Annie turned on the flashlight, got up and crouched down to look through the gap. The sight of something white made her throat tighten. She angled the flashlight down to the floor, but couldn’t see anything else. She reached her hand through and pulled, falling backwards when the bottom two steps came away from the rest of the staircase.
Underneath was a space about six feet deep. A small ladder led to the ground. She put one foot onto the first step and bore down to assure herself of its solidity, then she slid through the hole and climbed all the way in.
Annie crouched in the middle of the small space. The white she’d seen through the gap was a rectangular piece of canvas. A mixture of hay and green dust trickled out from underneath. A gray blanket was folded at the foot. A sunken pillow, yellowed with age, lay at the head.
“A bed,” she whispered.
Next to the bed was a wooden crate. On top of it was a lantern, its glass black with residue, and a small Bible no bigger than the iPhone Annie used to carry everywhere. She got on her knees and picked it up carefully like a rare piece of china. Flashlight in one hand, she opened it, the pages as delicate as dry leaves on autumn ground. Her eyes marveled at the minuscule print and the familiar names it formed: Genesis, Exodus, Deuteronomy.
Then something caught her eye on the inside of the front cover.
AK - 12/4/56
JS - 12/4/56
MB - 4/17/57
CT - 7/4/57, GB
ZT - 7/4/57, FD
AA - 1/8/58
DF - 3/12/58, M
HY - 9/23/58
GK - 7/4/59, DS
BR - 2/13/60
HN - 6/29/60, FD
GR - 7/13/60
HJ - 9/17/60, M
EF - 3/27/61
SW - 3/27/61
Annie blinked, as if blinking would transform the handwriting into an idea she could understand. Bible passages? she thought. A code? She flicked to the back cover to look for more. As she did, a small, unsealed envelope fluttered to the ground. A faded but perfectly curved script read:
Mr Sanford Weston
Mont Verity
Nr. Beckwith Station
Virginia
Annie was almost afraid to touch it. It seemed otherworldly, like a ghost or a phantom. She scooped it up gently, as if it were a baby bird.
“Virginia,” she whispered.
Inside the envelope was a folded piece of paper. Annie struggled to steady her hand as she slid her fingers in to pull it out and unfold it.
March 27, 1861
Dearest Papa,
There is so much I want to tell you that I don’t know where to begin.
Firstly, I want you to know that I am safe. For now. It has been a long journey here and I have seen places and people I’m not sure I could have even dreamed of. This is a beautiful country, Papa – do you know this? The beauty runs in the rivers and over purple mountains; it is in the soil on which animals graze and food is grown. And the people who inhabit this country, Papa – they, too, are a spectrum of colors. Our world is more than black and white. I know this now.
I cannot tell you where I am. I do not want to endanger those around me. No doubt this letter, when it reaches you, will have a postscript. I will be long gone by then, so please do not try and find me here.
I have changed, Papa. I am certain you would not like what you would see if you were here. I have had my eyes opened to the real workings of the world, in all its cruelty and wonder.
We will probably never see each other again. After all that has occurred, there are many reasons why a return to my old life in Virginia is impossible.
But what I really want you to know is that I am in love. Never did I think the love of my life would come in the shape and form that it has. I do not know what will become of this love, but just to know that there exists in this world someone so kind, so strong, so extraordinary – that is enough for me. Loving him, being able to love him – it has made me happier than I can describe. Know, Papa, that whatever happens to me now, whatever you may think of what I have done, the last few weeks have been the happiest of my life.
I love you, Papa. None of this is your fault; nothing you or Mother could have done would have changed the outcome. Please ask her to forgive me. And if it’s appropriate, please tell the Fabres I am sorrier than I can say, and that I await God’s judgment on my actions.
All my love,
Samantha
“Samantha,” said Annie, running her finger over the name.
She sat on the bed and read the letter again, willing it to tell her the rest of the story. Then she looked around the small space, the hidden space, wanting the room to have more to say.
So many questions flew off the page in her hands. They whirled around Annie’s head, so loud and demanding it was as if they could be reached for and held.
It felt like some kind of trick. How could this have been here, all this time, and no one ever noticed? She half-expected a television personality to jump out and tell her she was on candid camera. “Ha, ha!” he’d say. “You fell for it! You thought you’d found a letter written by a Virginia girl, just like you. And you thought it funny that the some of the contents of the letter could have been written by yourself? Fooled you!”
There was no television personality. Of course there isn’t, she thought. The longer she sat in the room, the more real it became.
She carefully put the letter back in its envelope and inserted it in between the pages of the Bible. As she crawled out of the room and put the two stairs back into place she felt guilty, like she was closing the door on a newly discovered friend. She let her hands rest on the edge of the stairs and pressed her fingertips into the worn wood.
There were many things that Annie did not know. How long they would be in Vermont? Where they would end up next? When would she see Virginia again? Would it ever be possible to go back to her old life?
But this is what she did know: a Virginia girl named Samantha had written a letter over 150 years ago and never sent it.
Annie had to find out why.
Chapter 4
Samantha stood up and lost her balance. This now happened several times a day. She knew it was down to the lack of food. Her mother told everyone it was Samantha’s intolerance of the heat and increasingly weak disposition.
