The journal had been a birthday gift from Victoria's parents. The first entry was dated “5 November 1855"
Hmm, my birthday too. Connie smiled briefly. Something fluttered somewhere in the depths of Connie's mind. Was that the reason she felt so strongly about Victoria? That was just plain dumb, a lot of people share birthdays and don't feel like they've known each other forever.
Lacy made Mama and me a tea party. We had those special sugar cakes Lacy makes, with hot lemon tea.
This journal is a gift from Mama and Papa. Mama gave me some pink hair ribbons, Papa, a bottle of ink, a pen holder and some pens and Maxi, a bag of rock candy. But only Mama and me were at the tea party.
Maxi is helping Mr. Griner, he's in poor health, and Papa said it is good to help others in need. And of course Papa's own duties as a doctor took him away.
From the young woman's description of the house's layout, Connie knew that Victoria's room was in the rear of her parent's bedroom, the one on the right side of the stairwell, the Handleys were staying in the room on the left, the room that had been Max Jr.'s. The two in the front had been Prudence and Max's bedroom and private setting room, replacing the one on the first floor being used as a waiting room. Max slept on the sofa in the private sitting room when he came in late and didn't want to disturb Prudence. Sometimes it was a temporary bedroom for an ailing child. Only the fireplace walls and shared chimneys separated the rooms in the back of the house from those in the front. How strange, she was sure this had been Victoria's room, but according to the diary, Connie was in the setting room and Brian in the master bedroom.
But that couldn't be right. She could feel Victoria's presence in this room. Maybe there would be something to explain the discrepancy later.
Connie watched the life of a happy twelve year old as the young girl struggled to learn something about the world outside her own community.
Someday I will see the places pictured in magazines. London, Paris, are there such places? Yesterday, Maxi read to me from a book Ms. Farmer (our teacher) gave him. It is the story of a man's search for a great white whale. It is a wonderful tale called “Moby Dick” written by Herman Melville. I would like to see the ocean, not from the shore but from a boat. To be able to look from all sides of a ship and see only the rolling seas. What a splendid sight that must be.
Connie met the doctor through his devoted daughter's eyes, stern and strict; she could see how he doted on his little girl.
Papa is so tall I think his hair will brush the top of the door opening when he passes through. His mutton chops and mustache are thick and handsome; the trail of hair joining them is narrower but just as full. Mama says I have his eyes and stubbornness, but I favor her looks in the rest of me. While Maxi favors Papa in build and features, he has Mama's temperament, slow to anger and ready to forgive.
Maxi was cutting wood yesterday when his friends came by to go fishing. He left the ax where it fell. His catch of four large bass did not impress Papa or bring forgiveness. Maxi will be cutting and stacking many a tree, and sharpening many blades before he is permitted to go with his friends again. Why are boys so foolish?
I have almost finished the embroidered monogram on the set of handkerchiefs I am preparing for Papa's birthday. I hope he will be able to have dinner with us.
Of her own future, I will tend the sick as Papa does. She vowed in the thin book's pages.
Victoria described her mother as...
full of joy and energy and beautiful with long dark hair worn twisted into a great knot in the back of her head. Her dark eyes are alive when she is happy and dull in her sadness. She loves to read the stories of Hawthorne and Dickens, and the poems of Byron, Keats, Tennyson, and Longfellow. She is skilled in needlework, Lacy tells me Mama's tablecloths and dresses are admired by many, and she loves to cook. My own needlework is poor when next to hers, but she assures me that I will improve and I will make some man a good wife. I wonder.
Victoria's brother Maxi was the center of her childhood. He was a good big brother.
Today I asked Maxi why he walked with me to school. I know it is because Papa has told him it is his duty as my older brother. But he proclaimed that as my brother he is also my protector. He will guard me from wild animals and bullies.
He taught me to ride and care for a horse when I was young, and when and where to catch the biggest fish. He listens when I am sad and cheers me. He tells me his secrets and I tell him mine.
