The View from Prince Street (8 page)

“Exactly.” She tapped her finger on the ledger. “This is a household account that Michael McDonald created when he began his farm.”

“Is there mention of Faith?”

“Yes. He purchased her contract from Captain Smyth for the promise of a hogshead of tobacco. A hogshead was a giant wooden barrel. Currency was a rarity then, so many farmers used tobacco as money.”

“Why would a man want an entire barrel of tobacco?”

“He'd have sold it back in England and made a sizable profit.” She carefully turned several more pages. “Here I see that Mr. Talbot paid for Faith the following spring. He traded two hogsheads of tobacco for her.”

“Her value doubled in a year.”

“Very few women in the city at that time,” Margaret said. “They were at a premium, and if she survived here a year that meant she had to be tough.”

“So what happened to this witch?”

“She later ‘married' Talbot and bore him twin sons.”

“Why do you say ‘married' that way?” I asked.

“I'm not so sure they legally wed.”

“Ah.”

“The women of Alexandria accused her of witchcraft after Mr. Talbot's death, and then she and her sons vanished from the records. I'm hoping that Patience will make some kind of mention of her.”

“You've quite the task. There are dozens of letters along with the ledgers.”

Margaret raised a white-gloved hand to her heart. “Letters.”

“A couple of decades' worth.”

“Rae, this is like historical porn.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I'm very happy to study it.”

It was hard not to be impressed by her excitement. “Sexual fantasies are not my forte, but I'm glad you have found a distraction that's of interest.”

Her laughter rang clear and loud. “Rae, I think you made a joke. There might be hope for you yet.”

“I didn't realize I was hopeless.”

“Not hopeless,” Margaret said. “But you did get labeled as the lady with the heart of stone. At least no one called you the Ice Queen.”

“My clients like my detachment.”

“That can't be much fun for you. What gets your motor racing?”

I fingered the pearl bracelet encircling my wrist. “I choose not to engage in high drama. Calm and order are needed to remain objective.”

Margaret shook her head as if she pitied me. “Unless I'm dealing with documents like this, order drives me insane.”

“To each his own.”

I left her hunched over the papers and returned to my computer. Without really thinking, I pulled up my e-mail, hoping for minor tasks to occupy my time. I was scrolling through my inbox when I saw his name:
Michael Holloway.
The boy.

Sitting up in my seat, I stared at the name, stunned. I wasn't intimidated much, but I was now scared to read his message.

My index finger anxiously tapped the mouse button before I drew in a breath and clicked it twice. The e-mail opened.

Dear Dr. McDonald . . .

Dr. McDonald.
That made sense, of course. Polite. But distant.

Dear Dr. McDonald,

I read about you in the paper. You might not know it but you and I are related. I guess you could say I'm your son. I'm not writing to ask for anything, but I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me about the McDonald family tree. My mom was trying to help, but she doesn't know any names other than yours and your mom's.

Thanks,
Michael

I read the e-mail again slowly as the full spectrum of emotions washed over me. His request required a simple and straightforward answer. And yet, I was clueless as to how to proceed.

Answer the boy. An e-mail took less than five minutes. So little time. But what were the right words? I didn't want to ruin our first interaction. What if he wanted to know why I gave him away?

“Holy shit!”

Startled from my thoughts, I found Margaret standing in the doorway. A look at the clock and I realized an hour had passed.

Margaret held a letter in her hand, her eyes dancing with excitement just as they had when she stood on my porch with that old bottle.

Pulling off my glasses, I quickly closed the e-mail and rose. I cleared my throat. “What did you discover?”

“Patience feared Faith.”

Grateful for the distraction from the e-mail, I moved from my desk, hoping to distance myself from a new and violent restlessness rubbing against the underside of my skin. “Why?”

“I'll get to that.” Margaret looked up at me, eyes dancing. “How much do you know about Patience?”

“Only what's written in the family Bible.”

She clasped her hands like a teacher addressing a class. “She and her husband, Michael, had five children. Two of those children survived to adulthood. One was a boy, Patrick, and the other a girl, Hanna.”

I remembered the feel of my empty arms after I gave the boy away. The emptiness was so acute my skin burned. God only knows what it felt like to bury a child. Absently, I folded my arms over my chest and rubbed my forearms. “I've counseled women who've lost a child. The pain is devastating.”

“Death was a fact of life in those days, but you're right, the loss must have been excruciating. Patience McDonald must have been heartbroken.”

“What happened to the children?”

“Despite my colonial script deciphering skills, parts are hard to understand. Time and improper storage had taken its toll.”

“Improper?”

She raised a hand. “I won't lecture you on proper storage when you've done a fair job for an amateur. But there are better ways to preserve these papers.”

“I've never done any task
fair
before.”

“Well, there's always a first.” And then, presuming my response didn't matter, she said, “All these papers need to be in a special room, Rae. I've photographed each page before I touched them for fear they'd break apart. Consider yourself lucky none has.”

“Noted. What did Patience McDonald say to her mother?”

“I'm still sifting through that, but I do know she lost a son in 1749 and another in 1750. In 1751 she references her third son, Patrick, and later a daughter, Hanna, born a few years later. They both lived.”

Margaret scrolled through images on her phone. “After Faith's witch trial, she and her sons came to live here. Odd that Faith would return to this place, but then again, this was the only other home she would have known in Virginia. And she was likely smart enough to
know that she couldn't survive alone with her babies. Also, the McDonalds might have needed help. Faith must have suspected Patience wasn't in good health.”

“You figured all that out from two or three letters?”

“That and what I already knew. Survival was always at the forefront of every decision back then.”

“What does Patience say about Faith?” The answer didn't matter to me beyond the fact that it would keep Margaret talking. When she talked, my focus shifted away from the boy's e-mail.

