Part Two
Chapter Twelve
Haver Springs, VA
The Present
Summer in Haver Springs was trying desperately to hang on. Although it was late September, the past few weeks had remained warm and balmy. Light breezes blew across the trees, leaves turning red and gold, almost as though they were begging fall to arrive.
Granny’s Goodies was in business once again. It had been closed for several months, while the owner was on an extended vacation. The shop re-opened upon her mysterious and sudden return home in early summer. Interestingly, another shop owner had left town at approximately the same time but had not returned. Wayne Sinclair’s antique store was taken over by his creditors, who then merrily auctioned off the entire place and its contents. Sinclair’s store was now being run by a pleasant gentleman named Hal, whose wife, Alice, ran the local coffee shop. Hal got the whole thing for a fraction of what it was worth.
A police cruiser pulled up in front of Granny’s Goodies, and a handsome, if slightly pudgy, young police officer got out. He had a small scar on his forehead, the result of a head injury from the previous fall. All in all, Haver Springs, Virginia was a nice place to be at the end of summer.
Cameron Clark heard the jingle of her sleigh bells, but didn’t bother to turn around. She knew it was Troy. He came by every day at one to bring her lunch. She finished tidying up a display of glass milk bottles.
“How are you, Cam?”
“Good, Troy. Thanks.” It was the same conversation they had every day at one. Every day she ate either a tuna or a chicken sandwich and a small bag of chips. Once again, as it had been a year ago, Cameron Clark’s life was predictable.
“Getting ready for Antique Week?” He glanced at the front display case, which had a small padlock on it. As always, the box held the Culloden sword and Mollie Duncan’s journal. There was also a water-stained copy of MacBeth that had been there since Cam’s return to Haver Springs.
Troy hopped up on a barrel and unwrapped his sandwich. “Antique Week will be a bit different without Wayne Sinclair, won’t it?” he began.
She stared at him. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.” Troy was the only one who knew the truth about the Faeries’ Gate. Everyone else in town thought she had had some kind of a personal emergency, and that she had been back in Charleston with a sick friend for five months.
She had really been forced to tell Troy. When the Fairy Stone park rangers had found a half-drowned filthy woman in period costume with no identification lying on the banks of Smith Creek, they had been quite adamant about not turning her loose on her own. She had babbled and raved about some very odd things, they thought, and finally it had occurred to her that they should probably call Troy to come get her, if he was even still alive. Fortunately for everyone, he was, and had driven up to fetch her. He had even helped her locate Mollie’s journal – they found it lying in the small chamber at the entrance to the cave, where Cam surmised that it must have slipped out of her coat so many months before. She had told Troy everything – well, almost everything – on the ride back to Haver Springs.
“Cam, you can’t just not talk about Wayne. Okay, so he’s dead, but you can’t just pretend he never existed.”
“Can we not talk about him right now? Please?” she asked, nibbling the crust of her whole wheat bread. Antique Week would be kicking off soon, but Cam’s heart just wasn’t in it this year.
Troy sighed. In the months Cam had been back, she had been different, and he was worried about her. “You aren’t the same,” he pressed.
“No, you’re right. I’m not. You would be different too if you had been where I went and couldn’t even tell anyone about it. I have to lie to everyone in town and smile and say Charleston was hot and muggy but yes, I had a nice time and my friend is much better now, thank you very much,” she snapped.
Troy glanced around. There was no one in the store. Business at Granny’s Goodies had been slow this summer. Part of that was because occasionally Cam would simply leave the “Closed” sign up and disappear for a day. He had followed her one time, to see where she was going. She had driven up to the deserted MacFarlane’s Ridge. He had watched her from a distance, not intruding, but just trying to make sure she was all right. She had sat upon the crumbled stones of a fallen hearth, and stared off into space. Later, she had wandered up the overgrown path to the ruined foundation of another cabin, where she had picked wildflowers and placed them at the doorposts.
“You need to come to grips with this, Cam. Wayne’s dead. Wanda’s long gone. Everyone you met there is dead and gone. I hate to be nasty, but it’s true.”
