurt. I will only say that my love for you enabled me to survive. Come to me my love, I need your sweet presence. I am sending this letter with George so he might deliver it to your own hand. He will explain all and help you.
Hurry.
Yours always,
Tom
January 30, 1862
Dearest Tom,
My heart leapt with joy when I received your letter! Much has changed since we last were together, but it matters not. All that matters is that you live. I will come to you as quickly as I can. When you are well, we can start a new life in the West. May God forgive me the wrong I must do to a good and kindly man, but my love for you cannot be denied. George has agreed to bring me to you. Till I am once again by your side, know I am yours forever.
Letty
I was so enthralled reading the letters that I didn’t notice the subtle change of temperature in the room. When I came to my senses, I noticed my breath coming out in frosty puffs. The air around me changed, and the room filled with the overpowering stench of sickness. My nose wrinkled at the smell.
Suddenly everything seemed to shimmer, and the next thing I knew, the room shifted and changed.
A man stood at the window, his head bowed in grief. Letty lay in the bed, propped up with pillows, her face white and gaunt. Her eyes looked sunken as they stared from their blackened sockets at the woman sitting next to her.
The woman was again dressed in black, and in her hands she held a bowl and spoon. She kept raising the spoon to Letty’s dry, cracked lips. Anger and hate seeped from the woman’s very pores, hitting me with successive waves of cold. I knew at once who she was and what she was doing. She was Letty’s mother and she was poisoning her with the soup.
A whisper in my ear, like a dying breath, told me where to find the proof of Letty’s murder. Without waiting for the scene to end, I tore out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door.
The folly, the lone trunk sitting in the corner.
As I ran, weeds snagged my clothes and hanging branches whipped in my face. Reaching the folly, I grasped the old door and pushed with both hands. It wouldn’t open. It was as if something held the door shut. Saying a prayer as Eric had instructed, I tried again and the door gave way.
The trunk sat just where I remembered. Running across the room, I threw open the lid and ripped the lining, destroying it. I would worry about what Mrs. Emory might think about my willful destruction later. There it was, under the lining. Her mother’s confession, written at the end of her own life in an attempt to find mercy and forgiveness for her unspeakable act.
As I read the confession, I felt the malignancy of the words ooze around me. My hands trembled. That night in the folly, her mother learned of Letty’s plan to run away with Tom. For once, Letty stood up to her domineering mother, and they argued. It was then that her mother made the decision. Rather than lose the Captain’s financial support and the prestige of being related to such a powerful man, she would see her daughter dead. She slowly poisoned Letty with arsenic. The captain, with no knowledge of what was happening, trusted her mother to care for Letty. The poor man never knew Letty’s last meal, fed to her by her “loving” mother, had been laced with the final dose of arsenic that ended Letty’s life.
Suddenly, gentleness flowed around me. After over a century, the truth was out. The hauntings were over. Letty’s spirit was at peace. She was, at last, with the man who had been waiting so long.
*
“Jennifer, so nice to see you again, my dear,” Mrs. Emory exclaimed. “Has it been six months?”
She stood smiling at me from the doorway of the library, and with a quick wave of her hand, motioned me into the room. She had magnanimously forgiven my destruction of the floor, the post, and the trunk.
“I’ve read the galleys of the book and it’s wonderful. The book will be of such benefit to the museum.”
Like I said, I’d been forgiven.
“Thank you, Mrs. Emory. I’m glad you’re pleased with the book,” I said, returning her smile. “Do you have the pictures we’re including?”
She crossed the room to the Captain’s desk and picked up a stack of pictures.
“Here they are. We came across something I think you’ll find very interesting. It is a small pen and ink drawing of the captain as a boy,” she said, handing them to me.
Taking the pictures, I looked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. The drawing of the Captain as a child bore a remarkable resemblance to the boy from the tour. The clothes, of course, were different, but the features were the same.
“Mrs. Emory,” I began, my voice quivering, “you wouldn’t happen to know the color of the captain’s eyes would you?”
“Yes, dear, I do. They were green, and as I understand it, a
very startling green.”