Shadows of Lancaster County

by Mindy Starns Clark

  In retrospect, Remy said, the timing now made perfect sense. The child had been raised in Baden, perhaps with the hope that he might one day safely return to the palace and take his place as the rightful heir. When Kaspar Hauser showed up and everyone began saying he was Karl and Stephanie’s son, Stephanie had kept mum because she knew the real truth. At that point, she may even have been laying plans to straighten things out and introduce her true son to the world. But then, on December 14, 1833, Kaspar Hauser was lured into a park and stabbed; three days later, he died. Once that happened, Remy said, Stephanie probably realized that as long as Luise or Leopold or any of their followers were around, her son would never be safe.

  It was Remy’s belief that at that point Stephanie went to her son and his adoptive Amish parents, urged them to leave the country, and gave them the Beauharnais Rubies as a gift. Amish immigration records confirmed that two couples with the last name of Jensen left Europe a few weeks later, on the first day of January 1834.

  At that point in Remy’s long, complicated story, he sat back and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, looking at me expectantly. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say, but obviously I was missing something.

  “Again,” I said to him, “your tale is fascinating, but what does it have to do with me or my family tree?”

  “Don’t you get it?” he replied gleefully. “Your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Karl Jensen, wasn’t biologically related to Samuel Jensen, the man listed in all the records as his father, because Karl was adopted. His real parents weren’t Amish at all. They were royalty, the duke of Baden and his wife the duchess, Stephanie de Beauharnais.”

  It took a while for me to soak that in, that the elaborate tale Remy had spun about jealous in-laws and murder plots and secret heirs had to do with my family, my people, my forebears. Unbelievable.

  Over a dessert of crème brûlée with fresh raspberries, Remy explained the final part of his tale, the story of what he knew about the rubies after they had been brought to America by my five-greats grandfather, Karl Jensen.

  Though the full set of the Beauharnais Rubies consisted of a necklace, coronet, tiara, comb, earrings, a belt, and bracelets, only two of those pieces were ever seen again. In 1887, a jeweler in New York bought the coronet, and in 1888 a private buyer in France purchased the belt. Otherwise, Remy said it was likely that the remaining pieces had been passed down to the first-born male son of each subsequent generation of the Jensen family.

  “That was my theory anyway, though your brother told me he has never heard of any jewels, and neither has your father.”

  Remy bent over and rummaged through his satchel again, finally pulling out some papers. He handed one to me and I looked it over as he explained that it was the receipt from the sale of the coronet in 1887. The seller was listed as William Jensen of Pennsylvania, who sold it for $135,000.

  “William Jensen? Is he one of my great-greats?”

  “Yes, William would have been your grandfather’s grandfather.”

  “My grandfather’s grandfather? Wait a minute. He’s the one who built the big old family home in Dreiheit, the one my grandparents lived in.” I glanced at Reed and then back at Remy. “We were always told that the money for that house came from the oil boom in western Pennsylvania. I mean, the Jensen family wasn’t rich, but that was a gorgeous house. The story was that it was paid for with profits made from selling land to Standard Oil.”

  “Yes, that’s what your brother told me, so I did a search of the records of Standard Oil’s bills of sale for a ten-year period during that time. There were no receipts for anyone named Jensen.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Reed interjected, “is that William lied? He went out of town for a while and came back with $135,000, saying he got it from the Pennsylvania oil boom when in fact it had come from the sale of a part of the Beauharnais Rubies?”

  “Exactly!” Remy exclaimed. “William sold off those two pieces, as far as I can tell, but the rest of the set remained intact. Perhaps he just wanted enough money to build a nice home. The remainder of the set stayed in your family and continued to be passed down through the generations, at least as far as your grandfather. What happened from there is anybody’s guess, but given that his death was sudden and unexpected, I

  have to imagine that he simply died before he had the chance to pass them along—which is why these treasure hunters are after you. If your claim is no stronger than theirs, they may be able to assert ownership once they have possession. Of course, they don’t know about this photo, which could help lend credence to your own claim.”

