The Time Heiress

by Georgina Young- Ellis

  We slept on the floor, just glad to have a roof over our heads. The man, whose name was Elijah and the woman, Katie, would not let us leave until Lill was better, though we knew it put them in danger. Their master’s house was just a little ways farther into the woods, but since he did not have any reason to come down to the slave shack, we were able to stay unseen for about four days.

  From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly

  *****

  Travel Journal, Evelyn Bay: Sunday, May 15, 1853—We’ve now been here a week and a day. This morning we went to church service at All Angels. Reverend Williams gave a great sermon, and a wonderful choir of mixed black and white, men and women, sang traditional hymns and Negro spirituals. I was glad to see integration, at least when it came to the music. Change sometimes comes step by step. Afterward there was a big dinner in the reception hall, of ham, fried chicken, biscuits, greens, noodle casserole, corn, iced tea, and cake.

  Caleb came to sit by me again, and I noticed that Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum were observing us carefully. He broached the subject of painting; wanted to know more about my work but would still not admit to being an artist himself.

  I am so utterly drawn to him. He’s very wise for someone so young and has such a gentle way about him. I want nothing more than to be in his company and to talk only to him, though I fear by doing so, I do not appear modest enough. He also does not seem in the least hesitant to speak openly and confidently to me, though I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m white.

  Mr. Evans came in to eat after the service and sat with our little group. Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum have now taken us under their wing, as they have him, and I think consider us exclusively their own. I eventually joined the conversation, and Cassandra and I answered their questions about our lives in Boston. Finally, when Miss J. and Miss K. found out we were staying at the Dylan Hotel, being most shocked at our going to the expense of such costly accommodations, insisted that we come and stay with them at their home (which apparently they share—another oddity). Everyone chimed in, in favor of the idea, Reverend Williams, Mr. Evans, Samuel, who also lives there, and Caleb. I could see that Cassandra was completely taken aback by the offer. I know she values her privacy and still thinks of these people more or less as strangers. But they began to win her over with their powers of persuasion, and I could see that what made her seriously consider the offer was the mention of the fine grand piano that resides in their parlor.

  Later, here at the hotel, after some discussion, she agreed to it. We sent a note over to the address they gave us, and we shall await their reply in the morning. We may even move our things over tomorrow if they find it convenient!

  *****

  When Cassandra and Evie arrived at #214 West Fifteenth Street, Cassandra noted that the large, two-story home with a peaked roof was neither “modern,” like many of the Fifth Avenue mansions that had been built within the last ten years or so, nor very old. When the house had been built, probably about fifty years ago, she estimated, the area around Fifteenth Street, including Union Place, had been mostly farms.

  As the carriage pulled up, Samuel, Miss Ketchum, and Miss Johnston hurried outside to meet it. Samuel hauled their bags into the house, and Evie paid the driver while the two hostesses fluttered about. They ushered Cassandra and Evie up the steps, across the covered porch, through the entryway, and into the spacious parlor of tall windows, a high ceiling, and sturdy furniture, worn with use. Cassandra looked over the room with interest: chairs of fading brocade and velvet clustered around a large, ornate fireplace opposite the doorway, and a low, marble table, covered with books and lace doilies, nestled in their midst; beyond, there was a sofa with a rounded back and carved claw feet, strewn with needlepoint pillows and positioned near a window. A small pedestal table rested nearby, on which stood a single porcelain vase holding fresh pansies. A few, large, mismatched chairs completed the scene in the comfortable-looking corner. A large, greenish carpet with a pattern that was now unrecognizable covered most of the oak floor. By the nearest window, at the front of the house, the grand piano dominated.

  Cassandra noticed that Evie was standing still, staring at a painting on the wall above the fireplace.

  “Do you like the painting, Miss Bay?” Miss Johnston asked. “It was done by our very own Caleb. We think it is astonishing and have begged him for others, but he will not relent.”

  “It is magnificent,” Evie whispered.