The cotillion was tomorrow and it couldn’t come soon enough. Samantha had floated through the week on a hunger-induced haze. Every day the routine was the same. Chimi and Oma pulled her out of bed and splashed cold water on her face. She was given one apple for breakfast accompanied by a cup of weak tea. Her teeth were brushed, her nightgown pulled over head, and her hair taken out of cotton wraps and tied back. After this, her face was powdered, even though it all melted off by 10am, and she was doused with perfume that went stale in an hour.
Next, she was dressed. The dreaded corset. Fifteen minutes of pulling and tightening until her ribs overlapped across her heart. The hoop skirt, and then a dress made from fabric that did not breathe, which Samantha thought gave her and her dress something in common.
She was then brought downstairs for her lessons with Miss LeMonde, who gave Samantha endless instruction on how not to laugh loudly, how not to share her true thoughts on people and places, how not to reveal her talents in shooting and riding – in short, how to stifle her every inclination. She was primed to ask questions about an individual’s accomplishments and property, even when she had no interest in the answer. She was taught to stand unnaturally straight, forcing her shoulders back even though it made her feel exposed, like her chest could be opened and her heart lifted out. In previous lessons, she was made to practice taking small bites of food, fighting her natural desire to eat as much as she could, as quickly as she could. That lesson had been banned since the disastrous dress fitting.
“You’re not eating until the cotillion is over, so there is no need,” her mother had said.
Samantha felt she bore the marks of a tree that had been axed, one delicate branch at a
time.
Lessons ended at noon, when the smell of freshly baked bread wafted in from the kitchen. At the beginning of the week, such smells made Samantha’s mouth water. Now, after a week of not eating, they just made her feel ill. Oma brought her back up to her bedroom where she was given her second apple and a thin slice of bread, while those downstairs had beef stew and fried okra, with strawberries and cream for dessert. After lunch her dress and hoop skirt were taken off so she could rest for an hour on the chaise while Oma waved palm leaves to circulate the air. Today she did not resist. The room swayed. Closing her eyes only made it worse.
There were many elements of the cotillion that should have made her nervous. Would she trip in those ridiculous shoes? Would the heat in the room be too much to bear? The truth was none of these things concerned her. Her main worry was that Eli would not be brave enough to talk to her father and make his proposal. In the meantime, she was expected to make every bachelor in the room believe she might be theirs for the taking.
Her mother’s fast step broke through such thoughts. “We need to go through the list,” she said as she sat on the end of Samantha’s chaise.
“Do we have to?” Samantha moaned.
Her mother read from the piece of paper she held. “Jeremiah Stanton.”
“Too fat.”
“Enjoys shooting and riding horses. Tobacco plantation.”
“You just described every bachelor in Virginia.”
“Davidson LaRoue.”
“Pompous.”
“Heads the Plantation Owners’ Society at the church.”
“He just likes hearing himself talk.”
“Clemens Casey Cantor-Carlson.”
“Sounds like a tongue-twister.”
“Acceptable dinner conversation topics include the weather and the church. You are not to mention books or politics, and for God’s sake don’t mention secession. If the conversation turns to shooting you are to say you know nothing about it.”
“I’m a better shot than most men in Virginia.”
“That’s your father’s doing. Men despise being shown up by a woman.”
Samantha yawned. Her mother yanked her arm and pulled her upright.
“I do not accept this behavior. You come out tomorrow. You must smile, you must laugh, and you must charm. You must do everything that is expected of a girl in your position or there won’t be a single man in Virginia who will have you.”
“I already know who I want to marry, Mother,” she blurted.
Her mother glared. “Who?”
Samantha straightened, even though it made her dizzy. “Eli.”
Her mother laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Think about it, Mother, it’s perfect! There’s no one else to inherit Mont Verity …”
“There was,” her mother whispered.
“… and Royal Fabre will inherit Dominion Royale. So that means Eli is free to take over our planta …”
“Elijah Fabre is just a silly little boy,” said her mother. “I have tolerated the time you spent with him as a playmate, but now I see I let it go too far. It is a foolish idea, Samantha, and you must get it out of your head.”
Samantha sank. “But Mother, I’ve decided …”
“You think you get to decide? Women never get to decide. The sooner you accept that, the better.” She handed her the list. “Memorize this. When I come back, you will recite it to me word for word. If you do that, I might even let you have some say in who we choose. Cooperate and you might get someone you could actually learn to love.”
“Like you love Father?”
Her mother pursed her lips. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Samantha crumpled the list and threw it at the door.
“Best do as she says, ma’am,” said Oma.
“What do you know?”
She crossed her arms, furious that her mother had dismissed her idea so quickly. Marrying Eli was best for everyone. Surely her mother and father had realized by now that they couldn’t marry her off to someone with his own plantation. Then Samantha would have to go live with her new husband, wherever he was, and then what would happen to Mont Verity? This was her home and she was determined it always would be. Surely her father understood that.
“Oma, where’s Father?”
“Don’t know, ma’am. Though I heard he was heading out to the shooting range.”
