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I FELT LIKE the bottom had fallen out. “He was so ... he can’t be dead.” That was ridiculous. The man had lived two hundred and fifty years ago, so of course he was dead. But, he couldn’t be ... dead, dead. Not in this journal. Not then. Did that make any sense at all?
No. It does not.
Maddy waved her hands like a traffic cop. “Wait! How could she think it was her fault?”
“Maybe Homer found out,” Pat said. "I wouldn’t put it past him to kill Hubbard."
“There’s no sense throwing out guesses,” Sadie said. “I’m sure Mary Frances will tell us.”
“I wonder if she and Hubbard ever, you know,” Amanda said with some apparent embarrassment, “if they ever got together?”
Together with what?
Carol bent over to stroke Marmalade’s back and murmur something—probably answers to questions.
“I sure hope they did,” Ida said. “After all, they were married.” She repeated that first horrible line.
My dear Hubbard is dead, and it is my grievous fault. I can only say that at the end, he knew that John is his son, for I told him. On Monday the last I sat throughout the long evening with my sister Constance Garner. She has been sore aggrieved through this latest pregnancy of hers, and we women have taken it in turn to stay with her so she is never alone. I had left young John with Mistress Hastings, for I knew I would be late, and arranged to fetch him on the next day. On my way home, after Louetta Tarkington relieved me a few hours before dawn, I went a bit out of my way, thinking to sit in the church for several quiet moments of peace. My Hubbard stood on the top step, running his hand over the design of the door. I knew full well—from the time my supposed husband beat me senseless—that Homer Martin had not carved those doors, although he has let everyone think he did so. Surely, I had thought, they were the work of Silas Martin, for Homer Martin could never have created such beauty. I approached my Hubbard quietly and whispered his name, his real name. He must have been aware of my approach because of the light of my lantern, but he did not turn when I spoke. He knew my voice, though. I went to him and grasped his hand. ‘Our son grows taller every day,’ I said. ‘He will be much like you when he is grown.’
‘Our?’ The question in his voice was remarkable as he turned to me. I saw the joy in that one moveable side of his face. ‘Did you not know?’ I said. ‘I have loved you every day from the moment we were wed. My father forced—’
But he stopped my words with his thumb as his gentle fingers caressed my cheek. ‘I know. Mother Julia told me of that, but she did not tell me—does she know about John?’ I nodded and blew out my lantern so we were bathed in the moonlight, almost as if we had returned to the night of our marriage. My heart wrenched to think of the five long years that had been wasted between then and now. The only thing not a waste was my—our—dear son.
I laid my cheek upon his chest and could feel his heart beating fast. His precious heart.
Hubbard took my hand and guided it up to the top of the leftmost door. ‘Just here,’ he said. ‘Can you feel it?’ There was indeed something there, but I could not tell what it was. ‘I carved our initials, yours and mine, in the vine at the top of this tree and’—here he moved to the other door, guiding my steps gently along with him, his arm around my waist—'here as well. As long as this church stands, these two doors will proclaim my love for you.’
We heaved a collective sigh. What was there to say?
But of course, somebody had to break the silence.
“I’d be willing to bet those initials are still there,” Dee said. “Why doesn’t this ice hurry up and melt so we can find out?”
“Don’t you go running up there by yourself,” Sadie said. “I think we all need to be there.”
“Quit chattering,” Maddy said. “I want to know how he died—and why does Mary Frances think it’s her fault?”
"You know what this means?" Melissa pushed her hair back away from her face. "When the Old Church was burning and she asked somebody to save her husband’s doors ..."
She let the sentence dwindle away.
"Hubbard’s doors," Dee said. "Not Homer’s."
"That," Maddy said, "was because Homer Martin"—she practically spat the name—"didn’t carve the doors and he was most definitely not her husband."
I turned and wrapped my arms about his waist, longing to gather him into my arms for eternity, but he uttered a sudden grunt of pain, grabbed at his chest, stumbled, and fell at my feet. By the time I threw myself onto him, he was gone. Miss Julia had not been mistaken, apparently, about the weakness of his dear heart. I should not have approached my Hubbard, for the surprise proved to be too much for his heart to bear. If I had not spoken to him, he might still be alive.
“These words are sort of blurry,” Ida said, “like she was crying on the page.”
“I’m surprised she could even write it,” Sadie said. “Of course she was crying.”
“And what a shame she blamed herself,” Easton said. “It couldn’t have possibly been her fault.”
I think everybody—everybody except Sadie—was as surprised as I was by Easton’s comment. Insight? Compassion? From Easton?
“He obviously had some sort of heart condition,” Rebecca Jo said. “Remember? Mary Frances said Miss Julia told her his heart hurt a lot.”
"And Mary Frances herself said that he’d had to"—Sadie paused and I could have sworn I saw a blush. "She said he needed to ... uh ... to take a rest during their wedding night."
"She didn’t say that," Glaze said.
"Well, she implied it."
“So, this was a heart attack,” Melissa said. “Wouldn’t you say?”