  Cassandra walked up to take a closer look. “Incredible!”

  Something about it seemed familiar. The longer Cassandra looked, the more each brush stroke seemed to stand out. Some were so thick they had tangible depth. There was a raft made up of several broad swipes of brown, criss-crossed to create the illusion of wood. The water of a river was angry swabs of blue and gray and green, stabbed with dots of white, indicating foam; mud was a smear of brackish dark green and black that bled down the bank. The large strokes were in contrast to the delicate pointillism that made up a straw hat on a tall man and the pattern in a woman’s dress, only noticeable upon close examination. In sharper focus was the faded blue fabric of a ferryman’s coverall’s. Trees lining the banks in the background faded into the distance, lost in fog. From every angle, from close and from far, she found a new perspective or detail.

  “Oh, Caleb will be quite gratified to hear you say so,” Miss Johnston was saying, “though I fear he will not take the compliment easily. He is not confident in his abilities.”

  “But how can he not be?” Evie blurted. “It is one of the finest paintings I have ever beheld!”

  “Well, she should know,” interjected Miss Ketchum, “being a student of art.”

  “Yes, she does know,” murmured Cassandra. She was transfixed by the images in the picture. The despair was palpable, and yet it conveyed a certain tentative hopefulness.

  “Shall we have a tour of the house?” proposed Miss Johnston.

  “Perhaps our guests would prefer to sit with a nice glass of lemonade,” suggested Miss Ketchum.

  “I would love a tour,” said Cassandra, turning to them.

  Evie was examining the gilt frame around the painting. Cassandra touched her arm.

  “Yes,” agreed Evie distractedly, “a tour.”

  “Wonderful,” said Miss Johnston. “Well, as you can see, this is the parlor, and there is the piano, Mrs. Reilly. Would you like to try it?”

  “Oh, Cass, do not be so pushy,” said Miss Ketchum, “I am sure she does not want to sit down to play right this minute.”

  “Yes, let us continue with the tour. I shall try it later.”

  “Very well. Anyway, this house was Mother and Father’s, and Father spent many a happy hour at that piano, or at his violin. He filled this house with music.”

  Cassandra halted. “You mean, your father, Benedict Johnston?”

  “Well, yes. Have I mentioned his name?”

  “I believe you must have,” interrupted Evie. “Or else it was your grandfather who mentioned it.”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Johnston continued, “well anyway, after Father died a few years ago, Mother went to live at the rectory with Grandfather, and I stayed here. My brothers, James and Jeremiah are both married, and Lillian and Samuel graciously offered to come and live with me so I would not rattle around in this big house like a lonely old maid.”

  “Old maid?” Miss Ketchum chuckled.

  “Your mother,” said Cassandra. “Why have we not met her yet?”

  “She has had a touch of a cold.”

  Miss Johnston went on chattering as she led them through the house and Cassandra knew it was inevitable that she would meet Ben’s wife, Sarah, soon.

  She had this basic information about the family: Benedict had married Sarah in 1823, when Ben was forty-one and Sarah was twenty-five. They had their daughter Cassandra, obviously named after herself, in 1824, James, whom Benedict must have named after her own son, in 1826; and Jeremiah, after Sarah’s father, in 1828.
Benedict had become a member of the Grand Symphony Orchestra in 1826 and had died in 1848 at the age of sixty-six.

  She was silent as her namesake continued to rattle on about the house. The young woman led them from the parlor into the library, where Cassandra could imagine Benedict sitting and reading for hours on end. They then moved into the sitting room, a small, cozy space with an end table and oil lamp in between each pair of six upholstered armchairs, a place where Sarah probably spent time with the children, hearing their lessons, or doing needlework.

  They continued into the dining room, dark with carved wood paneling and heavy furniture, and then beyond into the sunny breakfast room. They were then brought into the kitchen, a large space with a great wooden work table in the center, a sink with a pump, a cast-iron box stove, and a cavernous brick hearth where three chickens roasted on a spit, heating the room to about ten degrees more than the temperature outside on the warm, spring day.