She had never told him about the depth of her feelings for Rob, only that she had met him and thought he was nice, and that she had lost him in the end. Cam wasn’t going to tell Troy about the night Sinclair had arrived at the Ridge, and she and Rob had snuck out in the moonlight to the partly finished cabin on the hill. That was for her, and her alone. She kept it locked in a small room where no one would ever go.
“I know, Troy. I’m trying. It’ll just take some time,” she smiled wanly. She put her half-eaten sandwich aside and hoisted a box to the counter. “Look, I’m not really hungry. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Listen, I’ve been thinking. You need some closure to all this, right? You need to know what happened to them,” he said gently. She burst into tears, and he patted her head awkwardly. “So I have an idea, okay?”
“What?” she sniffed.
“After Antique Week is over and done with, let’s go down to the county archives. We can make copies of Mollie’s letters she wrote to Robert MacFarlane, and maybe that will tell you something about what became of all of them.”
“He died.”
“But she wouldn’t have known that right away, maybe. Besides, I know there are letters there. She might have written to him after… after you left Richmond.”
She looked up, wiping her eyes. “Troy, that’s not a bad idea at all.”
“Good, because there’s more.”
“Go on.”
He took a deep breath. “You said that just before you came back, Wanda said something about looking for the rest of Mollie’s journals.”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?” she asked.
“Why would she want you to look for Mollie’s journals?” he asked earnestly.
Cam shrugged. “Closure?”
“There you go,” he grinned. “Her journals will tell you all about the family, and you’ll be able to move along with your life because you’ll know they were all okay. They probably all lived happily ever after, or some crap like that.”
For the first time in a while, she laughed. “Somehow, Troy, you always know what to say.”
“Yeah, well,” Troy blushed, “that’s why I’m such a great guy.”
“You are.” There was an uncomfortable silence, and then she hopped off her perch on the stool.
“Anyway,” he said, “in the meantime, why don’t you start digging through some of your granny’s stuff? Maybe you’ll find a big stash of Mollie Duncan’s journals.”
Cam rolled her eyes. “Yeah. If it only it were that easy.”
“Hey, you never know. You had the first one here all along.” He tipped his hat to her politely as he walked out, and she considered that he was right. After all, she had found the first diary and the Culloden sword in a trunk in Granny Emily’s attic. Who knew what else she would find once she got around to digging through all that junk?
She flipped the “closed” sign around on the door – no one had come in today anyway, so what was the point of staying open? Cam went upstairs, showered, changed into a pair of clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, and headed to her grandmother’s bedroom.
Emily’s genealogy sheet was still in its folder. She hadn’t looked at it since – was it really a year ago? She had never even bothered to look through that file since she came back. She hadn’t want
ed to know, really. What if it turned out that sweet, pudgy little Hamish had died of cholera at the age of two, or that Mollie Duncan had never survived childbirth? Reluctantly, she opened the manila folder. Better to find things out now than wonder for the rest of my life.
She spread the sheet out on the roll-top desk. The names leaped off the sheet at her, familiar. Angus Duncan, b. 1746, son of Hugh Duncan. Mollie Duncan b. 1750. Sarah Duncan b. 1755, married Ian MacFarlane, d. 1774. Jamie MacFarlane born and died 1773. Hamish MacFarlane b. 1774.
She trailed her finger along Emily’s squiggly lines. There it was. Angus Duncan m. Unknown 1774. Cam laughed softly. How Wanda would love to be referred to as Unknown! Cam followed the line down towards her own name, and froze. Isaac Duncan, Senior, the physician. She followed the line back, in reverse this time, from Isaac traveling back up to Angus and his unknown wife. And there, in Emily’s neat, even letters, was what she had missed before. No wonder she had never been able to see the resemblance between herself and Angus, or Mollie either, for that matter. It was why Wanda had been so evasive, laughing when Cam asked if Wanda was her great-great-something-grandmother.
