Yours Truly

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “And what’s up with that hair?” I asked.

  “Princess Leia just called—she wants her earmuffs back,” my brother quipped, and this time I laughed out loud. I love Hatcher.

  A few minutes later my mother called everyone to dinner. We took our seats, and my father went around the dining room table, introducing each of us. Then he turned to Professor Rusty. “I’ll let you do the honors with your guest.”

  “Felicia Grunewald is my research assistant, and a history major at the college,” Professor Rusty told us. “Her field is medieval studies, but she’s also quite knowledgeable about the Civil War. She’s working for me over Spring Break.” He looked over at Aunt True. “True, you might remember her parents, Bridget and Hans Grunewald? They own the Edelweiss Inn.”

  “The place near Mount Washington that looks like a Bavarian chalet?” cried my aunt, delighted. “We used to go there for birthday dinners when we were kids! Remember, J. T.?”

  Felicia inclined her head, like royalty accepting a peasant’s compliment. “I’m gratified to know that our alpine retreat inspires such fond memories.”

  Across the table, Hatcher flicked me a glance. I flared my nostrils at him, and he smirked. I knew exactly what he was thinking: Who is this girl, and why is she sitting at our table?

  “So,” said Professor Rusty, looking over at me, “have you finished reading the diary? I’d love for Felicia to take a look at it after dinner.”

  “Almost,” I told him.

  “I hear congratulations are in order, by the way,” he continued. “The Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes are working on another case!”

  My fork, which had been in the process of conveying my first bite of chicken enchilada to my mouth, froze in midair. The table fell quiet as everyone looked at me.

  “The Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes?” Felicia snorted. “Who made up that cretinous name?”

  I had no idea what “cretinous” meant, but I could guess. I felt the blood rush to my face, staining it the same shade as the enchilada sauce dripping from my fork.

  How on earth had Professor Rusty found out?

  “Trying to snare the sap thief, are you?” asked Aunt True. “Not a moment too soon, in my opinion. I don’t want a repeat of today’s scene at the bookstore, that’s for sure.”

  Across the table, my sister Lauren seemed way too fascinated with her place mat. Busted, I thought, my glance frosting into a glare. Lauren was the only one who could possibly have leaked the news. This was her revenge for our argument over the diary, and all the other stuff that had happened between us these past few days.

  I needed a distraction to change the subject.

  “Hey, Professor Rusty,” I began, “I was wondering—”

  “Hay is for horses,” my mother corrected me, and I sighed. Living with an aspiring English teacher was like living with the grammar police.

  “Sorry. Professor Rusty, I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of a place called Maple Grove, Maine?” Glancing at my mother, I added “sir” for extra credit.

  He furrowed his brow, considering. “Can’t say that I have. Why?”

  “We were reading about it in the original Truly’s diary earlier—she talks about ‘packages’ being shipped there, so I guess that’s where some of the slaves she was hiding were sent.”

  “Is that so? Fascinating! I’ll look into it right away. Remind me tomorrow, would you, Felicia?”

  Her mouth full of chicken enchilada, Felicia nodded, sending her Princess Leia muffins bobbing.

  “Also, how come Truly sounds so scared all the time?” I continued. “Everything’s all so hush-hush.”

  “It was incredibly dangerous work she was involved in,” Professor Rusty replied. “That they were all involved in, really. For the slaves themselves, it took an extraordinary act of courage—not to mention a huge leap of faith—to run. Remember, they had no maps, few if any supplies, and in most cases no knowledge of the landscape outside their plantation. Running meant being ripped away from everything that was familiar, and leaving everything behind, including family and friends. There was danger at every turn: hunger, exhaustion, possible injury or illness, and relentless pursuit by their owners. A runaway never knew if those offering to help were friend or foe. What he or she did know was that if they were caught, the consequences would be dire. Many lost their lives. But none of that mattered one speck, compared to their burning desire for freedom.”

  I could see why my mother liked Professor Rusty’s classes. He had a way of bringing things to life, even if he was a bit long-winded.