  Remy handed me a family photo, one I had seen before.

  “Your father faxed that to me just before he left town, saying he may have discovered a clue to the mystery but that he wouldn’t have time to pursue it further until he got back from his trip.”

  “Who is that?” Reed asked, looking on with interest.

  “My grandparents, on their honeymoon at Niagara Falls,” I said. “I always loved this picture. We were told that the jewels she has on here were fake, like a joke. Are you telling me these are the Beauharnais Rubies?”

  “Yes, they are,” Remy replied, beaming, “and I must say, she looks quite fetching in them.”

  I sat back in my seat, holding the picture in my hand, gazing at the smiling face of Grandma Jensen when she was just in her early twenties. The jewels around her neck and hanging from her ears and nestled in her upswept hair were so elaborate, so gorgeous and over-the-top that we all believed the story that they were fake, mere props provided by the photographer. Suddenly, I felt angry with my grandparents that they had kept a secret of this magnitude from the rest of us all these years. I couldn’t imagine where the jewels could be now. Obviously, they had been in my grandparents’ possession back when the photo was taken. After that, where had they gone? Had my grandfather really died without telling anyone where they were hidden?

  “How do we know for sure that my grandparents didn’t sell the rest of the rubies at some point?” I asked.

  “Well, other than the beautiful home they lived in, did they leave behind any large fortune or purchase anything of great value? Something that perhaps they could have afforded only by selling something else of great value?”

  “No,” I replied frankly. “My family has always lived very modestly. Trust me, if there was any big fortune, we didn’t know about it.”

  “Then perhaps the jewels are hidden away in their house somewhere.”

  “That’s not possible,” I replied. “When my grandfather died and we had to sell the place, we cleared it out top to bottom. We never found anything of value—well, except for an old family quilt my parents donated to the Folk Art Museum. But even that was homemade, not store bought.”

  Remy said there was a possibility that when William had the house built he had installed some sort of hiding place into the walls or the foundation.

  “Do you think the new owners would allow us to take a look?” he asked. “In my line of work, I’ve become pretty good at spotting hidey holes and secret places that a less-experienced person may never notice.”

  I shrugged, saying the house itself had been moved to a new location but that I could call them tomorrow and ask.

  “Excellent. If they give you the green light, by all means, let me know and I’ll meet you there. I’ll be staying with my friends in Lititz for a few days.”

  Hoping it didn’t sound tacky, I asked Remy what the jewels would be worth if we could find them now.

  “I hesitate to put a value on them, but millions, certainly. Perhaps tens of millions if the set is still intact and in good condition.”

  Beside me, Reed let out a low whistle and said it was no wonder I was being attacked right and left. Remy’s face colored, and again he apologized for making such a stupid blunder in discussing the situation on his blog.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Reed said. “If Anna’s family descended from royalty, is that significant in
any way? Do I need to start bowing down or calling her Princess Anna or anything?”

  We all laughed.

  “Not after this many generations, especially considering that that particular monarchy was dissolved in the early 1900s. The best Anna and her family get at this point is a claim to fame—and of course a priceless set of jewels, if we can find them.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Driving through the darkness toward Dreiheit with Reed following closely behind, I kept thinking about poor Stephanie de Beauharnais and the difficult choice she had had to make in giving up her son in order to give him life. Thinking of the other mother, the Amish woman who adopted Stephanie’s son in secret, I realized now that her own child must have been born dead, or nearly so, which was why she had agreed to the trade. Had that been the beginning of one of the disorders that plagued the Amish to this day? I shuddered at the realization that the markers for Karl’s royal DNA had essentially remained unchanged through six generations—all the way down to Isaac, whose DNA had likely been altered somehow.