Ida kept reading.
Silas Martin discovered me sitting beside my husband’s body just before dawn. He knew who John Gilman was, he told me. Hubbard will receive a fine burial, he said, for he has been a well-respected member of this town. He glanced up at the church doors then and said, ‘these doors were his masterpiece even more than mine’. As he spoke, he reached out to touch a tuft of grass carved at the base of one of the doors. I do not think he knows that my initials are forever entwined with Hubbard’s, for he did not mention it. From now on, any time I go on an errand of mercy to one of the women of the town, if it is after dark, I will pass by the church and touch our entwined initials. And I vow that I will touch the doors in daylight each time I enter the church. No doubt people will think I am merely steadying myself, but I will know that I do it to proclaim my undying love. My husband’s doors will live as long as this church stands. Pray God it last for hundreds of years.
This is the final time I will write in this journal. There is no need to record my further thoughts, for they are naught but despair, and my heart is surely as broken as my dear husband’s.
“But there’s still another volume to go,” Pat said.
“And this isn’t the last entry in this one.” Ida held up the book and ruffled the remaining pages. “She goes on, but the next entry is dated, uh, July of 1752.”
“And this last one—the one about Hubbard dying—was, when? Seventeen-forty-six? That’s a six year gap.”
Ida nodded at Melissa. “You’re right. Part of me is surprised she ever wrote again, and another part of me wonders what took her so long.”
“I wonder too,” Rebecca Jo said. “Surely she would have wanted to record some of the mile marks of her son growing up.”
Sadie raised her hand—not a peremptory gesture, but it silenced us all. “I think I know a little bit of how she felt. When your heart is torn in two like that, it can take”—she glanced down at the pink sweatshirt she had borrowed from Ida—“it can take a lot longer to heal than you might think.”
Easton leaned over and hugged her.
“On that note,” Pat said, “I’d say it’s time for a coffee break. Mary Frances will still be here when we get back.”
~ ~ ~
TUESDAY, 11 MARCH 1746
MISS JULIA WANTED to have him buried beside his brother, but could think of no way to request that without raising the suspicions of the townsfolk. Hubbard—John—had been well liked, and Reverend Russell insisted that his grave be dug near the center of the large plot of land set aside for the cemetery.
Miss Julia had to concoct a birth date—she had no idea what day or month Hubbard had been born. She chose the day most precious to him, the day of his marriage to Mary Frances. The year she knew, or close enough. He was near the age that one of her boys would have been had he lived.
She came near to swooning—and she was not a woman wont to swoon—when it was time to throw a handful of dirt onto the coffin. Instead, she stiffened her spine and dropped a collection of carefully selected herbs and flowers, one at a time. She had chosen each one to represent some special aspect of John Gilman.
“This chamomile represents patience, this early fern is for sincerity, and ivy for friendship.” Most flowers had not yet begun to bloom, so she substituted a dried leaf of the black-eyed Susan for justice. As she dropped each flower or leaf, she gave its reason, although of course, everyone there knew the meanings. Mint for virtue, an oak leaf for strength, three pine needles for humility. Some of the congregation shuffled their feet, as if they were tired of the long litany, but Miss Julia had a great deal to say, and she intended to say every bit of it. Let them stand and wait until she had finished.
"This yarrow represents the everlasting quality of love, a leaf of Queen Anne’s lace for sanctuary. Violet for faithfulness, lavender for devotion, and finally, a sprig of rosemary for remembrance." As she tossed the rosemary onto the coffin, she breathed the name of Hubbard’s wife, so low that no living person could hear it and without moving her lips so no person could guess it. She wished Mary Frances had been there, but knew the dear woman could not have lasted through the ceremony without throwing herself onto the coffin.
"Thank you for welcoming my son and me into your community. Thank you for the honor you have bestowed on him by placing his grave here."
Homer Martin was the first to leave the cemetery, even before the grave was filled and long before Silas set the wooden cross on the mound.
John Gilman, Our Friend
18 April 1722 - 10 March 1746
That evening, after supper was concluded, Miss Julia went out to the Surratt’s barn where her son—he truly was her son of the heart—had slept, climbed the ladder to the loft, and gathered his few belongings. There she found his journal and tucked it into a capacious pocket hung from her belt. She knew where it needs must go. The books, though. She recognized the name inscribed in the front as that of the schoolmaster from Brandtburg, of whom John had spoken with great affection. She dared not let these be discovered. She decided to keep them hidden until she could walk down to the river and throw them in the water. She briefly considered disposing of them in the privy hole, but that idea was repellent to her. The river, surely, would bear them away to the sea.
On Wednesday, she gave away his few meager possessions. Three shirts, an extra pair of breeches, the pairs of stockings that Miss Julia herself had knit for him while they were in Harrisburg. He had been buried in the newest pair, which she had knit for him just a month after they arrived in Martinsville. She kept the books for the while, unwilling to consign them to a watery death. When she died, someone would claim them, wondering perhaps how a widow had come to possess such treasure.
