by Tracy Donley
Paperwick University welcomed Rosemary with open arms—in part because one of their two full-time history professors had left abruptly when she’d gone into labor a month early, and they were desperate for someone to pick up her classes; and in part because the department was growing anyway, the university boasting its largest freshman class to date. Rosemary took on the absent professor’s classes for the remainder of the fall semester, and would have her own slate of classes come spring.
But today was Saturday. And Rosemary and Jack had big plans this morning. They were going to explore the old barn on Jack and Charlie’s farm. Their contractor, Bert Ander, was coming out after lunch to look over the project. He’d helped Charlie and Jack renovate their farmhouse and Rosemary’s cottage, and was an expert at figuring out how to salvage old structures and bring them back to life.
But before Bert arrived, Jack and Rosemary went out to take a look around.
“I want to get this job done before winter hits,” said Jack.
“We have to get it done,” agreed Rosemary. “Otherwise, where will the pygmy goats and pigs live?”
“To say nothing of the chickens,” said Jack. “Their coop is out in the open. I want to have Bert make a nice cozy one inside the barn. That way everyone can be safe and snug all winter long.”
“This thing is huge,” said Rosemary, looking up at the old, faded red structure.
“I know. Isn’t it great? Look at the roof. See the cupola on top? Isn’t that charming? That’s where our gorgeous owl weathervane will go.”
“I know it’s been updated and maybe enlarged a few times over the centuries, but just imagine how it must’ve looked back in Mercy and Hortence’s time. The Clark family were clearly quite well off.”
“Oh, they were,” said Jack. “They were one of the most prosperous families in the area. If only they hadn’t been fooled into marrying Hortence off to Jonathan Gallow, things could’ve been altogether different.”
“I wonder,” said Rosemary. “Ingrid says we bring curses on ourselves. If Hortence had never married that awful Jonathan, and then she’d never run into the arms of the judge next door . . . How would things have been different? Would she still have made bad choices, just in different ways—and would she still have become a midwife and a blessing to this village?”
“Wouldn’t it be great to sneak back in time and see?” said Jack.
“I feel like I’m about to go back in time as soon as we walk into this old barn,” said Rosemary.
“Oh, it’s a trip, all right. Help me with the door,” said Jack.
Together, they pushed open the huge wooden door on the front of the building.
“Show me where you found the little box that Mercy hid,” said Rosemary.
“Mercy’s secret stash,” said Jack, rubbing his hands together and ushering Rosemary into the barn. “Go around the edge, where the floor’s in the best shape. Get this: There’s a basement underneath part of this barn. I think it was a root cellar. We haven’t even really explored it yet, because, well, we were afraid the whole thing might cave in at any moment. But now that the house is done, I can’t wait to get started in here.”
“Who knows what we’ll find down there!” said Rosemary, stepping on a board that creaked loudly beneath her foot. “Jack, we’re not going to die here in this barn today, are we?”
“Not if we stay over to the side here,” said Jack. “The basement doesn’t run the entire length of the barn. Right up ahead it gets a lot more stable.”
They walked carefully toward the right back corner of the barn, watching each step on the old floorboards. Finally, when they’d arrived at what looked like an animal stall, Jack pushed open the old gate, which fell off with a thunk.
“Oops.”
Jack knelt on the floor and pried out a small section of an old floorboard that had been cut out and then set back into place.
“Wow,” said Rosemary. “It’s almost invisible. Why did you ever even notice this? I never would’ve seen it!”
“I was in here looking for some wood to salvage for the fireplace in the living room. We wanted to create a new mantel, and thought it would be neat to use some materials from the oldest structure on the place—this barn. Anyway, we pulled out a section of this railing,” Jack said, tapping the railing that went around the stall. Sure enough, Rosemary could see the gap where they’d salvaged some of the old wood. “And a bit of hay was stuck in the crack around this floorboard. It caught my eye.”
Rosemary peered into the compartment, which was about the size of a glovebox in a car.
“Very good eyes, Jack,” she said. “I hope you’ll keep this little hiding spot intact when you renovate.”
“Oh, I’ve already told Bert that any and all secret niches or hidden compartments stay,” said Jack. “We’ll probably fix up this stall for Lizzie and Jane.”
Lizzie and Jane were Jack and Charlie’s pot-bellied pigs. They, along with the pygmy goats, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy; and the Plymouth Rock chickens, Anne, Marilla, Diana, and Miss Stacy; not to mention the roosters, Gilbert, and Matthew, would be right at home. Izzy and Smudge, who rounded out the farm’s menagerie, lived inside, and Rosemary and Jack had agreed that Smudge—who didn’t like to leave Rosemary’s side for too long—would live in the cottage with Rosemary but have frequent playdates with Izzy.
Rosemary had taken out her cellphone flashlight and was carefully examining the little compartment. She stuck her hand in and felt around.
“Jack, take another look in here,” she said.
Jack looked into the compartment.
“I see . . . a lot of dust. Ew. A spider lives in here.”
“Look at the side,” said Rosemary. “Use the flashlight.”