Her father never went to the shooting range without taking her with him. Why was he there on his own? “What’s he doing out there?”
“Don’t know, ma’am.”
Samantha stood up. A wave of dizziness brought her straight back down. She slowly moved her feet.
“What are you doing, Miss Sammy?”
“I have to talk to Father.”
Oma held Samantha’s arm. “Miss Sammy, you knows your mama wants you in here resting.”
“Don’t touch me,” she pushed Oma’s arm away. “Now untie this corset.”
“Miss Sammy …”
“Just do it!”
Oma meekly did as instructed. The strings loosened and Samantha felt her ribs and lungs shift back to their rightful place. She took several deep breaths then eyed her open window.
“Oma, go and get me some tea.”
Oma’s eyes darted to the teapot on Samantha’s dressing table. “Miss Sammy, you gots tea already.”
“Well, I want more.”
Oma’s eyes pleaded. Samantha knew that disobeying her mother’s orders was not in Oma’s nature. “Please, Oma, it’s the only thing I’m allowed at this time of day. Now go.”
“Miss Sammy, your mama will have me whipped …”
Samantha grabbed Oma’s arm. “I’ll whip you myself if you don’t do as I say.”
As soon as the words were out, she regretted it. She’d scared Oma – the look on her face made that clear. She eased her grip. “Please, Oma.”
The slave gave a meek curtsey and left. With the door closed Samantha wriggled out of the corset and let it fall to the floor. She reached under the bed for her riding dress and put it on. From her window she could see her palomino in the paddock. A few slaves worked in the driveway trimming the shrubbery, their backs largely turned. Samantha climbed out of her window and onto the roof of the terrace. Over the years she’d mastered swinging herself onto the pillar at the end of the terrace, stealthily and quietly. Leg muscles made strong by horse riding served her well as she shimmied down to the ground. A house slave was clearing the remnants of lunch from the terrace and Samantha’s landing startled him.
“Miss Sammy, what you doing?” he asked.
Samantha put her finger to her lips before running towards the paddock.
Her father had presented her with the palomino on her 11th birthday. It had been too big for her at the time, but that didn’t stop Samantha from mounting it and digging her heels into its cream-colored sides. Six years later and the palomino was a dear, old friend. She climbed the fence, mounted him bareback and pointed him towards the shooting range. As they rode, she told him about her mother’s reaction to marrying Eli. The palomino was well versed in Samantha and Eli’s plans. She’d confided in him the day Eli told her they were destined to be together, and since then nothing nor nobody had come along to make her change her mind. Sure, Eli had his faults, but who didn’t? “We’re the same, you and me,” he’d said at the time. “We’re both living in someone else’s shadow. Mine is Royal; yours is Georgia.”
Royal was Eli’s older brother – an accomplished horseman, marksman, and businessman. Anything Royal tried, he mastered. He was socially adept and showed, some said, strong business acumen. According to many, he was the most eligible bachelor in western Virginia. To Samantha, he was the most boring man she’d ever met. And he was mean to Eli. According to Royal, Eli always said the wrong thing, would never shoot a rifle with precision, and would never possess the skills necessary to ensure longevity of the Fabre family name and reputation.
Samantha had to contend with a much larger shadow. Her older sister, Georgia, was a natural beauty, an effortless conversationalist, and – as her mother put it – a Southern belle to her very core. Georgia was also dead. Scarlet fever had killed her four years ago, a month before her cotillion. After she died, Samantha’s mother locked herself in her dressing room for six months and refused to come out. When she finally emerged, she wore black for three years and passed the days sitting by the window looking out toward Georgia’s grave. She had very little to do with Samantha during those years, which suited Samantha just fine. Her mother made it no secret that Samantha should have been the one to go, that Georgia had so much more to offer the Weston family name and that she’d never be half the lady her sister once was.
In the years that followed, Samantha did everything to stay away from her mother. On rainy days, she passed the time in her father’s study, reading the books on his shelves while he conducted the business of the plantation. Men coming in were always surprised to see a teenage girl sitting on the chair by the window, but her father always maintained there was nothing concerning the running of Mont Verity that could not be said in front of his daughter. This was how Samantha learned about her father’s plans for industrializing Mont Verity, pretending to read while listening to everything that was said.
The only time Samantha was asked to leave her father’s study was when her father’s slave overseer, Clement Durant, came in. For reasons she never understood, her father didn’t want her witness to anything concerning the business of owning slaves.
On sunny days, she would mount her horse in the morning and only come back when she was hungry or when it was getting dark. Most of the time she’d meet Eli in the woods, where they’d build forts, climb trees and swim in the creek. They’d catch fish with their bare hands and fry them over a small fire. They’d play hide and seek, they’d wrestle, and they’d have horse races. (Samantha and the palomino usually won.) Even as they got older and Eli’s voice dropped and Samantha’s girlish figure became soft and curved, they still spent their days much as they’d done when they were children. As far as Samantha and Eli were concerned, it made perfect sense that they get married. They were companions. Their land shared a border. They would spend the rest of their lives doing the same things they’d done when they were children. Eli would never expect Samantha to be a lady, and Samantha would never ask Eli to stop being himself.
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