The following day, on Thursday, the thirteenth of March, they buried the infant daughter of Constance Breeton, whose birth had caused her mother so much pain. Mary Frances stood beside her sister, clutching her hand and weeping inconsolably. The tiny grave was barely a dozen paces from John Gilman’s final resting place.
~ ~ ~
RALPH LOOKED UP FROM his cards in surprise. “What are you doing back down here so soon?”
Pat, who had led the exodus from the attic, looked over her shoulder at the rest of us. “Coffee break,” she said.
I guess she wasn’t up to talking about Hubbard’s death any more than I was.
Bob gave me a long look and folded his cards. “I’m out.” He pushed away from the table and wrapped his arms around me. I tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t help it. “Hubbard died,” I mumbled into his shirt.
“Well, of course he did,” Dave said. “That was a couple hundred years—”
“Would you for once in your life quit trying to be a smart aleck,” Pat said. “Can’t you tell we’re a little upset about this?”
Dave spread his hands and opened his mouth, but Bob held up a warning hand. “Give them a few minutes, Dave,” he said.
“If anybody wants hot chocolate,” Reebok finally said, “I made plenty.”
“You’re a life saver, Reebok.” Glaze stayed tucked in Tom’s arms, but I could hear the smile in her voice.
Eventually, of course, we retrieved the journal so Ida could read the two long entries. This second time through, there was an extra quality of savagery to her voice when she read of how Homer had struck Mary Frances on the jaw. Halfway through that sentence she stopped and took a deep breath. “This is too much like what happened to my sister.”
Thankfully, Carol didn’t ask for an explanation.
“Do you think anybody in town was aware,” Pat said, “I mean of what was going on with Mary Frances and Homer?”
Carol just shook her head. “People have always been too ready to ignore the signs of domestic violence. It must have been even worse back then, when it was thought that men had the God-given right to beat their wives.”
Dave opened his mouth, but at a look from Pat he shut it with an audible snap.
~ ~ ~
FRIDAY, 18 APRIL 1746
MISS JULIA WAITED through the month after the funeral, hoping to find Mary Frances alone. She had felt rather like a spy, watching the Martin house for every time Homer Martin left. He had not left often enough or for long enough for her to feel Mary Frances would be safe in receiving a visitor. Finally, on the eighteenth of April, she could wait no longer. She knew that this day was the fifth anniversary of her son’s—of Hubbard’s—marriage to Mary Frances. She could not, would not, let it pass without note.
When Mary Frances opened the door at her knock, she declared, “I know you still mourn the death of your sister’s babe.” Back in the corner beside the fireplace she could see Homer Martin glowering. “Fresh air is good for those who grieve. I come to ask you to join Mistress Louetta Martin and myself in the meadow, for today is a fine day to gather spring herbs.”
Mary Frances began to shake her head, but Miss Julia plowed on. “I even brought two extra gathering baskets with me. Come. Bring your son. The fresh air will do him a world of good as well.”
Mary Frances turned to look at Homer.
“Be you sure my food is on the table betimes,” he said with little grace. “A man should not have to wait for his meals.”
Miss Julia narrowed her eyes at the man, but he was too intent on scratching his armpit to take any notice of her.
Fortunately, Louetta Martin was in the meadow, so Miss Julia had not told an untruth. After a brief wave of acknowledgment, Miss Julia led Mary Frances off to one side and sat her down on a fallen boulder. John ran up the meadow to play, and Miss Julia sat beside Mary Frances. Pulling the journal from her pocket, she slipped it onto the young woman’s lap. “He would have wanted you to have this. I know that today is the anniversary of your marriage, for he always remembered that day during the three years I knew him.”
Then she remained silent while Mary Frances wept, her husband’s journal clasped over her heart.
"I cannot add the year of my husband’s death,” Mary Frances told her later after she opened the small book and inspected the first page.
“You need not write it,” Miss Julia assured her.
“I ... I have put away my own journal. It hurts far too much to write now. I doubt I shall ever write again.”
Miss Julia felt relatively certain that such would not be the case. There was too much joy to be gained from putting down one’s thoughts, and too much knowledge to be gained of one’s own mind by putting words to precious paper. Her own thick journal had helped her survive the deaths of her children and her husband. At times she regretted having left it behind in Harrisburg with Caroline Edgerton, but it had been far too bulky to tote along with her.
She did not want to intrude, but she knew she must ask this. “Is your journal safe? If not, I would be happy to save this”—she indicated Hubbard’s journal—“and yours as well if you need me to.”
Mary Frances shook her head. “Homer Martin is exceptionally un-inquisitive about my household accounts, which is what he believes these to be. He can neither read nor cipher and has no desire to learn. I will bind this with my own journals and keep them all in the bottom of the chest where I keep the rags for my monthly courses. Even should he decide to search my belongings, he would never look there.”
Miss Julia could well believe that. The squeamishness of most men at the thought of the workings of a woman’s body was foolish, indeed. Were it not for those regular courses, the men who scorned them would never have been born.