“Okay. Looking at the side . . .”
“On the side nearest the window?”
“What? The little knothole?”
“Stick your finger in it,” said Rosemary.
Jack looked at her like she was nuts. “There could be a giant spider on the other side. Or worse.”
“Just do it. Trust me.”
“Spiders are to me like cats are to you,” said Jack. “But okay. Here goes.” He stuck his hand into the compartment, a look of disgust mixed with fear on his face. “Okay . . . I’m sticking my finger in.”
“Now jiggle it.”
“Jiggling . . . Hey, it moves.”
“That side of the compartment moves,” said Rosemary. “Why would it do that, unless . . .”
“Unless it opens,” said Jack, who had forgotten all about the possible giant spider and was working the side panel for all his worth. He pulled his hand back out, his index finger still in the knothole. The entire panel that formed one side of Mercy’s compartment came out, revealing another, even more hidden, compartment beyond it.
“Shine the flashlight in there!” said Jack, trying to see into the dark little hole. “I think there’s something in there, pushed back away from the opening.” He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and slipped his hand into the opening. But he couldn’t get very far. “Rosie, you try. Your hands are smaller.”
Jack moved out of the way, and Rosemary slid her hand awkwardly into the opening. She repositioned her body so that she was laying on the floor alongside the compartment, and tried to reach further in.
“I just touched it!” she said, moving so that she could reach just a hair further. “I have it!”
Slowly, very slowly, Rosemary pulled out an old wooden box, which was caked with dust and spiderwebs.
“Are you kidding me?” gasped Jack. “Are. You. Kidding. Me?”
“This is amazing!” said Rosemary, wiping the surface of the box off. “I can’t believe it. Do you think this was Mercy’s too?”
The box was beautifully crafted. Rosemary could just make out a few simple lines carved into its surface.
“Open it!” said Jack excitedly.
“You should open it,” said Rosemary. “This is your barn.”
“You found it. Go ahead. Do the honors,” said Jack.
Rosemary looked back at the box and gently tried the lid. It didn’t budge. She tried again, but no luck. “I’m afraid I’ll break it,” she said.
“Here, let me see,” said Jack, who took the box and wiped off another layer of caked-on dust. “It’s just filthy. Let’s take it outside where the light is better.”
As they walked back toward the house with their treasure, they talked about the day ahead.
“So, Bert is coming soon. And don’t forget tonight’s game night,” said Jack.
“Seth said he’ll be here early, so he can look around the barn too,” said Rosemary, a quiet smile on her face.
“I see that smile,” teased Jack.
“What smile?”
“The one you get every time you mention his name.”
“Ah. That smile,” laughed Rosemary, smiling even bigger.
“We also invited George Harris to come tonight,” said Jack.
“Great! George is the best—and he’s definitely the voice of reason in Paperwick law enforcement.”
“And he makes a killer spiced cider,” added Jack. “He’s whipping up a batch for us tonight.”
“Oh, that sounds so good,” said Rosemary, looking at the clouds. “Perfect for a cold, gray day like this.”
“Charlie says we’re in for our first flurry this afternoon,” said Jack.
“A little early this year. But you know he’s never wrong,” said Rosemary with a smile.
They took the box to the back porch. Jack went inside to the kitchen and found a soft towel. He returned to the porch and carefully wiped down the box.
“Oh, my,” said Rosemary, as the cloth revealed more of the lines carved into the box. Right on the lid, plain as day: M.C. “This was Mercy’s! That spot in the barn must’ve been her secret little place. That’s why she put this there. And that’s why she left the note there before she escaped with Lilly!”
“But why was this box in a different part of the hidey hole?” asked Jack.
“Who knows? Maybe she was in a hurry. Maybe there were people with torches and pitchforks coming down the lane. I bet that little compartment in the barn had been her special secret hiding place since she was a little girl.”
“Before she reached the ripe old age of nineteen and had to flee for her life, you mean?”
“Right. I bet she put things in there when she needed to be sure they’d be safe. Can you imagine? This was early America—a good Puritan family. Mercy had to keep so much bottled up. So much hidden away.”
“I’m dying to know what’s inside, but I don’t want to break it,” said Jack, wiping off the box some more. “Oh. I see what’s going on. It’s locked,” he said.
“It is?”
“Look here. A tiny keyhole.”
Rosemary and Jack looked at each other.
“The key!” they said at once.
“Did you already take the tin box with Mercy’s note to the museum?”
“Not yet. Sometimes it pays to be absent minded. Wait here!” said Jack, rushing into the house again and returning with the smaller box.
He carefully opened it, set Mercy’s note aside, and took out the tiny key that lay beneath. Then, while he held the box, Rosemary inserted the key, which fit perfectly into the keyhole, and after a satisfying click, they opened the box.
“What is it?” asked Jack.
“A treasure box,” said Rosemary, smiling. “Look, there’s an old comb. And a broken piece of china. What’s this?”
“It looks like a top. Like a child’s toy.”
“Maybe these were Mercy’s things from when she was a little girl,” said Rosemary. “Look, I think this is a handkerchief.”