18 January 1856
Today it has been two years since Lacy and Sam started buying their freedom and that of their children. They were both working off this debt by an arrangement between Papa and Mr. Bradford made many years ago. Lacy has always helped Mama keep the house in order. She does the wash and cooking and mending. Sam helps Papa with the animals and carriage, supplying wood for the house and keeping the tools well honed. When they were slaves, Lacy and Sam went back to the plantation in the evenings, their children worked in the garden and fields there to insure that Sam and Lacy would return and not run away. It took many years, but the Bradfords were fair and allowed the work-for-pay arrangement. Sam and his family have been living in the carriage house while Sam builds a new home in a shanty town near the river with other free-men. Tomorrow they will move.
I overheard Papa and Mr. Bradford in the parlor the day Sam was declared to be free, the children and Lacy were already living in the carriage house, every penny they earned spent to bring their family together. “Max, I didn't know you were against slavery."
Papa took a long time to answer. “I'm not, Tom, but I'm not against a man wanting his freedom either, as long as he's willing to work for it. I think Sam and Lacy did just that and they deserve to be free."
"Could be, but I hope no more of my niggers get the same notion. I'm losing some good money makers by letting them go. Can't say I haven't had second thoughts, but ... well, a deals a deal and my deal is with you, and I'm bound by it."
So tomorrow Sam and Lacy will be truly free.
The Bradfords again. Connie remembered the missing plantation house north of Fredericksburg. Draining her coffee cup, she returned to the book.
Victoria didn't write every day and she didn't always relay events. As she grew closer to womanhood, the writing changed. The things that were important to her and the way she wrote about them. She put her feelings, fears and hopes in the book.
Gaps in the dialog where filled with notes from the editor explained their inability to discern the faded writing or although the words were there, for not being able to comprehend their meaning.
Connie tried to picture the library/office as a doctor's office, and the narrow sitting room in the front as the waiting room. It wasn't hard. She saw them as they must have been; she even imagined she could hear the patients talking in hushed voices as they waited.
Connie could see Victoria offering water or tea to those waiting to see her father. Dark hair flowing down the slim girl's back, held off her shoulders by a piece of pink ribbon. Pink was her favorite color. Her oval face was mature for a twelve year old, the dark blue eyes filled with caring, the full lips smiling and giving comfort.
Something changed in the fall of eighteen fifty-six. It was apparent by Victoria's writing that Prudence had something on her mind.
Mama has forgotten. She promised to help me make a new dress for church. We haven't selected the yard goods, buttons or lace. When I reminded her today, she was angry. Mama never snapped at me before. What have I done wrong? Maxi said not to worry; Mama is just out of sorts, whatever that means. But I know he is worried too.
A note from the editor told that the next day's entry had been smudged and only part was legible, the sentences broken and cryptic.
...early, she didn't buy much and not ... of cloth or spool of thread. I asked if she ... cried great sobs. I felt bad to have upset her ... not well? Mama is never ill. I made her tea ... better I think. She said she was sorry for making a scene. Papa was disturbed when I told him Mama was not feelin
g well.
That night Prudence and the Doctor had an argument. Victoria wrote:
I can hear Papa. He is angry. I think Mama is crying. A door slammed. It is quiet again except for Mama.
Two days later:
Mama's still feeling poorly. I took tea to her this afternoon. She was propped up in bed, sewing. I saw the sofa in the sitting room piled with quilts and a goose down pillow.
Papa's sleeping there, just ‘till I feel better, she told me. Her eyes were red and puffy, she had been crying.
Later that week:
I went to market with Lacy, Papa sent me to help with the shopping and carry the money to pay the accounts. Mama's not feeling better. She did smile today, but it was a sad smile. She was looking at the tiny dress she made. It's all white, trimmed with lace and a row of tiny buttons down the front. I don't know who's to wear it. It's so small.
Weeks passed without an entry, then:
Mama's with child! That is her terrible, wonderful ailment. I hope it's a girl.