  Down at the end of the table, my sister Pippa shuddered. “I wouldn’t want to be a thlave,” she announced as she set her glass of milk down, nearly spilling it.

  Aunt True’s hand flashed out just in time.

  “Nice save!” My father smiled at his sister, then reached over and patted Pippa’s hand. “No one wants to be a slave, honey.”

  “I understand why it was dangerous for the runaways,” I said, “but I guess I don’t understand why it was dangerous for the people—the conductors, right?—who worked on the Underground Railroad helping them.”

  “Ah,” said Professor Rusty. “That would be on account of the Fugitive Slave Act.”

  I dimly remembered reading something about that at school.

  “The Fugitive Slave Act was enacted by Congress on September 18, 1850,” Felicia suddenly spouted, making me jump in my chair. “It made it the federal government’s job to capture and return runaways.”

  Professor Rusty nodded. “That’s exactly right, Felicia. The law meant U.S. marshals could force local authorities in the Northern states—including New Hampshire—to help them round up suspected fugitives. In fact, all citizens were obliged to aid in the recapture of runaways, or face imprisonment and fines.”

  “But that’s so unfair!” I cried.

  “The abolitionists thought so too,” my mother added, passing me a plate piled with the avocado I’d sliced earlier. “They called it the ‘Bloodhound Law,’ because of the dogs that were used to track down runaways. I read that some of the fugitive slaves would rub themselves with things like onion and pine pitch, hoping the hounds wouldn’t pick up their scent.” She shook her head sadly. “Can you imagine it? Here in this country?”

  Professor Rusty reached over and speared a slice of avocado. “The law also made helping fugitive slaves a more serious federal crime. The marshals had the legal right to search anyone’s home for runaways at any time, and arrest anyone caught harboring or aiding them.”

  “What happened if they got caught?” asked Mackenzie, her blue eyes round with concern. I knew she was thinking of the original Truly. I sure was.

  “There were stiff penalties,” Professor Rusty told her, taking a bite of his dinner. “Oh my goodness, Dinah, these enchiladas are amazing!”

  “Thank you,” said my mother.

  “While the consequences weren’t as dire, of course, as those facing the slaves if they were caught,” he continued, “still, your ancestors could have been sent to prison for six months and had to pay a big fine. It was a very brave thing your Truly did.”

  No wonder she’d been so scared! I thought. Prison? What would have happened to little Booth?

  “How big a fine?” asked my brother Danny from the far end of the table.

  “A thousand dollars,” Felicia told him. “Which doesn’t sound like that much, but it translates to almost thirty thousand dollars today.”

  Danny gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money!”

  “No kidding,” said my father. “A fine like that could have meant financial ruin.”

  I wondered if he was thinking of the bank loan that nearly put our bookshop out of business this past winter, before Belinda Winchester stepped in to help.

  I turned to Professor Rusty. “So do you think that’s why Truly hid her diary? Just in case the house was searched?”

  He nodded. “Most likely. Others did. There was a famous African American aboli
tionist by the name of William Still, who lived in Philadelphia and was a conductor on the Underground Railroad there. He kept meticulous records of the hundreds of runaways that he helped, hoping it would help reunite them with their families later. He hid his journal every night in a crypt in a nearby cemetery.”

  “A crypt?” Lauren looked puzzled.

  “A grave,” he told her.

  My sister shivered. “Eew! I guess he figured no one would look for it there.”

  Professor Rusty nodded again. “Exactly.”

  I digested this information, wondering if I’d have had the kind of courage that my namesake did. One thing still bothered me, though.

  “How would anyone have even found out that Truly was involved with the Underground Railroad?” I asked. “New Hampshire is a Northern state. Wasn’t everybody in favor of freeing the slaves?”

  Professor Rusty shook his head. “New Hampshire abolished slavery in 1783, but some people still felt strongly that the Southern states had a right to determine their own laws. Whole towns were split over the issue of abolition. It pitted neighbor against neighbor in some instances, and even split families. Pumpkin Falls experienced some of that.”

