Shadows of a Down East Summer

by Lea Wait

  A few photographs were included, but the people in them weren’t identified. Their clothing appeared to place them in the 1920s. Maybe Aunt Nettie would know who they were.

  There were two envelopes of dried flowers, but no notes as to what memories they held. In one envelope was a pale blue handkerchief embroidered with the initials KT. Maggie assumed it had belonged to Kathleen Trask. Perhaps it had been left behind when she married Fred Chase.

  There were also holiday cards: Christmas, Easter, and New Year’s postcards and greeting cards from people whose names Maggie did not recognize. Cousins, perhaps, or friends of the family. Casts of stories she could not even begin to know.

  In six months these would be hers.

  She carefully stacked everything and put them back in the small trunk. She had been left a woman’s memories. In any case, they didn’t seem to hold any clues to what had happened either in the early 1890s or in today’s world.

  Maggie left her contact information with the receptionist and walked outside. It was a misty morning, and the fog had not yet entirely burned off, leaving traces of mist in the air as though ghosts were there, biding their time, until...? Until what?

  The supermarket was next on her list, so Maggie, her thoughts still lost in the past, turned north on Route 1, planning a dinner menu as well as thinking again about young, pregnant Anna May Pratt, who had lied, but found herself a husband. And Lew Coleman, who’d come home unemployed, and lied, saying he was there to care for his father.

  People avoided the truth for so many reasons. Both Anna May and Lew had lied to save face; to protect their image and place in society.

  Who else had known about each lie? Had anyone been hurt by their lies? And had they lied about anything else?

  Chapter 37

  The Late Accident on the Concord Railroad. Wood engraving, January 1853, from the Illustrated News. Not only the engraving (showing a railroad car derailing in Andover, Massachusetts and tumbling down an embankment, killing many of the men, women and children aboard) but also, attached, an eyewitness account. Railroad accidents were not unusual in 1853. This one was historically important because among those on the falling car were General Franklin Pierce, the president-elect of the United States, and his wife and son. The general and his wife were unharmed, but their eleven-year-old son, Benjamin, was crushed and died instantly, the third of their three children to die. Mrs. Pierce never came out of the deep depression the event sent her into. She took her son’s death as a sign her husband should not be in public office, casting a shadow over her husband’s presidency. Pierce himself later died an alcoholic. 6.5 x 9.5 inches. Price: $170.

  The lasagna was one of Maggie’s best, thanks to ripe tomatoes and pork sausage from a nearby farm. Aunt Nettie even asked for a second helping. Although her first portion had been very small, that she was now more interested in food was a positive sign.

  While Maggie had been assembling the lasagna, Nick Strait was questioning Aunt Nettie for a third time about the break-in, and going over the house with her. She could find nothing missing. Will and Maggie didn’t mention the missing book of photographs, still hoping it would be found. After all, who would break in and attack an old lady to get a hundred-year-old photograph album?

  But despite her afternoon nap, a full day at home and dealing with the police was not easy. After a bite or two of Maggie’s raspberry-apple tart, Aunt Nettie declared she was ready for bed.

  “Maggie, would you mind helping me a bit with my night clothes?” she asked. “I hate asking you, but I’m not sure I’m quite up to all the offs and ons yet.”

  “You ladies get that taken care of.” Will announced, picking up dishes remaining on the kitchen table, “Maggie did the cooking, so I’m taking over cleanup duty.”

  Maggie shot him a “thank you” glance, as she helped a weary Aunt Nettie to her feet, and then to the stairs.

  The stairs, so easy to climb a week ago, now looked mountainous. Maggie supported Nettie as the old woman slowly climbed up each step. How much did those machines you could sit on to ride upstairs cost? Would they fit on a narrow, steep staircase in an old house like this one? And would installing one just be delaying the inevitable?

  Would Aunt Nettie be able to stay here in the future, with or without help?

  She was trying so hard, as she gritted her teeth and pulled herself up each step with Maggie’s help. She was better than she had been yesterday. Maybe she would be even better tomorrow.

