The View from Prince Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “Go away!”

  “I think,” she said, close to my ear, “that you should stop worrying about me and think about Amelia.”

  “Amelia is fine. She naps this time of day.”

  “I’m talking about the baby book, you dumbass. Why are you letting it sit in that hospital room, forgotten?”

  I shoved a jittery hand through my hair, trying to brush away the buzzing imaginary voice. Over the years, I’d felt Jennifer’s presence, but had she never actually spoken to me? “I don’t need this.”

  “Well, you sure as shit don’t need a drink.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Back at you.”

  January 2, 1752

  Dearest Mother,

  I want to send the witch away. I can find no charity for her. Her presence is a reminder of all that I am not. This morning, when she found me nursing Cullen again, she didn’t get angry or demand the boy back. As she cut a strip of salt pork into small pieces for stew, she told me she could create a mixture of herbs designed to strengthen my constitution and fortify my unfertile womb for another babe. As much as I cherished holding Cullen, I long to carry one more child. I desperately want to give my husband a son. I stared into her piercing blue eyes, knowing the dangers of striking a bargain with a witch. But desperation makes fools of us all. I agreed. Smiling as she dropped the salt pork into the simmering pot on the hearth, she told me when Dr. Goodwin made his rounds I should not let him bleed me. Later, she made a tea with herbs. I hesitated, but when she bade me to drink, I did. Perhaps a devil’s bargain, but a new babe might salvage what remains of my heart.

  —P

  Chapter Six

  Rae McDonald

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17, 3:30 P.M.

  After the visit to the cemetery, I returned to work. I toyed with cancelling my afternoon appointments but knew work would keep my mind off seeing Lisa. Now, as I stared at the rain-soaked yard, I wondered what else could happen.

  My patients arrived in good order, and by three in the afternoon I was listening to a young man who had outlined all the traits he sought in a perfect wife.

  “If it will help, Dr. McDonald, I’ve prepared a list.”

  “I’m not a matchmaker, Mr. West. I’m a family psychologist. Don’t believe the paper.”

  “I rarely do.” He held out the neatly typed and organized list. “But I’ve heard from several people whom you’ve assisted.”

  I scanned his unreasonable criteria for the perfect mate. “This is a tall order.”

  “I know of several people in my firm who speak highly of you and your mother’s talents,” he persisted.

  “My mother would cringe if she heard this conversation.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he shook his head, unswayed. Impeccably dressed, he had his appeal. “I have a client who swears your mother introduced her to her husband. Grabbed him off the street.”

  “You’re with West & Murphy, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would that client be Amelia Murphy?”

  Green eyes sharpened. “Perhaps.”

  “Her husband was a partner in your firm a long time ago and she was a friend of my mother’s. Not such a stretch. I heard a story or two about the day Amelia met her husband.”

  He brushed his pant leg. “This client was certain your mother had made several successful marriages.”

  He was careful not to reveal Amelia’s identity. That kind of discretion won him points in my book. He might have unrealistic expectations, but he wasn’t a bad guy. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. West. I can’t speak to what my mother did.”

  “No. But I can see you have an analytical mind. Now that I’ve met you, you strike me as the type of person who can find the right match for me.”

  My mother never admitted to being a matchmaker, but she did have a knack for tossing out a name or making an introduction just at the right time. Often, her suggestions led to successful marriages. When I asked her once about it, she said she simply tossed out the first name that came to mind. “Have you met Amelia’s niece, Lisa Smyth?”

  The question caught him off guard. “We met once when she came to pick up Charlie. She strikes me as a free spirit. Attractive, but not for me. How’s Charlie, by the way?”

  “I suspect Lisa is spoiling him with chew sticks and table scraps.”

  A half grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

  Lisa had been on my mind since this morning when I saw signs that she was struggling. Shaky hands. Watery eyes. Depressed. Having someone like Mr. West stop by the Prince Street house might offer enough of a distraction to help her through a rough patch. “I wasn’t suggesting she was your type at all. But I know Amelia would appreciate you helping her with the sale of the Prince Street house.”