“Patience actually nursed one of Faith's babies. She says her breast milk still stirred, suggesting a child might have recently died. But that doesn't jibe with the Bible, which records Patrick's death in 1831.” Margaret shook her head. “Always missing puzzle pieces. It's maddening and exciting all at once.”

“Why would the McDonalds take Faith back if they feared her?”

“Faith was a healer, a midwife, and the early 1750s was a tough time for the McDonalds. She could have helped tend to Patience, or nursemaid her baby if it were still alive. She would have been a valuable asset.”

“The loss of the children was good reason to keep Faith out of their house,” I argued. “Why invite a witch into your home?”

“To keep the other two children alive.”

“What became of Faith's sons?”

“There's mention of one of them in the history books. Marcus Talbot Shire. He became a prominent innkeeper in Alexandria. There was a time when I thought Ben married Faith, but I don't think he ever made it legal.”

“What happened to the other son?”

“I don't know,” she said softly.

“What about the McDonald boy?”

“Patrick McDonald became a successful lawyer and farmer,” Margaret said. “Lived to be eighty.”

“So Faith arrives with two infants and there is a reference to an empty cradle,” I said. “Only one of Patience's sons survives and Faith's second son . . .”

“Cullen.”

“Cullen vanishes. It didn't require a historian to figure out what had happened.”

Her head crooked to the side and I imagined her thoughts swirling. “Rae, are you suggesting the McDonalds took one of Faith's children?”

“It's a guess.”

Margaret snapped a finger. “What if the McDonald son did die and Faith was invited to stay provided she give the McDonalds her baby? Maybe Faith had to give up rights to one son to save them both.”

“Interesting theory.”

She wagged her finger at me and I sensed theories swirling. She was forever consumed with piecing together the past, at the expense of the present. “I like the way your mind works. Of course, proving this is another issue.”

“Adoption is as old as time,” I said.

Margaret jabbed her thumb back toward the kitchen. “Do you mind if I make a pot of coffee? I've been on the go since the crack of dawn and I need a second wind.”

“I'll make us a pot.” My heels clicked on the wooden floor, echoing through the house with a purpose, just like my world.

Margaret strolled behind me and took a seat at the large marble island. “So, do you always wear high heels?”

The question caught me off guard. “Though I work out of my home, I do consider this my office and want it to be professional.”

“Yeah, but high heels? The last time I wore heels was to my senior prom and they hurt like hell. I kicked them off five minutes after Ronnie Stevens and I arrived at the school gym. I lost the heels.”

“What did your mother say about that?”

She laughed. “I suggested there were worse things I could have lost.”

“Let me guess—she wasn't amused.”

“Not at all. Before the prom she gave me a serious lecture about sex. One look at Ronnie's van and she was sure I'd get knocked up. I told her I wasn't throwing away my upcoming summer in Greece by having Ronnie's kid.”

I removed two white porcelain cups from the cabinet and carefully set them on the countertop along with the milk from the refrigerator. I recalled the night I'd slept with my beau.

His name was Dan Chesterfield and he was a year older than I. Three months after Jennifer died, Dan came by the house and offered to take me out. I was desperate to get away from the grief that engulfed my family, so I agreed. We drove along the George Washington Parkway and parked in a spot offering a stunning view of Georgetown on the opposite side of the Potomac. He had a bottle of whiskey and offered me the first sip. So polite. I drank and immediately coughed as liquid fire burned my throat. I shoved the bottle back in his hands, certain I'd had enough. But as the warmth of the whiskey spread through my body, I realized the pain had numbed a little. I tried another sip. Coughed again. He laughed. Called me a lightweight. And the pain eased a little more.

There were no high heels to lose that night, but my virginity went by the wayside in an awkward and painful exchange. Nine months later, I gave birth to the boy.

“I wear the heels because they make me feel in control,” I said as the coffeemaker dripped out a fresh pot.

Margaret leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. “You're about the most controlled person I know. I can't imagine you need the heels to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“They're a reminder not to get too well acquainted with my circumstances.”

“Control is an illusion, Rae, believe me. It's like El Dorado, the mythical city made of gold. It isn't out there. I stopped looking a long time ago.”

“I'm not searching for great riches.” As the coffeemaker gurgled the last drops of coffee, I removed the carafe and poured a cup for each of us. “Peace is more to my liking.”

Margaret ladled in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. “And you find peace in black high heels?”

I poured two splashes of milk into my cup. “I find it in routine and predictability. I'm not a fan of surprises.” And yet, this day was unlike any I'd had in a long time.

“So tell me about this matchmaking gig of yours.” She splashed milk in her coffee and took a sip. And then another. “Don't suppose you have cookies?”

“Sorry. I don't eat sugar.”

“My God, woman, how do you function?”

“Sugar isn't good for you. No nutritional value.”

“It's a major food group, along with fats and chocolate.” She grinned. “You're a doctor, you should know that!”

“I'm not a medical doctor.”

“Rae, we need to work on you detecting sarcasm. In the meantime, explain how you became the matchmaking queen. Is there a degree for that?”

“I'm not a matchmaker. I find people who share similar traits and introduce them from time to time.”

“But they come to you and ask you to find someone?”

“Sometimes.”

“The paper called you a matchmaker and the paper is
always
right.”

“Hardly.”

She winced. “Sarcasm alert, Rae.”

“Right.”

“I'll say that ‘heart of stone' crack was below the belt. Though, if
I have to be completely honest, Rae, and please don't take this the wrong way because anyone who saves history like you have is a goddess in my book, but you're a tad reserved.”

“I'm objective, not Victorian,” I said. “I'm able to see couples, people, situations, and analyze their strengths and weaknesses. I keep sentiment out of the equation. Introduce it and it's a free-for-all with completely random results.”