She sighed and stood up, wearily starting preparations for a light meal. Aunt Mary’s kitchen was very different from the small, efficient space of her apartment in Atlanta. While Kate often enjoyed the process of preparing a solitary meal in the city, it hardly seemed possible for her own singular presence to fill a kitchen so used to the love and fullness of family. This kitchen needed people crowding the table and leaning up against the counters, talking and laughing and carrying on well past the end of each meal. Kate wondered how many times the family had gathered in that very room in recent years. Countless times, she was sure. And yet, she had never been there. As she sat in Aunt Mary’s kitchen, all alone, eating the fettuccine she’d made, the weight of her own selfishness felt heavier than ever before. She longed for her family, for the kind of connection that bound them together no matter what—making them strong enough to handle the highs and lows, the rough roads and choppy water that life brought.
Kate didn’t want to be alone anymore.
She slid her half-empty plate of pasta to the side and pressed her forehead into her hands. She needed a friend, but there was no one to call. Her relationships in Atlanta were only skin deep and would provide little comfort in her present situation. She was saddened to realize that the person she generally talked to the most in the city received a paycheck for being her assistant. Disheartened and lonelier than ever, Kate did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. The busyness of her hands, at least temporarily, dampened the sadness in her heart.
Chapter 9
When the dishes were put away, Kate searched the junk drawer in the kitchen for something she could use to pick the rusty lock on the old trunk she’d noticed in the attic. She wondered how it had managed to escape her notice until now and was curious about its contents. Armed with a slender nail file and a handful of bobby pins, Kate climbed the stairs to the attic and moved things aside until the trunk was fully exposed. In the darkness of the evening, Kate had to rely on the single bulb hanging from the attic ceiling to light the cluttered space. The light’s performance was less than satisfactory. When Kate leaned in front of the trunk to try her hand at picking the lock, her body cast a shadow over the entire thing, making it impossible for her to see what she was doing.
She climbed behind it in frustration, sliding it as best she could toward the small circle of light pooling in the center of the room. With the lock now in better position, she wiggled the nail file around inside until she heard the little click she was hoping for. Kate laughed quietly to herself and thought of the time she’d lost the key to the lock on her storage unit in the basement of her condo. The super had picked the lock with surprising ease. Clearly, mimicking his technique worked for Kate as well. The bolt slid out of the rusty lock, and Kate gently lifted the heavy lid. The trunk was made of heavy walnut, with dovetailed edges and wrought-iron handles on either side. Its scratched and heavily weathered exterior made it obvious that this trunk had done a lot of traveling.
Kate reached in and pulled out a soft quilt, the fabric so thin she worried it might dissolve between her fingers. Under the quilt, she found a small wooden horse, a corn husk doll, a set of tarnished silver spoons, and a heavy Bible published in 1843. Kate marveled as she picked up each item, wondering who these things could have belonged to. In the bottom of the trunk, she found a small wooden box. Carefully, she lifted it out and tried to slide off the lid. The warped wood resisted her efforts, catching in the narrow grooves that guided the lid into place. After a few minutes of delicate struggle, the lid finally yielded its contents into Kate’s hands. As she’d struggled with the ancient lid, she had imagined something of value, jewelry, perhaps, hidden inside. Instead, she found a small leather-bound book and a few pages of thick, tightly folded paper held together with a thin piece of twine.
Kate gently opened the small book and flipped through the first few pages. It appeared to be a journal, the date on the first page marked September 29, 1817. Carefully, she held the folded paper, picking the twine loose with her fingernails. It was a letter. Two letters, it seemed, written by the same hand. The faded ink of the slanted cursive was difficult to make out in the dim light of the attic, and as she puzzled over it, Kate realized the chill of the cool spring night had crept into the drafty attic space. Placing the other items back in the trunk, Kate took the letters and journal, as well as the old family Bible, downstairs to the family room for more comfortable reading.
Settled in her favorite chair next to the bookshelf, the reading lamp turned on above her, Kate picked up the first letter. The paper was thick but still felt fragile, almost brittle to Kate’s touch.