  He tugged at his cuff. “She’s not reached out to the firm for help.”

  “As a favor to Amelia, please reach out to her. And I’ll see you again as a family practice patient if you’re willing to talk further about your high standards for a mate.”

  He wasn’t classically handsome, but his intensity set him apart. “There’s nothing wrong with high standards.”

  “No one’s perfect, Mr. West.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  We hashed out the subject of perfection for the next fifteen minutes, but clearly he would not be returning. He wanted a matchmaker, not a therapist.

  Another client arrived. More talk about perfect love. I made notes, listened, but my thoughts continued to scatter.

  I again read the boy’s e-mail, analyzing each word for clues. I couldn’t think of a word to write but knew the delay might be sending the wrong message.

  When the phone rang and I saw Margaret’s name on the caller ID, I was relieved by the distraction. “Dr. McDonald,” I said.

  “Rae, I have mucho facts.” She sounded breathless and barely able to contain the words. “Can I come by?”

  “Sure. I’m here.”

  “Great. See you in a few.”

  “Okay.” I rose and moved toward the kitchen, where I set the coffeepot to brew. I’d never wanted to be the keeper of the flame of the McDonald family history, or to be responsible for others knowing about our accomplishments. But as I stood at the cemetery today, surrounded by generations of McDonalds, I realized it was no longer about me.

  I wasn’t the last McDonald. There was the boy. For his sake, not mine, I would do what I could to unearth secrets held too long.

  The front doorbell rang and when I opened it, I found Margaret brimming with excitement. Clutching the strap of a large leather satchel, she pushed past me, smelling faintly of boxwoods and cinnamon, scents from recent visits to the bakery and the salvage job in Prince William County.

  “Any salvage trips today?”

  “Same as yesterday. Old church. We retrieved several amazing stained glass windows. They date back to the 1920s. Not exactly ancient, but they deserve to be saved.” She grinned, much as she had when she stood on my front porch over the summer and announced the discovery of the witch bottle.

  “I’m guessing you’ve read some of the letters,” I said.

  “Just fascinating.”

  A glance toward the kitchen and widening eyes prompted, “Is that coffee?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Margaret dug in her purse and pulled out a pink Union Street Bakery bag. “Excellent. I have cookies.”

  “Ah.”

  Margaret started toward the kitchen but paused in the hallway to study the painting of the Potomac circa 1920. “Three women found their way to Alexandria, Virginia, by 1751. A doctor’s wife. A farmer’s wife. And a sea captain’s wife. I know it sounds a bit like a limerick or a bad joke, but it’s a kickass story.”

  “Kickass. You aren’t the shy, deferential type, are you?”

  Margaret
grinned. “Well-behaved women rarely make history, Rae. You should know that.”

  “Really? Then I’m doomed to obscurity.”

  “You, Rae? Never. There’s a wild woman in there somewhere.”

  “Have you looked at me lately?”

  Margaret laughed. “I bet, given half the chance, you could kick off those high heels and really shake it up.”

  Even in my very young days, I had been well behaved and followed the rules. Part of me craved excitement, but I always found an excuse to toe the line. Until I didn’t.

  Ironically, if not for my single mistake, I might have been doomed to obscurity. “Do you like cream in your coffee?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Normally, interruptions irritated me, but I wasn’t the least bit put out. I wouldn’t say I wanted to make a habit of all this, but it was a welcome respite.

  The crisp strike of my heels clicked double time to the steady clip-clop of Margaret’s clogs as we moved into the kitchen. She dumped her bag on the marble island, and I moved toward the nearly full coffeemaker.