  Maggie helped her into her nightgown and tucked her in (“Not too tight, dear, in case I have to get up during the night”) while Will washed pots and pans and dishes downstairs. No dishwasher in this house. There had never been a need for one, and the house had a well, she remembered Will once saying. Would Aunt Nettie be able to take over the chores she had done so easily only a week before? Was today’s weakness the result of that minor stroke the doctor had mentioned? Or was it partially an emotional reaction to what had happened Saturday?

  Aunt Nettie safely in bed, Maggie rejoined Will downstairs. He said, “I’m about to have a cup of decaf. Cola for you?”

  “Please.”

  They sat at the kitchen table. Like an old married couple, Maggie thought, an old married couple discussing an aging parent. A stage you should get to after the joy of being married and free, having children together, and then gradually seeing your parents age. Not something you should have to deal with before you’d even committed yourselves to each other.

  This wasn’t the sort of relationship she had dreamed of having with Will. Nevertheless. Life didn’t always work the way you planned it. She thought of Anna May Pratt, who’d dreamed of leaving Waymouth, not of getting married and having a baby so soon.

  Dreams changed.

  “Aunt Nettie didn’t want to talk to Nick about Saturday,” Will said. “I don’t know if she really doesn’t remember exactly what happened, or she doesn’t want to remember. She just repeated what she said at the hospital.”

  “She has no idea who it could be?”

  “No idea. And doesn’t want to think about it.”

  “What about anything missing?”

  “She kept saying nothing was gone, but, of course, we know she hasn’t looked. I got her jewelry box and she looked at what was in it, but said, no, nothing was missing. She has some sterling I didn’t even know about, but it was in the dining room, and is still there. Whoever was in the house didn’t seem to go into that room. Neither Nick nor I could think of anything else to ask her about.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a break-in by someone looking for valuables to sell for drug money,” said Maggie.

  “If he was looking for something to sell he would have taken something, even some of her old glass or china ornaments. They’re not worth a lot, but there are enough antiques dealers around here that he could have gotten rid of them easily. Few casual burglars would know what would be worth something, and what wouldn’t.”

  Maggie sipped her soda. “We have an antiques show to do this weekend. Setup is Friday.”

  “I know,” said Will. “I’ve been thinking about that. We can’t count on Aunt Nettie’s being well enough so we can leave her alone for three full days by then. I’m going to call the promoter and see if he can get a replacement for me. You go ahead and do the show without me.”

  “But you’d looked forward to doing that show, too!”

  “Aunt Nettie is more important than an antiques show. I know it’s late, but if I’m lucky they’ll have a waiting list of dealers and won’t mind my cancelling out at the last minute.”

  “I’ll miss doing the show with you.”

  “It isn’t what we planned, is it?” He reached over and took her hand in his.

  “It is what it is,” Maggie answered. “It could be much worse. Aunt Nettie does seem to be recovering.”

  She pulled her hand back and took another sip of her cola. “Would you mind if I went to the library tomorrow morning? After seeing the papers at Brad Pierce’s
today, I’d like to do a little more research on Jessie Wakefield.”

  “And she is...? I’ve been so involved with Aunt Nettie, that journal you’ve been reading hasn’t been at the top of my mind.”

  “She’s Anna May Pratt’s best friend. The other girl who posed for Winslow Homer. She’s also the connection between Winslow Homer and the Thompson family. So far the journal hasn’t led me to any blood connection, just the posing that summer. I want to finish reading it, and then see if anything in the library helps me understand why the Thompsons have been claiming the connection since the 1920s. It also bothers me that Nick Strait hasn’t found any clues to Carolyn’s murderer. Someone trashed her house, apparently looking for something. Someone trashed this house, too. There could be a connection.”

  “Maggie: my friend the detective,” said Will. “Go to the library tomorrow morning. I have to call about the antiques show. Will you be at the library all day?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Maggie. “I’ll take my phone and be in touch. I have some sorting and planning to do for the antiques show that I’ll have to fit in some time, too.”

  “I could help you with that.”