4 February 1818
My Dear Ian,
I received your letter this week past, and though I’ve put pen to paper many a time, I’ve stopped for fear of wetting the paper too heavily with my tears. Oh, how you’ve grieved my heart with such news. It’s been most difficult knowing that all these months I’ve prayed and hoped for my husband’s well-being, and he’s been gone—buried beneath the ground. The thought of it has near ruined me, but now, Ian, my heart aches for you—alone in a strange land. Your letter made mention of friends—those who knew your father and are willing to help you. Don’t trust just anyone, son. I know there are good people in this world, and your father would not have kept company with someone he did not trust, but be careful just the same. Keep your eyes and ears open; use your head, and, of course, take all of your decisions to God. God is with you. He will take care of you, just as Da always taught you. “Wherever you walk . . . walk with God.” I know you will, and I know you will work hard. Your father isn’t there to help you know what to do, so I want you to listen to me. I want you to save your money, and when you have enough, return to Scotland. I feel it unlikely your sisters and I will ever be able to make the journey ourselves.
Susannah has fallen ill these past few months. Doctor McGinnley doesn’t know what ails her, but she is quite sickly and would never endure such a strenuous journey across the Atlantic. The news of Father’s death has hit her hard, and I worry for her well-being. She is thinner than I’ve ever seen her, her skin so pale. The doctor is here to treat her regularly, but she makes little progress. He knows of a doctor in London who may be able to help, but we’ve not got the money to make such a journey. Instead, we place her life in God’s hands and pray He will preserve and heal her little body. It hardly seems fair for such a young child to endure such a crisis. She misses you also and asks regularly to have the small part of your letter addressed to her read over and over. Mary is doing quite well and is tireless in the assistance she offers her sister. Things are difficult here, Ian, though your uncle does the best he can to help us. My worries are all for you though. I wait anxiously to hear from you again, to know what your circumstances are, and to know if we might expect your journey home. You are a man now, son. I’ve taught you for sixteen years and trust you to make wise decisions. Don’t be imprudent. You represent your father, remember . . . and God. May He be with you always . . .
Mother
“Ian,” Kate spoke out loud as she finished the heartfelt letter. She was surprised at how deeply it touched her heart. A son, she determined, separated from his family, his father dead. She wondered what could have created such circumstances. The letter was obviously a response to one already sent by Ian—a letter that must have informed his family of the father’s death.
Sixteen years old and an ocean away from any family; who are you, Ian?
Kate turned over the letter and found what she was looking for. There, in faded ink on the outside of the paper, was a name she must have missed in her haste to see the contents of the letter:
Ian Wylie
Watson Home Bakery–Calhoun St.
Charleston, South Carolina
“Ian Wylie!” Kate exclaimed. It made sense that a Wylie had penned these letters. It was a Wylie, after all, who had built the farmhouse so many years ago. He was her ancestor, then; she turned to the heavy Bible she had pulled from the trunk,
hoping to find a family record on the first few pages. Sure enough, page three of the Bible contained a record of the Wylie family ancestry. The most recent name on the list, Kate didn’t immediately recognize: Isaac Abraham Wylie, born in 1888. She counted backward, guessing that her grandfather, George Charles Wylie, was born sometime around 1920. It was reasonable to assume, then, that Isaac Abraham could be George’s father.
Kate followed with her finger the Wylie paternal line: above Isaac Abraham, John David Wylie, born in 1866, and his father, Henry Sebastian Wylie, born 1845. Above Henry, Kate read James Ian Wylie, born 1825, and then she found what she was looking for. The first name in the old family Bible: Ian Edward Wylie, born 1801, in Edinburgh, Scotland. Kate had never seen such a detailed list of her ancestry. She was sure that had Mary known this Bible existed, she would have kept it close and cherished the record of her ancestors. She could not have known. Somehow, the trunk must have remained hidden in the attic, an undiscovered treasure.