“What’s this?” Jack carefully lifted out a brittle piece of paper.
“Oh my gosh, be careful,” said Rosemary. “It looks like it’ll break.”
Thankfully, the paper held together, and they were able to lay it out on the wooden patio table. And sure enough, there was Mercy’s beautiful, curling script.
“It’s a letter,” said Jack.
“But the strange thing is, it’s a letter that was written by Mercy,” said Rosemary. “Which means, of course, that she never sent it.”
“I’m so excited I can’t concentrate,” said Jack. “Read it.”
“Okay,” said Rosemary, focusing on the writing and scanning the words.
“It’s a letter to someone named Jonah. It’s a love letter! ‘My dearest Jonah,’ Mercy writes. She says she hopes his studies at school in England are going well, that she knows he’ll be a wonderful physician, and she’s longing for the day when he’ll return and join her in Connecticut.”
“Hold on! Didn’t Ingrid say Mercy married a doctor? Is this him?” asked Jack.
“Yes! That’s why that name sounds familiar!” Rosemary read further down the page. “She talks about Jonathan Gallow being a hard man to live with, and that she doesn’t want to abandon her sister . . . She mentions the work they were doing here, looking after the health of the village. She says she hopes that one day, as Jonah’s wife, she might help him in his practice.”
“This is amazing!” said Jack. “Go on.”
“She says that she’s hoping Elizabeth Graves from next door will take over the keeping of the records once Mercy joins Jonah in Wethersfield, where he’s going to be setting up his practice . . . She says Elizabeth has a fine hand—good handwriting. She laments the fact that . . .”
“What?” asked Jack, who was now literally sitting at the edge of his seat. “What does she lament?”
“Hortence couldn’t write. Mercy laments the fact that Hortence never learned to write. That’s why Mercy kept all of the records.”
“Seriously?” asked Jack.
“In those days,” said Rosemary, “reading and writing were not taught together. They were considered to be separate subjects. So, there were many people who could read but not write. Mercy says that Hortence could read, but she didn’t have the patience to take up a pen and learn to write.”
“But then—” Jack’s eyes grew wider.
“That’s right,” said Rosemary. There was a long beat of silence. “The signed confession—Hortence’s confession of witchcraft. The one Judge Graves said he’d found in her hand. The one he recorded in his journal—”
“She couldn’t have written it,” said Jack.
“She couldn’t have written it,” confirmed Rosemary.
“That was the one part of the mystery that hadn’t fallen into place yet,” said Jack. “We knew Hortence was innocent. But that confession, back in the day, was probably the damning piece of evidence—the thing that convinced everyone that Hortence had been guilty. That was why they dug her grave right there in the meadow. That was why Mercy had to take Lilly and run away.”
“That was why the shadow fell on the Clark family,” said Rosemary.
“Even people right here in the 21st century still equate Hortence with witchcraft. All this time,” said Jack, shaking his head. “Those lives—their lives, so hard for no reason. And now the truth is as plain as day, but it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” said Rosemary, laying a hand on top of Jack’s. “We’ll tell their story.”
Suddenly, from the far side of the pond, a beautiful white swan who’d been gliding along the water’s surface peacefully lifted off, it’s great wings spreading as it rose into the air and flew away, over the treetops.
Keepsakes
Worldwide Telegram
London, England, UK March 24, 2019
Dearest Jack and Charlie—
It’s your wedding day!! If I could be anywhere in the world, I would be with you in Connecticut today. My European tour goes on for seven more months—and don’t ask me why I ever agreed to spend a whole year over here. It’s beautiful, but I’m missing home. Missing you! The first thing I’ll be doing when I get back in the fall is to come see you two. Does November sound okay? I ca
n’t believe you bought a farm! In the photos, it looks like it has a lot of potential.
Did you get the gift I sent? I know an owl weathervane is a bit of an odd wedding present, but the photos you shared of that old barn—the one I know you guys are just dying to renovate? I thought it would look perfect with a weathervane on top, in true New England style. And since we all love anything spooky, an owl seemed the ideal creature to watch over your farm.
Anyway, isn’t it cool that we can still send telegrams? I thought it was so romantic, and today of all days, I wanted you both to know that even though I’m an ocean away, I’m in Connecticut with you in spirit. Can’t wait to visit and finally meet you in person, Charlie. (Did Jack tell you I’m part of the package when you marry him?) See you both soon. Sending much love and many congratulations on your wedding!
* * *
-Rosemary
TOP SECRET!
Grandma Potter’s Caramel Apple Pie
First, make a pie crust—consider doubling the recipe. Might as well make two, so you can save one for later.
[Note: If you’re in a pinch, use a good quality store-bought crust. It won’t be as good, but it does save time. Grandma usually kept a few crusts wrapped and tucked away in the freezer, to use as needed. That’s what I call planning ahead. I’m talking to you, Gabby!]
Here’s a good, trusty pie crust recipe:
-1 ¼ c all-purpose flour
-¼ t salt
-1/2 c. cold butter, cut up [That’s one stick, Gabby.]
-1/4 c. ice water
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