  In the darkness, I reached for my phone and dialed Reed to ask him if the FBI had decided to bring Isaac and Lydia into protective custody. He said that he had just hung up with his buddy, who told him that there was already a “discreet presence” in place around the farm instead, which should keep them just as safe.

  “The FBI is already protecting them?”

  “Not exactly. They’re watching the farm in case Bobby shows up, but that means they’ll also be there should anything else happen.”

  I tried not to think about Bobby showing up in the dark of night and being shot down by a G-man with an itchy trigger finger.

  “What did your friend say about Isaac’s health?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be tested?”

  “Yeah, we both think so. If Lydia will let me, I can do a blood draw on him to get things started. Who knows? Maybe he’s not as sick as we fear. Why don’t you talk to her about it, and I’ll swing by with a collection kit around noon tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  We continued to talk as we drove, and it was just nice to have him there on the line with me, his voice warm and deep in the cold stillness of the night. He said he had an idea about my safety, one I wasn’t going to like but that might prove to be very helpful in the end.

  “You’ve been dodging the press since you got to town,” he said, “but now that we know about the rubies and everything, maybe you should be a little more available to them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I bet if you throw them some crumbs, they’ll follow you around like your own little flock of birds. I doubt anyone would dare try to nab you or hold a gun to you if reporters and photographers are nearby. Given the potential value of those jewels, it might be the prudent thing to do.”

  As much as I was sickened by the thought of playing up to the press, he had a point. I felt safe when Reed was with me, but he couldn’t always be there. I told him I would think about it.

  “Anna, let me ask you something,” Reed said suddenly, his deep voice like velvet in the night. “How is it I haven’t seen you in eleven years, but being together feels as comfortable and natural as if we’d seen each other a week ago?”

  Maybe because I never stopped thinking about you, never stopped loving you, I thought but did not say.

  “That’s the nature of certain friendships, I guess,” I ventured, gazing out at the moonlit landscape that surrounded me.

  “We were more than friends, Anna, if you recall.”

  “Were we?”

  “Are you kidding? I was crazy about you back then.”

  His comment was so shocking that my jaw literally dropped open.

  “Crazy about me? Reed Thornton, I was madly in love with you, but for most of that summer you acted like I barely existed. I mean, you were nice to me and we had a lot of fun together, but there was no romance involved. Crazy about me? Yeah, right.”

  He was quiet for a moment, though I thought I could hear him chuckling.

  “There was no romance involved, thanks to the shred of self-discipline I was able to muster. Think about it, Anna. I was twenty-one years old, and you were just seventeen. Granted, you didn’t seem like any seventeen-year-old I had ever met before, but that didn’t change the fact that you were too young for me. You have no idea how hard it was to remember that.”

  “Except when you kissed me the night of the fire, hanging out with you was like going around with my brother all summer. You’re telling me now that you liked me more than you let on?”

  “Oh, yeah. Way more. I thought about kissing you every time we were together. That night, I guess it was the combination of the beer and the romantic setting and the fact that we were alone, in the dark. I couldn’t help myself. And then I had to do something to shift the focus, so like an idiot I whipped out a joint.”

  We rode along in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

  “I’ve never forgotten the disappointment I saw in your face when I did that. It was a moment I’ve taken back in my mind a zillion times since, that moment when I killed any feelings you may have had for me. Your face—I can still see it. After we kissed, you looked up at me with those big, beautiful eyes filled with trust and adoration, and I had to go and blow it by offering you a toke. I knew you were different, Anna. I knew it was a dumb thing to do even as I was pulling it out of my pocket. But I was just so…um…ready to keep going, and I really didn’t want to take things further. I guess it was an attempt to change the subject the best way I knew how, by getting high.”

  I swerved to avoid a patch of ice and lowered my speed on the hilly road.

  “I’m sorry, Reed. I never understood any of that. I had put you up on such a pedestal, and when I realized you did drugs, the pedestal toppled. If I hadn’t stuck you up on there in the first place, maybe I would have been more understanding when I learned you were human.”