Angus Duncan m. Unknown, 1774. Children include three boys and a girl, including their adopted son, Jamie Fleming Duncan, from whom Isaac is descended. Jamie b. abt 1764 in Glasgow, Scotland.
Cam was laughing so hard she was shaking, and tears ran down her face. Wanda had known all along. Cam was not descended from an American Revolutionary War patriot named Angus Duncan at all. Her great-ancestor was a beer-swilling, foul-mouthed eleven-year-old guttersnipe from Glasgow. Granny Emily would be spinning in her grave if she knew!
She flipped through the other papers in the file, but there was nothing in there about Mollie or Wanda, or even Angus. There were marriage and death certificates for Granny Emily’s parents and grandparents, as well as Cam’s own parents.
Peyton Clark born Feb. 17, 1940, to Emily Duncan Clark and Charles Clark. Died April 12, 1977. Cause of death: massive head trauma secondary to motor vehicle accident. Deborah Cameron, born April 1, 1942, to Margaret Kerr Cameron and Leonard Cameron. Died April 12, 1977. Cause of death: massive head trauma secondary to motor vehicle accident.
Cam shivered and dropped the certificates back on the desk. She didn’t remember much of her parents at all. She had been only nine, after all, and so much of what she did remember was obscured by the memory of a doorbell ringing, late at night, and the soft voice of Cam’s babysitter, a nice teenage girl from next door. There was another voice, a man’s voice, and a gasp of horror from the sitter. Then the sitter had gently led the state trooper in to speak to Cam, who lay silent under her blankets, just listening, and numb with shock and fear.
Cam shook her head, willing the recollection to go away. Wait a minute…
Intrigued, she picked up her mother’s birth certificate again. Deborah Cameron, born April 1, 1942, to Margaret Kerr Cameron and Leonard Cameron.
That was interesting. Her maternal grandmother was named Margaret Kerr. She wondered absently if there was any connection to the Kerrs of MacFarlane’s Ridge. Cam herself had been born in South Carolina, which was why she had chosen to go back there for college, and stay there after graduation, but both of her parents had been born and raised in Haver Springs.
She muddled through another stack of documents. Her eyes began to ache from staring at the fine print and spidery handwriting. Margaret Kerr, born December 25, 1910, to Mary Mitchell Kerr and Jackie Kerr. The rest of the Kerr information must be in another file. She wondered how far back it went, and smiled at the thought of crooked old Tom Kerr riding lopsided on his horse.
Cam went through all the motions of Antique Week, feeling herself mechanically greeting customers and selling them odds and ends. She didn’t even feel like haggling over prices, and in truth just wished they would all go away. When it was finally over, she asked Troy to pick her up early in the morning, so they could get to the county archives.
“Cam? Where are you?” Troy called.
She sat up abruptly, disoriented, and looked around. Once again, she had fallen asleep reading. “In here,” she called.
Troy poked his head into Emily’s room. “What are you doing?”
“Um.” She ran a hand through her hair. “How did you get in?”
“The side door was unlocked. You must have forgotten to latch it after I left yesterday.” He looked at her sternly. “That’s dangerous, you know.”
“I know. I didn’t realize I had left it open,” she admitted. “What time is it?”
“Quarter after eight. You want to take a shower before we go?”
She nodded. “Yeah, let me just grab a quick one.”
“Okay. Want me to go make some coffee?”
Cam smiled gratefully. “That would be wonderful. I’ll just be a minute.”
Troy thundered down the steps to the kitchen, and Cam showered hurriedly and pulled on fresh clothing. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair. By the time she got downstairs, the coffee was ready.
As they drove to Bedford, they made small talk about the beauty of the changing leaves and the mild weather. Cam tried not to think about Mollie Duncan or Robert.
Troy introduced her to the woman at the county archives. “This is Diana Basham. Her family’s been here since… well, how long, Diana?”
The woman smiled. “Peyton Basham, who was my eighth great-grandfather, was born here in Bedford in 1746. His father, William Senior, arrived here some time around 1722.”