  “Maybe.” She finished her cola. “For now, I’m going to finish reading the journal. I’m close to the end. It might have some of the answers I’m looking for.”

  September 15, 1890

  This is no longer the journal of Anna May Pratt. I am now Mrs. Luke Trask. Our wedding journey to Portland was short, and our ceremony, performed by a justice of the peace, shorter. I had hoped for at least a wedding ceremony in a church. But my dear husband found the justice of the peace first, and the justice did not ask any questions, perhaps because he smelled somewhat of rum. We were married before we hardly knew it, with his stout wife and two sniffling children as witnesses.

  I hope our child never has a cold that drips so badly, or if he does, that he learns to use a handkerchief, and not his mother’s skirts.

  We spent the night at a small inn off Congress Street. Secretly I had hoped to stay at the Eastland, which is large and grand, but, although Luke asked, the price was steep, and we must be careful of dollars. I could not complain.

  We returned to Waymouth by midafternoon, where we discovered our news, although shocking to many, especially our parents, all of whom were at my home when we arrived, was not the only gossip of the weekend.

  Jessie’s engagement and wedding have been called off, and all in town say it was Orin Colby’s doing, and none of Jessie’s. I do not know what happened. Mother says Jessie’s family did not go to church yesterday, and it is said she is crying in her room and seeing no one.

  At first I wondered if it were because I had run off and married Luke. But perhaps not. Jessie might be upset by that news, but not Orin. I will try to see Jessie tomorrow. I am sorry about her wedding’s being cancelled. It is scandalous! But I could not have been her maid of honor under the circumstances, and in truth I have other worries to think of in my future.

  Both Luke’s parents and mine were much concerned about our elopement, as we are young and have no resources. They would clearly have rather we waited, and that we had a church wedding, with both families and friends present, in perhaps a year or two.

  We told them why we would have another reason to celebrate in less than a year. They were both appalled and resigned, it was clear. My mother cried, in front of us all, which was difficult for me to see. After all, it was not her who was having the baby. I kept thinking how much worse the circumstances under which she learned my condition might have been.

  After much wringing of hands and consoling each other, our two sets of parents, almost ignoring Luke’s and my presence, decided that we would live with my parents for the time being, since I have a room of my own, where Luke could also stay.

  He is to look for a job, at sea or on land, as soon as possible, with the goal that we will have our own place by the time the baby is born in the spring.

  Both our fathers will inquire of their friends to help him find something, and both prospective grandmothers (as they were already calling themselves) will help me prepare clothing and bedding for the future arrival.

  By the time they had all shared glasses of sherry (in celebration of Luke’s and my marriage) they had our lives planned.

  From being tossed by a storm perhaps stronger than the one that wrecked Luke’s ship earlier this summer, I now feel like a child who has been brave enough to go away to school, but has now come home to be lulled with hot chocolate and gingerbread.

  The Trask and Pratt families will take care of Luke and me until we can take care of ourselves. Or at least they will help to start us out in the right direction. As I am writing this Luke is at his parents’ home getting his things, so we can find places for them here, in the room that was mine alone until now.

  I am not one for much praying, but tonight I am going to thank the Lord for my wonderful family, and my husband’s family, and then I am going to lie down beside my husband in my own bed, at home, safe from the storms of gossip and condemnation.

  Tomorrow I will go to see Jessie.

  September 16, 1890

  Jessie has gone!

  After breakfast this morning, which I prepared with my mother for our husbands(!) I walked over to the Wakefields’ home to see if I could talk with Jessie, and perhaps console her on the end of her engagement.

  Her mother came to the door. Her eyes were red, and she stood stiffly. “Jessie no longer lives here,” she said. “She left early this morning. Her father drove her to the train in Portland. She has gone to live with her cousin Margaret in Boston.”

  I had never heard Jessie mention a cousin Margaret in Boston, so that news was certainly a surprise. I had thought I knew everything there was to know about Jessie’s life. Perhaps we each had our secrets.

  “When will she be returning?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” said her mother, turning, as if to close the door on me.