  “The letters I read were fascinating,” she said. “Patience did an excellent job of sharing some of the hopes and dreams of each woman, who would have all been in their late twenties when they arrived on the shores of the Virginia Colony. The doctor’s wife, Mistress Goodwin, dreamed of a new life free of shame. The sea captain’s wife, Mistress Smyth, wanted distance from a tainted past in Scotland. And Patience, the farmer’s wife, wanted to escape the pain of losing her children.”

  “All this is in the letters that Patience wrote?”

  “Yes, in the letters dated around the 1750s. She was quite the historian. Her attention to detail was fascinating.” She dug out a large spiral notebook covered with stickers and crammed full of extra papers. She flipped toward the end.

  “You actually read all the letters?” I didn’t try to hide the fact that I was impressed.

  Margaret drummed her fingers on several pockets until she found a pair of purple reading glasses. “I’m not much of a sleeper when I get on a roll.”

  The machine dripped out the last bit of coffee and I dug mugs out from the cabinet as she opened the bag of cookies. “I’m impressed.”

  “We’re in luck. Fresh sugar and chocolate chip cookies at the bakery today. My sister Rachel bakes when she’s stressed.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t have asked about the state of Rachel’s stress levels, but Margaret fostered an openness that invited questions. “Why is your sister upset?”

  She bit into a sugar cookie. “Kids, the business, and her French beau finally called it quits. I wanted her to kick him to the curb when he moved back to France. Hard to keep love alive with four thousand miles between the love birds. But Rachel is loyal to a fault.”

  I set two plates on the counter along with a small pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl. “I’m sorry to hear about that. But you’re right. Four thousand miles, compounded with long periods between visits, doesn’t bode well for a successful relationship.”

  She poured cream and sugar into an empty cup in anticipation of the coffee. “A blind man could see that coming. And she’s been through worse, when her husband died.”

  “He was young when he died?”

  “Twenty-nine. Brain aneurysm.”

  For Jennifer, I would have bargained with Satan himself for a different outcome. Think how different all our lives would have been had she never been killed. We would have been no less devastated when she died at twenty-nine, but how different would all our lives be had she lived a little longer? I filled Margaret’s cup and mine with coffee. “I made an effort to review some of the old farm ledgers, but I couldn’t decipher the handwriting. I assume the handwriting in the letters you have is just as challenging.”

  “I’ve been reading that stuff for years so it comes a little faster to me. Patience’s handwriting is a bit odd but I’ve developed an eye for her lettering quirks.”

  “That’s talent.”

  “It’s one of those talents that won’t make me rich.” She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes as she savored the taste. When she opened her eyes again, they were sharp with excitement. “Do you know why Patience McDonald still had all those letters addressed to her mother? Stands to reason the letters would have been with her mother’s belongings back in England.”

  “As I said yesterday, I always assumed they were shipped back to Patience at the time of her mother’s death.”

  She tapped her finger on an illegible word she’d circled multiple times in her notebook. “That was my original theory, but, as it turns out, it’s incorrect.”

  She enjoyed the slow tease of a story. “But you know the real reason,” I prompted.

  “I do.” She grinned, clearly proud of her detective work. “Her mother died prior to Patience’s move to the Virginia Colony. Patience never mailed the letters to her mother. She knew she was writing to a dead woman.”

  “Really?”

  “I suppose those letters were her diary, her confessional—her way of pretending that she still had her mother. Like most of us, she felt safe talking to her mother and didn’t want to give it up.”

  “It’s a natural response, I suppose.” How many times did I try to connect with my mother after Jennifer’s death? How many times did I fail before I gave up?

  “I still have my mom,” Margaret said. “She drives me crazy and I know I do the same to her, though it’s all normal in a good kind of way. I’m not sure what I’d do if she were gone.”

  Words and emotions unexpectedly bubbled up, but as quickly as they rose, I suppressed them. No need to crack the lid of Pandora’s box. I learned long ago that hope was not waiting to flutter free and ease pain and suffering. “What did Patience have to say to her mother?”

  “Lots of loss. As we know, she lost children. Tough life. But what I find very interesting is that she chronicles the day Faith Shire Talbot moved back to their farmhouse.”