  “Plus, slave catchers and bounty hunters offered rewards for those who turned in fugitives and those aiding them,” my mother added. “Greed has always been a part of human nature, unfortunately, and some people succumbed to the temptation.”

  “Weasels,” muttered Hatcher.

  I thought of the diary entry I’d read earlier: There are whispers of money changing hands in exchange for information, Truly had written. Weasels indeed.

  “The Fugitive Slave Act brought everything to a head,” said Professor Rusty, warming to his theme. I’d wanted a distraction, and I was getting my money’s worth. No one was thinking about the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes now. “Harriet Jacobs, a fugitive slave living in New York at the time, called the law ‘the beginning of a reign of terror.’ The Northern states were no longer a safe haven. Slaves who had fled the South and who had been living freely in cities like Boston and Philadelphia were forced to leave the new lives they’d forged for themselves and flee even farther north to Canada.”

  “So they were safe from the slave catchers there?” Hatcher asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Canada was part of the British Empire at that time, which abolished slavery in 1834,” Felicia spouted again. The girl sure knew her dates. “Some forty thousand blacks took refuge there after the Fugitive Slave Act was passed, and before the Civil War and the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment.”

  “What amendment was that?” Mackenzie whispered to me.

  “The amendment to the Constitution abolishing slavery, duh,” I whispered back, and she reddened. “Don’t you pay attention in social studies?”

  “The Underground Railroad’s code word for Canada pretty much says it all,” Professor Rusty told us. “They called it ‘heaven.’ Former slaves weren’t entirely free from racism in Canada, but they had the right to vote, and they could become citizens and own property—things that were denied them in the United States.”

  “It was a bad time here,” my mother said. “I can hardly bear to read about it! Not only were runaway slaves captured and returned to the South, but many free blacks were also taken, and forced into slavery.”

  “But that’s awful!” I cried. “Couldn’t they do something about it?”

  Professor Rusty shook his head. “Slaves had no legal rights. They were completely defenseless.”

  No wonder my ancestors had been so on fire to help! I thought, feeling a sudden rush of pride in their actions. I was beginning to wish that I could travel back in time and give them a hand. I glanced down the table at my brother Danny. Truly had been only a year older than he was when she started keeping her diary. She had a new baby to care for, a husband off fighting a war, and a farm to run. Getting caught could have meant prison and financial ruin. And yet she’d risked it all to help others to freedom.

  Professor Rusty served himself another enchilada. “If there was any good thing that came from the passage of that inhumane bill,” he said, “it was the fact that it steeled this country’s resolve to put an end to slavery. The Fugitive Slave Act reenergized the Underground Railroad and got Northern folks thinking more about and caring more about the issue of slavery. Many who’d been on the fence about abolition joined the movement.”

  “It was the beginning of end, in other words?” asked Aunt True.

  He smiled at her. “You might say that.”

  Felicia dabbed her mouth with her napkin and turned to me. “So from your perusal of the primary source document, have you been able to ascertain where the fugitives may have been concealed?”

  Hatcher kicked me under the table. I didn’t dare look at him; I wouldn’t be able to contain my laughter. I knew exactly what he was thinking, because I was thinking the same thing: Was this girl for real? Who talked like that?

  “Um,” I said, uncertain how to reply. I didn’t want to be called “cretinous” again, whatever that was.

  “What I think Felicia is trying to say,” said Professor Rusty, “is that thanks to the diary we now know that your family was definitely involved in harboring runaway slaves. But the question remains, where did they hide them?”

  CHAPTER 21

  We didn’t have time to look just then. Not with the finals for the Maple Madness Bake-Off about to start down at the bookshop.

  My thoughts swirled as I piled into the minivan with my parents and brothers and sisters. Between everything that Professor Rusty had just told us, worries about Bigfoot, the town feud, and Mackenzie’s apparent interest in Calhoun, it had been a confusing day.

  And it was about to get more confusing.