  “Well, thanks for being kind, but that was more than just being human. What I did was wrong and really, really stupid. Offering pot to a minor? For that alone I deserved every minute I spent in prison. I really wasn’t a very good person back then, Anna.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Reed,” I said softly. “After all, you were good enough to make me fall in love with you.”

  “I don’t know how. I hate who I was then, always putting myself first, so spoiled and selfish and bored with life.”

  “You don’t seem to be any of those things anymore. What changed you, Reed?”

  With dismay, I realized that we had reached the farm. Slowing, I put on my blinker, turned into the driveway, and pulled toward the house.

  “The same thing that changed all of us, I guess. But that’s a long story, better saved for another day.”

  I hoped another day would come soon, because I really did want to hear about all that he had learned and done since the day he turned to look at me in the courtroom, his eyes filled with regret.

  In the dark and silent driveway, I softly thanked Reed for coming to my rescue earlier tonight, not to mention joining me for dinner and safely seeing me home. Whispering in the stillness, I asked him if it felt weird to be back here, standing beside the very house we once caused to burn. He seemed surprised by the question.

  “Oh, Anna, I’ve been back dozens of times since then. In fact, I’d say Grete and Nathaniel are among my most treasured friends.”

  As if to prove his point, the door suddenly opened to reveal Nathaniel, still dressed at this late hour and holding a lantern. Smiling broadly, he came out and gave Reed a warm handshake and a brotherly hug. After several minutes of quiet conversation, they said goodnight and we parted ways.

  Inside, the house was quiet, everyone else in bed. At the top of the stairs, Nathaniel handed me a flashlight and bid me goodnight before opening the door to the bedroom he shared with his wife. In a whisper, I thanked him for waiting up for me.

  “Think nothing of it,” he replied, not seeming the least bit annoye
d that it was so late, despite the fact that he had been up since before dawn, worked a full day, and would have to repeat the same thing tomorrow.

  Feeling oddly nervous in the dark, silent house, I lit the lantern beside the bed and gathered my things. Holding the flashlight in slightly shaky hands, I crept back downstairs to the bathroom where I brushed my teeth and dressed for bed as quickly as I could.

  Stepping back out of the bathroom, I paused in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night. This old farmhouse creaked ever so slightly, and I could hear the gentle hiss of the woodstove, the ticking of the clock.

  Despite my serious case of nerves, I wanted to take a peek inside the ceramic jar in the kitchen, the one I had seen Lydia use as a hiding place this morning. Bravely, I tiptoed across the floor, wincing at every creak my footsteps made, and as quietly as I could lifted the lid. I pointed my flashlight down inside, but I knew immediately that whatever she had put in there was gone now. The jar was empty but for a few cookie crumbs at the bottom.

  Back upstairs and safely buried under the covers, my mind wandered back to the conversation Reed and I had had in the car. I was still astounded to learn that once upon a time he had cared for me too. Somehow, just knowing that, even if I never saw him again after this week, made all the difference in how I felt about him—and, more importantly, how I felt about myself. All those years ago, I hadn’t been some pathetic lovelorn idiot. I had been responding in kind to a man who loved me too.

  The next morning dawned less brightly than the one before. Sitting up in the bed, I pulled the simple green shade to the side and peered out at the sky. Gloomy and gray, it looked as if it might snow today. I had a lot to do, including Doug’s wake this afternoon in Hidden Springs, so I really hoped it wouldn’t. At least Reed had offered to drive us there together.

  Gazing out at the frozen landscape, I thought of what the snow might mean for Bobby, on the chance that he was out there somewhere, cold and hurt and alone. In the past few days, so that I could better focus on my investigation, I had tried not to dwell on whatever sufferings he might be going through. But now an image suddenly filled my mind, that of him lying somewhere in the darkness, crying out for help with no one around to hear. Thinking of the keys I’d found in his locker, I decided it was time to take things up a notch.