  A large, black woman of middle age stood in front of the stove, stirring something in a pot. She turned around as the group entered.

  “How do y’ do?” she asked with a quick nod of her head.

  “Anna Mae, this is Mrs. Reilly and Miss Bay, our guests for the next few weeks.”

  “Y’all as skinny as these other two,” she said in a thick, Georgia drawl, indicating Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum. “I can’t feed ’em enough to fatten ’em up.”

  “Now, Anna Mae,” Miss Ketchum said, giving the woman an affectionate hug.

  “Go on, now, let me get my work done. Y’all get outta here.”

  “Anna Mae likes to pretend she’s cranky, but she is really just as sweet as can be,” said Miss Johnston. “We just bought that new stove for her last year, and now she will not let anyone get near it.”

  “That’s right. Don’t want nonna y’all messin’ with my stove.”

  “Very well, we will leave you be, Anna Mae,” said Miss Johnston with a wink at Miss Ketchum.

  “Dinner at two. Don’t be late,” she called as they continued out the back door into the garden.

  “Oh, this is divine!” cried Cassandra, stepping out with the others into the sunshine.

  The backyard wasn’t large, but it contained a tidy vegetable garden, flowerbeds, several fruit trees with benches placed beneath, a substantial stack of firewood along a fence, and a rustic wooden table and chairs situated under a simply constructed gazebo. It was all surrounded by a picket fence about waist high, and though the yard was fairly well shielded from those on either side and at the rear by the shrubs and trees, Cassandra could see that none of the others was as pretty.

  “This is Samuel’s domain,” stated Miss Johnston, she motioned to him standing amongst the sprouting rows of vegetables, hoe in hand. He tipped his hat and continued with his work.

  Cassandra walked closer to inspect. She reached down and yanked a wisp of grass from between the heads of new lettuce and tossed it into a pile of weeds.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Samuel said, stopping what he was doing. “But I do not want the ladies to dirty themselves with this kinda work.”

  “Oh, I do not mind; I love to garden!”

  “Yes, well—”

  Miss Johnston stepped forward and tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm. “We try to stay out of Samuel’s way back here.”

  Cassandra quickly backed away from the lettuce, mortified. She had obviously gone too far. “Forgive me, Samuel.”

  “No, ma’am, do not worry. I only meant that—”

  Cassandra felt something she never had before, a sense that, as a white person, she must somehow be deferred to. “No, no, let me allow you to get on with your work. I have intruded.”

  “Before Samuel came, the yard had fallen into disrepair,” Miss Johnston jumped in. “Now we can sit out here in the gazebo out of the sun, and have a little breakfast in warm weather, or take a cup of tea. And we have fresh vegetables and fruit for at least half the year. The garden has never done better than under his care.”

  Samuel shot her a smile.

  Cassandra nodded and walked back to join Evie. “He certainly does a wonderful job. It is just perfect! May I ask, what is that little building back there? Is it a shed?” She indicated a small rectangular hut that was hidden behind an apple tree in the farthest back corner of the garden.

  “Why, Mrs. Reilly!” answered Miss Ketchum. “Are you telling me you have never seen an outdoor privy? Boston must be a very fine place indeed!”

  Cassandra felt herself blush. Of course it was an outhouse! She had seen plenty in England, although her own home in 1820 had used indoor water closets and chamber pots.

  Evie giggled. “Well, it is such a charming little house, that I hardly recognized it either. But believe me, an outhouse is as common a thing in Boston as it is here.”

  “Of course, we do not much use it,” Miss Johnston chimed in, “not with the wonderfully modern bathroom we have upstairs, which you shall soon see. It comes in handy sometimes though, that is for sure.”

  “Yes, let us go upstairs and show our guests the remainder of the house,” said Miss Ketchum.