  “I insist that Reverend Quinn be disqualified as head judge,” announced Ella Bellow, who was lying in wait for us on the bookstore’s doorstep.

  “Really, Ella?” said Aunt True calmly, taking her keys from her pocket and unlocking the front door. “It’s his turn this year, remember?”

  “I don’t care,” Ella continued, following her inside. Hatcher raised an eyebrow at me as the rest of us went in too.

  The bookshop looked great. My aunt had gone to a lot of trouble this afternoon decorating for the contest, after she and Ella and Mr. Henry finally managed to quell the rebellion. There were big fake orange and red maple leaves hanging from the ceiling, and signs pointing to the Annex that read THIS WAY TO THE FAMOUS PUMPKIN FALLS MAPLE MADNESS BAKE-OFF! The long table that held the baked goods showed no sign of the earlier skirmishes. Plates and platters were lined up in an orderly fashion, with no regard to Team Freeman or Team Maynard.

  “Reverend Quinn is one of the only people in town without an entry in the contest,” my aunt said mildly. “If anyone’s going to be an impartial head judge, it’s him.”

  “Ha!” said Ella. “Explain to me, then, why he was spotted talking to Grace Freeman this morning on the village green.”

  My aunt gave her a look. “She goes to his church, Ella. So do the Maynards.”

  Ella Bellow sniffed. “That’s beside the point. He shouldn’t be seen consorting with the finalists on the very day of the judging!”

  “You think she was maybe trying to bribe him with some fudge?” My aunt laughed. “Come on!”

  From the look on her face, our former postmistress clearly felt this was a possibility. Hatcher elbowed me. He was getting a kick out of this. I could only imagine what Mackenzie thought, but the two of us weren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.

  “Ella, how about you dial it back just a whisker?” asked my father, stepping forward. “I’ve had your Maple Bread Pudding, and it’s wonderful. A strong contestant, I’d say.”

  My aunt, who had bent down to open a large box containing what looked like the new espresso machine, looked up sharply. “Maple Bread Pudding? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that everyone knows Reverend Quinn is on a gluten-free diet, would it
?”

  “The idea!” Ella sputtered, but her face reddened.

  Hatcher elbowed me again. “Busted,” he whispered, grinning from ear to ear.

  “You have two choices, Ella,” my aunt informed her, straightening up and putting her hands on her hips. “You and your pudding can stay in the contest, but I don’t want to hear any more on this subject.”

  “And if I refuse?” Ella bridled.

  Aunt True pointed to the door. “There’s the door. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

  An awkward silence descended on the bookshop. I’d never seen my aunt like this. The feud must have really gotten to her.

  “Well, I never!” Ella suddenly seemed aware that we were all looking at her. She scowled at us. “You Lovejoys think you’re—”

  It was Pippa who saved the day.

  “I like your bread pudding too, Mithith Bellow,” she said, stepping forward and taking Ella by the hand. “Belinda gave Lauren and me thome of your tetht batch yethterday. I think it dethervth a blue ribbon.”

  “You do, do you?” Ella replied, some of the wind going out of her sails.

  Pippa nodded vigorously.

  “Maybe we should ask Pippa to judge,” my father joked. “Would that satisfy you, Ella?”

  “Pleathe, Daddy?” begged Pippa, jumping up and down. “I want to hand out ribbonth!”

  In the end, that’s exactly what happened. My parents and my aunt decided that Pippa’s presence might help defuse the tension, so she stepped in as last-minute assistant to Reverend Quinn. My little sister’s irresistible charm once again worked its magic—at least for the hour that the finals lasted—and Pumpkin Falls managed to pull itself together and be civil while Reverend Quinn and the other two judges considered the entries.

  Which was more than could be said for Mackenzie and me. Or at least for me. When Calhoun and his family came into the bookshop—Calhoun’s sister Juliet had entered her Maple Macaroons—my cousin started over toward him.

  “Can’t you just leave him alone for once?” I growled, grabbing her arm.