Papa told me this morning that I am to sleep in the sitting room starting tonight, to be near in case Mama needs anything. Papa will sleep in my room or in his office. He does not want to wake Mama at the late hours he comes home.
When I returned from market, my furnishings and trunk had been moved. The sofa is now in my old room.
Connie's brow furrowed, Victoria doesn't see the disharmony in her family, or if she does, she's ignoring it. She mentions only that her father is out more that usual and she doesn't see him.
After that Victoria wrote about her mother's growth.
Her middle is growing at an alarming rate. I wonder that her skin is able to stretch so far. I have seen many ladies with child, but mama...?
And how she took over more of the household chores helping Lacy.
The chores are never done. Lacy and I bake bread all day every Saturday, we start the wash every other Monday, this chore takes several days to complete, with the scrubbing, boiling, soaking the whites in bluing, and the rinses, and finally hanging them to dry. The next few days are spent pressing out the wrinkles. While I watch the fires, I mend or prepare vegetables for the day's meals. Lacy will teach me to make lye soap this year in the fall, happily this task is done only twice a year, at butchering times as the fat from the animals is needed for the process. Early each morning I do the errands Papa has left for me. Picking up packages of medicines, sending off the orders for more, trips to the seamstress to collect material for bandages. In the evenings I take my sewing and sit with Mama as she teaches me how to sew a fine seam, or embroider a butterfly. Or I read while Mama sews. Sometimes I can see that she is crying, or that her attention has drifted and she doesn't hear the words I am saying, she goes far away.
Mama seems so unhappy, even her smiles have tears.
...then that fateful day February twenty-third, eighteen fifty-seven.
I have lived only thirteen years and three months but today I have know the greatest of joys and the deepest of sorrows.
The pages of the original diary were probably tear-stained. Connie could almost hear the sobs between words.
Early this morning, before the sun came up, I heard a noise. It came from Mama's room. I tapped on her door and heard her groan.
Mama. I called quietly, so I wouldn't wake her if she was dreaming.
Victoria help me. Your Papa is out tending to Mr. Griner, she said.
Help with what, Mama? Are you ill?
No, my heart, I am having the baby.
I was afraid. How could I help? I had watched the birthing of many cats and dogs, once a colt, but never had I been present when a child was born.
"Get the pile of feed bags off the top shelf of the wardrobe and fill the basin with water.” She told me to hurry the baby was coming. I did as she asked.
It was wonderful and terrible. The baby came out of Mama! Like with the mare, but not the same. The colt stood and walked on wobbly legs right after it was born. This infant would need a lot of care before it could walk or take care of itself. It was beautiful. I felt it moving as it drew in breath and made a small crying sound. It was a girl. I couldn't take my eyes from her small wrinkled, red body and tiny hands and feet.
"Give it to me, and go make some hot water in the kitchen. There is cleaning to be done.” Mama reached for the baby, she had a blanket ready to wrap her in.
I did as she said. It took a long time for the kettle to boil. I had to walk slowly back to the bedroom to keep from spilling it. It was hard to wait. I wanted to hold my sister.
Mama was shaking with sobs when I opened the door. I was afraid.
"What's happened, Mama? What's wrong?” Something had happened, something bad. Maybe it was because of the way she was holding the small bundle, so many babies die, I knew.
I stayed with her until Papa came home. She wouldn't let me take the baby, so I sat with her trying to calm her with the songs I had learned at her knee and reading from the Bible she kept next to her bed, all the time blinking back the tears that flowed from my own eyes.
I went to my room when Papa came in. We didn't have to say anything, he knew. I heard him send Maxi to fetch Lacy.
Later I asked Papa what had happen. Why didn't my little sister live? He said it wasn't to be. I heard him tell Lacy that Evangeline Amanda, that's what Mama had named the baby for her burial, had been still-born. I don't know why I didn't tell him that Evangeline had been crying, but somehow I think it's best that I didn't.
Connie drew in a deep breath, choking back a sob of her own. Prudence didn't think her husband would accept the baby, he knew he wasn't the father. She had killed it when it was born. The only garment she made for her daughter had been her burial gown.