And I was the one to find it.
Kate wondered if there was a way to confirm the lineage, though she really had little doubt. How else would such a specific element of family history have wound up in Aunt Mary’s attic? Still, her mind kept searching for proof, some tangible connection that linked her to the Wylies on the page before her. Then it came to her: Grandpa Ike. Aunt Mary had told stories about going to Grandpa Ike’s farm—Ike . . . short for Isaac.
Kate was amazed at the kinship she felt just reading the faded names off the page of the old Bible. She’d never thought much about her ancestors, beyond her basic awareness that the Wylies had come from Scotland, and she had never heard anything about Ian or the experiences his mother had made reference to. Kate turned back to the letter and shook her head in amazement. She couldn’t imagine how desperate his mother must have felt, her husband gone and her son alone in a strange country. Even worse, how must have Ian felt? Kate picked up the small leather journal she’d found with the letters and gently opened the soft, worn cover. On the inside, she read Property of Ian Wylie.
The first entry was dated September 29, 1817, five months prior to the letter Kate had just read.
Mrs. Watson says it will do me good to write about things as of late, though I don’t much have a knack for writing. Even still, Mr. MacDonald was generous in giving me this book. Out of respect for him, I’ll try. Perhaps I’ll have family one day that will benefit from knowing my story.
I arrived in America near two weeks ago. Passage was easy, the weather mild. At once, the city reminded me of Edinburgh: busy, full of people. When I couldn’t find Da, I didn’t worry. I thought perhaps he’d not realized the Gloriana, that’s the name of the ship I was on, came in that day. I wandered the streets of Charleston for three hours before I started to fear the worst. Soon, I came to a little square just up the street from a large church. The road rose steeply up from the square and provided a view of the ocean just beyond the harbor. I was listening to the sound of the church bells ringing the hour when my mind was suddenly filled with the memory of one of Da’s letters. He’d written of the city, of the church just one street over from his shop and the view of the ocean from hilltop square. I was filled with new energy, for I knew I had at least found Da’s part of the city. Instead of searching the faces of the people around me, I started searching the signs hanging in front of the shops that lined the streets. I searched until the darkness around me made it too difficult to go on. I’m not sure I should admit it, but I was scared and didn’t know what I was to do. Finally, I arrived at a bakery, hungry and tired and worried too. It was Mrs. Watson, the baker’s wife, who greeted me. I don’t think she trusted me at first. I told her I meant no harm but was weary from the day and hungry too. I begged a loaf of bread and perhaps a corner, out of the way, where I might rest. We talked only a moment before she knew me, told me I had the look of my father, that our eyes were the same. I knew well enough when she started to cry that something was wrong. Mr. Watson, the baker himself, came into the front room to tell me. Da died three weeks before I arrived, an infection in his lungs. He got into bed, they said, and never got out again. It’s hard to imagine him so sick he’d not get out of bed. But so it was. The Watsons have been very kind. They tell me they were good friends with Da, their shop just down the street from his. They seem like good people, and know quite a bit about my father, which helps me trust them.
I’ve also seen the MacDonald family. They came across from Scotland on the Gloriana just as I did and have been very kind. I think I can trust them too. Abe MacDonald seems a kind man. He came to Charleston to work with his brother, who was already here running a printing press. That was Mr. MacDonald’s business in Edinburgh as well. The best news is they’ve agreed to give me work so I can save money and bring Mother and my sisters across to be with me here in America. I think Da would have wanted us all together.
I don’t remember much about the night I learned of Da’s death, saving I thought most seriously about wanting to be dead myself. Never have I felt so alone. Mr. Watson, the baker, took me to Da’s gravesite, still fresh, and left me there. I was angry—angry at God, at the world, at Da for leaving me here all alone. Finally, just before morning, I decided to pray. I felt peace after that. I felt Da’s presence, felt his strength, and felt God’s comfort. I remembered Da’s words, “Wherever you walk, walk with God.” Until that moment, they’d always been words, nothing more. But I realize now the only way I will make it in this city all alone is if I do walk with God. I need His strength and guidance. I miss Da and wish he were here. But I believe I will be all right. I live now to live worthy of the Wylie name, to honor Da’s memory in all I do.