  “Could you give me her address?” I asked. “So I could write to her.”

  “I don’t have Margaret’s address with me,” said Mrs. Wakefield. “I’ll let Jessie know you called when I am next in touch with her.”

  She shut the door right in my face.

  And I am Jessie’s very dearest friend.

  Why would she leave without saying good-bye to me? She must have been very upset. Clearly her mother was still very upset. The Wakefields had been planning for Jessie’s marriage to Orin Colby for many more months than Jessie had been, after all, and no doubt whatever happened to cause him to cancel the engagement, they felt it was Jessie’s fault.

  Maybe it is for the best that Jessie take some time away from her parents, if not from Waymouth.

  How strangely things work out! Only a few months ago it was me who wanted to leave Waymouth, and Jessie who wanted to stay and marry Luke. Now Luke and I are married and settling here, and Jessie has left for Boston.

  I do envy her Boston.

  I wonder if she envies me Luke.

  At this point in the journal there were a number of blank pages. Maggie leafed through them before she found the next entry.

  April 12, 1891

  I have not kept my journal entries throughout the winter, as I have had neither the time nor the privacy to do so. Being married warms one’s bed on cold winter nights, it is true, although when one’s body is swollen like a child’s balloon larger quilts are more reliable sources of comfort. I have learned a great deal in the past few months.

  Luke is a devoted husband. My father found him a job in the mercantile on Main Street, and he has been faithful in working the hours they have assigned him, although the work is clearly not of his choice. He would rather be at sea, and saving for a sloop of his own, instead of saving for a small cottage, and those necessities a wife and child have need of. Perhaps someday he will be able to go back to sea, but it is now clear that will not happen soon. We have not yet saved enough to be able to leave my parents’ home.


  At the moment what I have most need of is sleep. During the past eight weeks I feel as though I have slept not at all. First, because my body was so large I could not make it comfortable in either a bed or a chair. And now, since the baby has finally been delivered, because I am sore and aching, and because Kathleen cries so.

  I gave birth ten days ago, with my mother and Luke’s mother and Dr. Bennett present, here in the room where I grew up and where I sleep now as a married woman. My child’s name is Kathleen Elizabeth Trask, and all said she was a big baby which, of course, did not surprise me, although, indeed, she was born later than I had thought she might be, thank goodness. She is healthy, for which Luke and I are very thankful, and she has his blue eyes, for which I am also grateful.

  In all these months I have never heard from Jessie, which I think strange. Her family says she is in Boston, and having a wonderful time there, attending parties and the theater, and too busy to think of former friends in Waymouth. I hope that is so. I still think it strange that she left so suddenly and without farewells.

  I am sure her mother will write to tell her about Kathleen.

  I do miss Jessie.

  My sister Sarah has grown up a lot since my marriage and has become company for me. When I was seventeen I did not think as much about my future as Sarah does about hers. She has already told me that in three years she plans to marry Enoch Newall, who works in the Custom House. I do not know if Enoch is aware of her plan, or indeed, if he is even aware of who Sarah is! In any case, she has three years to let him know, and being Sarah, I suspect she will do just that.

  Imagine. In three years Kathleen will be walking and talking, and will be old enough to be a flower girl in Sarah’s wedding, if she should marry.

  Time passes so quickly.

  After that, although Maggie turned each page carefully, there were no other entries. But at the very back of the journal she found that someone had pasted in two yellowed and brittle newspaper articles.

  SOCIAL NOTES

  July 1, 1893

  Mr. Wesley Thompson and his wife, the former Jessica Wakefield, daughter of Cornelia and James Wakefield of Waymouth, are visiting here in Waymouth for the July holidays with their son, two-year-old Master Homer Thompson. Mr. Wesley Thompson, a director of the Boston and Maine Railroad, is said to be inquiring for real estate in the area, perhaps for a summer home near where his wife spent her childhood. The couple, who reside on Beacon Hill in Boston, will be staying with her parents while in Maine. Mrs. Thompson will be at home to her old friends on Tuesday afternoons during her visit.