Prudence had found someone else, someone with the time to show her kindness.
Being a doctor's wife was lonely even in the nineteenth century. It could have been one of the merchants, or a tradesman. Connie could only guess about the relationship. When had it turned to more than friendship? At least for Prudence. There was no sign that her lover had as much as sent a note during her illness, or questioned her absence.
Connie felt rage at the man who had led the woman on. She felt rage at the woman who couldn't face raising the child that she nurtured for nine months. She felt rage at the doctor for not giving his wife a reason to believe he would accept the child. With a little support, Prudence wouldn't have become a murderer.
She slowly closed the book. Why did some men have to be so self centered. Prudence's lover and her husband ... and Phillip.
As she looked at the gold letters, the room blurred, a cool mist surrounded her and the armchair. The book faded. Her lap was empty. The fog remained, growing thinner. Connie looked around the room, it was different.
I must have fallen asleep.
A needlework hoop sat in front of the corner window, a straight-backed chair next to it. The lamp flame flicked, giving off an eerie yellow glow. A wood chest sat against the wall where the sofa should be. The pictures were gone, the wardrobe, chest of drawers and bed were the same. The chair Connie sat in looked almost the same, but it wasn't. The cloth pattern was different, darker in color, the seat harder. A fire blazed in the open hearth, warming the room. The smell of smoke mixed with lilac and burning lamp oil.
Connie stood and went to the window. Something about the houses across the street didn't look the same. Of course the snow was softening the sharp edges and covering the dormant trees, but there was something else. The muffled clip-clop of horses hooves caught her attention, she watched in a daze as the team pulled its loaded wagon along the cobblestone street.
Snow? Horses? Oh, I'm dreaming. She put her trembling hand on the icy windowpane, but everything's so real. If this could be bottled it would make a great Christmas card. I could be in another time. Her fingers were cold against her lips.
She heard the door open, its hinges giving a telltale screech. Why didn't I hear a knock? It didn't seem likely that Betty would just enter
her room. As Connie turned she heard a sharp intake of breath.
Victoria stared in amazement, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise. She wore a white nightgown that covered her from chin to toe and cloth slippers on her feet, her long hair held only by a pink ribbon, rained over her shoulders. The hand holding the candle shook, the other flew to her mouth. Her dark eyes reflected the flickering light.
"Victoria.” Connie took a step forward as she reached for the distant figure. The room spun, she felt herself falling. Realizing as the world grayed that Victoria had seen her, too. What kind of dream is this?
* * * *
Waking to the smells of the floor polish and the rug she was laying on, Connie pulled herself up and tried to sort out her thoughts. Had she fainted? Why?
Memory of the “dream” came back slowly bringing with it a flood of sensations, astonishment, wonder, and fear.
What happened? Did I fall asleep? On the floor? I don't think so. She put a trembling hand to her head. On shaky legs, she made her way to the window. Looking out, Connie tried to get a grip on reality. Yes, it was still spring. The trees were displaying new greenery. Cars traveled the streets nearby. A few tourists clad in shorts and sun hats or baseball caps, and carrying canvas bags, bustled to get back to their cars and lodging for the night.
The house across the street taunted her. Its windows looked like eyes, and the door, a mouth forming a permanent rectangle, saying “Oh". What had been different about this scene in her dream?
Studying both sides of the white frame house, Connie's eyes widened. That's it. There were three buildings in the dream, not two. The one on the right corner was missing. Without having any idea how, Connie knew the house had been destroyed during the looting that preceded the Battle of Fredericksburg in eighteen sixty-two.
It had been a long and trying day. Things would look better in the morning, Connie tried to convince herself as she changed for bed. With little effort she could feel the warmth of the fire on her face and the chill of the icy window pane under her fingers. As she pulled the light blanket up around her neck, Connie remembered Victoria staring at her with fear. But that couldn't be right; Victoria didn't have anything to fear from her. Never mind, Connie told herself, after all it was just a dream.
Lost in the Mist Page 5