  “Ah, Faith, the witch, mother of twins, and healer.”

  “The very same. Patience refers to Faith along with her twin sons taking up residence. She isn’t close to Faith but is very drawn to Faith’s son Cullen. A year’s worth of letters later, Patience mentions her own son Patrick is thriving.”

  “Why is that odd?” I asked.

  “The day Faith arrived, Patience mentions her aching heart.”

  “She could have been upset about many things.”

  “Don’t think so. I think her baby boy died shortly before Faith arrived,” Margaret said. “I believe she thought documenting his death in one of the letters would somehow make it all too real.”

  “Why do you think he died days before Faith’s arrival?”

  “She mentions nursing Faith’s baby, which means her milk never dried up.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” I said.

  “Patience’s child, according to earlier letters, is sickly and then suddenly after Faith arrives he becomes strong and vibrant.”

  “You said yourself, Faith was a healer. Maybe she helped the boy.”

  “No mention of that in the letters.” Her eyes narrowing, she nodded. “You’re a good devil’s advocate, Rae.”

  “I only analyze facts.”

  Margaret sipped her coffee. “If these were letters to her ‘mother,’ then you would think she’d mention the adoption,” she said.

  “Maybe she was so afraid of the secret she didn’t dare write it. Secrecy is a common traveling companion with adoption. A very charged subject.”

  “Point taken. Daisy’s birth mother, Terry, told her current husband about Daisy only a few months ago.”

  I held my breath for a beat. “She kept her daughter’s birth a secret.”

  “For decades. I think I told you, when Daisy first met Terry, it didn’t go so well. Terry was very uptight and cold to Da
isy. They’ve struggled ever since. Daisy wants to have a relationship, but Terry doesn’t.”

  “You think Terry should have done more,” I observed. “But many adopted children think of their birth mothers as fairy-tale characters, instead of the flawed people we all are. It’s a natural coping mechanism.”

  Blue eyes darkened with anger. “She could be nicer to my sister.”

  “It might not be so easy for Terry.”

  “Playing devil’s advocate again?”

  “You’re looking at this in strictly black-and-white terms. Adoption is emotional and fraught with gray areas that aren’t as easy to define.”

  “Yeah, I get all that on an intellectual level,” Margaret said. “But it irks me when I see Daisy wrestle with the rejection. She doesn’t talk about it much, but it hurts her. I mean, how hard could it be to return an e-mail?”

  The boy’s e-mail remained unanswered in my inbox. Coming up on twenty-four hours since I read it, and I hadn’t responded. Would he see my silence as rejection?

  How could I explain to Margaret that answering letters, e-mails, and questions carried with it a tremendous responsibility? Shame. Pain. Daisy’s birth mother was not evil, but afraid. What would the people around her think if they knew she gave away a child? People could be intellectual and talk about adoption as a wonderful act of kindness, but many, in their heart of hearts, would judge the birth mother and find her lacking.

  I couldn’t put all this into words for Margaret. So I didn’t. “Does Patience say what happened to Faith?”

  “I’m still reviewing my notes on that issue.”

  “Wasn’t there one more McDonald child?” I asked.

  “There was a girl named Hanna. She grew to adulthood.”

  “What became of Patrick? You said he was a lawyer?”

  “A very successful one. And Hanna married a planter. She lived to be sixty-four.”

  “What else did Patience say about Faith?”

  “Patience worried about having the woman on the property, but her husband insisted his wife needed the help due to her fragile health.” Margaret flipped through several pages. “Patience noted that Faith continued to grow herbs and mix elixirs that she sold to many of the good wives of Alexandria, who visited her in secret.” She held up a finger, peering over the edge of her glasses. “She also makes mention of the witch bottle buried in the stone hearth. ‘Gone is the sting of loss,’ she writes. Her heart, and I quote, ‘was now coated in a fine sheen of resin.’”