  They went through a separate back door that led into the sitting room, then into the entry hall and up a carpeted staircase to the second floor. A wide central hallway was covered with a runner of floral print. At either end, windows provided natural light. High candleholders, now unlit, were placed between the doors of each room.

  “This is the finest guest room,” Miss Johnston said, opening the first to her right. “It used to be Mother and Father’s, but instead of taking it for myself when Mother left, I remained more comfortable in the room I grew up in. I shall let the two of you fight over it,” she said with good humor.

  It was a spacious room, dominated by a large, four-poster, canopied bed of heavy dark wood, surrounded by wine-colored velvet drapes, which were now tied back at the corners. All of the furniture was dark, but the large windows with white lace curtains lightened up the space, and added some sweetness. Cassandra knew there was no way she could sleep in the same bed that Benedict had shared with his wife.

  “Miss Bay, do you like this room?” she asked, looking pointedly at Evie, “because I would be happy for you to have it if you do.”

  “I love it! It will do perfectly. And I see that Samuel has put my luggage here. He must have anticipated that I would.”

  “Samuel is like that,” said Miss Ketchum. “He has a strong intuition. Come, Mrs. Reilly; let us show you the other guest room.”

  They went back into the hallway, and she opened the next door. The room was smaller, and the full-sized bed with high carved headboard and matching footboard dominated the room. The bedclothes and curtains were a forest-green brocade, and a rocking chair was positioned invitingly by a window. Cassandra’s luggage was set near the dresser.

  “It is beautiful!” she declared.

  “This was James’ room,” said Miss Johnston. “But we put Mother’s rocking chair in here. James has been out on his own since around the time Father died. He hired onto a merchant ship for about a year, and was quickly elevated to first mate.” Her pride in her brother was evident as she spoke. “He made a tidy income and was able to come home, open up his own law office, and then got married soon after. They have a little girl, and another babe on the way. You are sure to meet them soon.”

  The door across from Evie’s was Samuel’s room, they were informed, which used to be that of the youngest son, Jeremiah, named for his grandfather. Cassandra knew that Evie was directly descended from this man and his future offspring, and the two of them exchanged glances.

  “Jeremiah and his new wife live up on Twenty-second Street,” Miss Johnston said. “They are renting a flat for the time being. Jeremiah is the one who most takes after Father, both in looks and talent. He has followed in his footsteps and plays violin for the New York Philharmonic—first chair, I may add.”

  “Your father must have been so proud,” said Cassandra.

  “Yes, proud, but
also worried that he would have a hard time making a living. However, Jerry does pretty well, and fortunately his wife has some money.”

  The next room they were shown was the bathroom, a room almost as large as Cassandra’s bedroom, with a large, claw foot tub, a toilet and sink, and cabinets full of drying sheets, soaps, and other necessities. Cassandra was surprised to see the place outfitted with running water.

  Miss Johnston noted her reaction with pride.

  “Yes, this bathroom is very modern. Mother and Father had it done about ten years ago, with the very latest fixtures and plumbing. Father always said that England was well ahead of the States when it came to plumbing and was determined to have running water put in as soon as it was possible to do so. I am afraid it was the outhouse or the chamber pot before that.”

  “Cass,” Miss Ketchum chided, “you are so immodest!”

  “Oh, nonsense, our friends do not mind. Anyway, the last two rooms down the hall here are mine and Lillian’s. We are across the corridor from each other.”

  She opened the door to her own room and they peered in. It looked as though it had likely not changed since she was a little girl. A twin-sized day bed snuggled up against the wall, covered with a white-eyelet spread which matched the curtains. Everything was feminine, delicate, Cassandra thought, not really reflecting the sturdy, practical woman that stood before them.

  Then Miss Ketchum opened the door to her own across the hall, where they found very similar furnishings, except that the fabrics were of a floral pattern. A woman was bent over, dusting a low bookshelf. She looked up and smiled shyly when they came in. She was young, with bright red hair and a constellation of freckles sprinkled over her face. She was wearing a plain, gray dress.