Kate wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I don’t know how you did it, Ian,” she whispered. The difficulty she was facing in her own life suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the obstacles Ian must have overcome.
I would have given up. How were you strong enough?
Kate didn’t realize it at first. She didn’t hear a voice or feel the earth move. There wasn’t thunder or a dramatic, bold realization. But suddenly, her question was answered, the words clear and distinct, filling her mind, reaching into her very soul and clutching her emotions from the inside out. She looked back at the journal, rereading the words Ian had quoted of his father: Wherever you walk, walk with God.
She read them again and again.
Kate wasn’t a religious person. Growing up, she’d gone with Aunt Mary and Uncle Grey to the Methodist church across from the elementary school for Christmas and Easter services, and she’d attended vacation Bible school every July until she’d hit middle school. But God was always more of an idea to Kate. Nothing about church really felt personal.
She did remember one experience as a girl when she thought she felt something close to a kinship with God. It was Easter morning, the spring she turned nine. Just as they did every year, her family attended the Sunday-morning service at the Methodist church. When the service was over, everyone filed outside into the warm April sunshine. Kate realized she’d left her pink-and-white purse in the pew, so she hurried back inside to find it. She was alone in the spacious chapel. Her little black dress shoes clicked noisily against the parquet floors, so she moved onto the soft crimson rug that filled the center aisle, wanting to preserve the peace and stillness around her. She brushed her hand across the backs of the smooth wooden pews, glancing into each one until she found her little bag. She picked it up and turned to leave just as she saw the sunlight pouring in through the large stained-glass window on the far eastern side of the chapel.
It was beautiful. From where Kate stood, the floor-to-ceiling picture of Jesus holding His arms out, face looking toward the sky, seemed to radiate, the beams of sunlight extending directly from Jesus’ hands. Kate stood, mesmerized by the majestic scene in front of her. Her heart seemed brim full of warmth that exuded outward through her entire person, even to her own fingertips. Leslie had found her just as a single tear spilled over Kate’s las
hes.
“Katie! We’re waiting for you,” Leslie had shouted as she burst through the doors at the end of the chapel. “Mama says it’s my fault if you don’t come, and neither one of us will get ice cream if you don’t come now.”
Kate smiled at the memory. It had been a long time since she’d thought of that moment in the church, though it was easy to recall, even twenty years later, how she’d felt in that moment. Walking with God must feel something like that, she thought. She looked back at Ian’s letter. There were certainly parallels between his situation and hers: he, a young man in a strange city with a dead father and no plan. And me, Kate thought to herself, with a dead mother, a dead aunt, an estranged cousin, a big house . . . and no plan.
Kate knew the big Methodist church she’d attended in her childhood was still there. She’d passed by several times on her way in and out of town. She wondered if the stained-glass window on the eastern wall was still there and contemplated the possibility of going to see it, but it was a silly idea. It was just a window.
She stretched and glanced at her watch, gently closing Ian’s journal. She reached for the second letter but was interrupted when her cell phone rang from the other room. She put everything aside on the coffee table and ran to catch the phone, picking it up just before it went to voice mail. It was Linny.
“Oh, Kate,” Linny said. “I’m so glad I caught you.”
“What is it, Linny?” Kate could hear the stress in her voice and knew immediately that something was wrong.
“Well, I’m at the hospital, but I’m all right, so don’t get too worried. I slipped on the blasted stairs leading down to the basement, and I broke my ankle.”
“Oh no!” Kate said. “Is there something I can do?”
“Well, they brought me into the hospital in the ambulance, ’bout scared Charles to death seeing them haulin’ me off like some invalid. Apparently though, ambulance services are only one way, so I got to find myself a ride back home.” Kate smiled at Linny’s unfailing wit and humor.
The House at Rose Creek Page 7