Cam was impressed. “The family I’m interested in is the Duncan family, from near Haver Springs.”
Diana nodded. “Mollie Duncan, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Troy has probably told you we have quite a bit of correspondence here from Mollie. She married into one of the other families in the area, the MacFarlanes. We have several letters from her to a sea captain named Robert MacFarlane, who apparently was a brother of her husband’s.”
Cam looked at Troy. “Ian,” she murmured.
“I believe so,” Diana said. She produced a key from her pocket and motioned to another room. “Come on in here. We keep all the originals in a climate-controlled room. Keeps the humidity from taking its toll on them.”
Cam entered the room hesitantly. “Are there… is there any return correspondence?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You said you had her letters to Robert. Did he write back?”
Diana shook her head. “He wrote to her prior to 1776, but after that, I don’t know for sure. I would assume so, but we don’t have any of those.”
Of course you don’t, thought Cam. She wrote to him but he couldn’t have written back, because he died in Richmond.
There were two small tables in the room, as well as several containers that looked like bank safety-deposit boxes. Diana Basham pulled one of the boxes from its shelf and laid it on a table. “Please be very careful with these.”
“Can we make copies of them?”
Diana nodded. “See how each document is encased in a plastic sleeve? Keep it in the sleeve even when you’re making copies. That way you won’t burn them up.”
Cam and Troy thanked her, and she left the room.
June 9, 1776 –
Dearest Robert,
Angus has written to me from Richmond, and tells me the Sad Tale of events leading to the departure of the Lady Meg. He was greatly upset and most fearful to leave you alone not knowing if you would live or not. As I am sure you have learned by now, when he arrived at the inn – the Captain Carter, I believe? – all he found was our Father’s Sword, which he has duly returned to its place over the mantle. He made inquiries for quite some time, but it appears that Cameron has vanished without a trace. The barmaid did say that she left in the company of Mr. Sinclair, and another woman whose name Angus has not mentioned to me. Angus seemed reluctant to discuss it further in his letter.
He has also advised me that he is not returning to Philadelphia, a
nd another delegate shall take his place with the Continental Congress while Angus stays here in Virginia. We have just received word that this great State itself enacted a Resolution for Independence last month, and there is much celebrating in the settlements. In part, it reads: “Our properties are subjected to confiscation, our people, when captivated, compelled to join in the murder and plunder of their relations and countrymen, and all former rapine and oppression of Americans declared legal and just… the delegates appointed… declare the United Colonies free and independent states, absolved from allegiance to, or dependence upon, the crown or parliament of Great Britain…”
I believe that this battle for Independence from the Crown shall come to a head soon. Angus says he will be joining any fighting that takes place, his exact words are “I shall do as I am meant to do.” His passion for this freedom, so closely within our grasp, frightens me and yet I am proud to call him my brother the Patriot.
I do hope that you are fully recovered from your physical injuries. Robert, I cannot begin to tell you how greatly it grieves me that you are once more alone. I know how much you loved her, and I know she felt a Great Deal of Affection for you.
I am sorry that you feel you cannot return to the Ridge, and have instead opted to remain on the High Seas.
As always, I remain,
Yours,
Mollie
July 27, 1776
Dearest Robert,
Oh, such dramatic news on so many fronts!! I only wish you would write back to me, as I long to hear the tales of Great Adventure that you so often used to send me in your letters. I miss your stories of far-off lands that I shall never see, and magnificent sea creatures and sandy Islands, and pagan peoples who chant and dance around great fires in the night. I know it is possible you are dead, but until I know for certain I shall continue to write.
First, I should tell you that Ian and I are now married. After many months of fumbling with our affections towards one another, he finally mumbled some sort of Declaration of Love, which brought tears of joy to my eyes. Our wedding was held on July 4th, with Tom and Sally Kerr in attendance, and their poor daughter Betsy, of whom I shall write more in a moment. Angus and his new bride arrived back at the Ridge as well, and although he was not in time for the wedding itself my dear brother did make himself available to drink plenty of whiskey with Ian afterwards in celebration.
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