“Done.”
“Now that that’s settled, let me tell you about tonight’s main attraction.” Margaret’s grin was electric and held a satisfaction that came with solving a difficult puzzle. “I have pieced together the story of three women who arrived in Alexandria in about 1749. Why don’t we go upstairs? Addie has coffee.”
I held up the box of cookies. “I stopped at the bakery. Your sister had the doors open because she’s selling some of her test-kitchen creations.”
Margaret’s eyes widened with excitement. “Tell me you bought the lemon polenta. OMG. So good. She’s been tweaking that recipe for days. It’s perfect, but she keeps playing with it and somehow making it better. My ass is going to be the size of a barn if her baking skills get any better.”
Addie laughed. “Inside thought, Margaret.”
“I know.” Margaret shrugged. “Please, you all know if it hits my brain I speak it seconds later.”
Lisa accepted Margaret’s buoyance as a moment to regroup and find an easy smile short of genuine. “I like the honesty. It’s refreshing.”
Margaret crossed her arms and glanced at Addie. “See. Refreshing. I’m refreshing.”
“So is a bucket of ice water, Margaret,” Addie countered.
As Margaret laughed, I found her openness as endearing as it was frightening. What would it be like to embrace such honesty? “I’m anxious to hear your story, Margaret.”
“Good. Let’s get started.”
“We made our way up a side staircase that led to a second-floor apartment where Addie, her aunt Grace, and baby Carrie lived. The living room space was large, with a large hearth capped with an ornate marble mantel that sported a collection of pictures ranging from the very recent digital to grainy black-and-whites that spanned over a hundred years. The room was furnished with an assortment of furniture that, like all the other pieces in this space, was enjoying a second chance. There was an overstuffed club chair covered with a dark quilt, a Victorian sofa, a stone coffee table that had once been a miller’s stone, and a well-worn oriental carpet with wear patterns that left it faded and thinned in spots.
“I’ve got coffee and beer,” Addie said.
“Both pair really nicely with the cookies,” Margaret said. “Beer for me.”
“Coffee works for me,” Lisa said.
I handed the box of cookies to Addie and she led us to the kitchen. More vintage: an oval table trimmed in chrome and surrounded by four chairs with red seat covers; a refrigerator with rounded edges and a long silver latch; dented, well-used pots and pans hanging from a rack next to cabinets from different homes and decades, but pieced together in a way that was charming.
The silver coffeepot didn’t drip but perked coffee into a clear dome, signaling that the coffee was ready. Circled around the pot were four mismatched mugs.
Margaret scooped up a cookie. “Is it rude for us to serve beer with you here? And should we keep it on the down low that you attended AA with Janet?”
Lisa sipped her coffee. “Beer’s fine, and some folks don’t want others to know about the meetings.”
“You’re okay talking about this,” Addie said. “I’m always thrilled to hear when Janet attends.”
“Good. Encourage her to talk,” Lisa said. “I talk about my experiences at the meetings to anyone who appears interested. You never know who’s listening and might benefit from my experiences.”
“That’s good.” Addie fished a platter from the cabinet and arranged the cookies in a neat circle. “Better get started. Carrie is down for the night. That gives us plenty of time.”
I accepted a Nationals Baseball Team cup and declined cream and sugar. “I understand she’s your sister’s child.”
“We’re working with a lawyer now. I’m formally adopting her.” She handed Lisa a cup of coffee that sported an American flag with thirteen stars and 1976 Bicentennial written on the side.
“Does she have much contact with the baby?” I asked.
“She comes by about once a week and holds her for a short visit. She loves Carrie, but the day-to-day stuff is too much. She struggles with mental illness and is working to keep herself balanced.”
I couldn’t help but sympathize with Janet. She couldn’t care for her child, but she had given Carrie a promising life and laid her in the arms of a caring mother. I hoped Michael would understand my decision one day.
Margaret reached beside her seat to a backpack from which she pulled out a tattered notebook covered with flower stickers, endless notes, and scribbles in all colors of ink. She flipped through the pages until she was almost to the end. “Thanks to Rae, I was able to piece together the connected lives of our three ancestors. Lisa is descended through Imogen Smyth. Rae is a direct descendant of Patience McDonald, and Addie is descended from Sarah Shire Goodwin on her mother’s side and on her father’s side through Faith Shire.”
Addie paused as she raised the cookie to her lips and grinned. “My descendants are related? That can’t be good.”
“Your mother and father were third cousins. Perfectly acceptable in the world of healthy genetics, but each did come from the same line of mad Shires that hailed from Aberdeen. Sarah and Faith were half sisters.” Margaret peered over her glasses. “Seems Daddy Shire had a liaison with a local widow, who birthed Faith. Faith, born out of wedlock, lived on the fringes in Aberdeen until she was in her late twenties. She was described as a beautiful woman with red hair, and from what I can gather, was very outspoken. Around 1747, she was put on trial and convicted of witchcraft in Aberdeen. She was sentenced to indentureship in Virginia.”
“I still can’t believe they could send a woman here on such bogus charges,” Addie said.
“They could and they did,” Margaret said. “She was said to be pretty, which would have caught the attention of many. She could have served her time in a Scottish prison, but I wouldn’t be surprised if those who trolled the prisons for new indentured servants didn’t cut a deal somewhere along the way to commute her sentence from prison to indentureship in the colonies.”
Lisa sipped her coffee. “Collecting people from the prisons is kind of a soulless job.”
Margaret tapped the table in front of Lisa. “As a matter of fact, it was Captain Cyrus Smyth and his young wife, Imogen, who did this very work.”
“How would you know that?” Lisa asked.
“Because Imogen confessed it to Patience. Imogen told Patience that Faith was ‘cargo’ held in the hull during the voyage that brought Imogen to the Virginia Colony.” Margaret retrieved a stack of copied letters. “These are the letters that Patience McDonald wrote to her mother, but she never mailed the letters because her mother was already dead.”
“Wow,” Lisa said.
“Imogen was only twelve when the captain first met her. She was not as highborn as she pretended but very pretty. He married her when she turned fifteen, and she set about putting distance between herself and her old life.”
Lisa tapped a finger against the side of her cup. “Reinvention is not a crime.”
“No, it’s not. Neither was spiriting people away to the new world. But the lengths Imogen and Cyrus Smyth went to so that he could fill the hull of his ship were shameful. She mentioned taking women and children from the streets. Of luring men onto the ship with the promise of ale and bread. A calculating woman.”
“So,” Addie said. “Imogen ends up in a town recognizing Faith, a woman who could expose her sordid past.”
“That’s exactly right. And I would bet her best solution was to discredit Faith as mad, or better yet, accuse her of witchcraft,” Margaret said. “Discredit Faith and neutralize her as a threat. Although, I think Imogen Smyth believed in witchcraft. Otherwise she’d not have gone to such lengths to create the bottles.”
“How could three bottles make such a difference in our histories?” I asked.
“Basically, the charges of witchcraft drove Faith out of the city of Alexandria,” Margaret said. “Until I read your letters, I didn’t know what happened to her. There were no more public records about Faith. I knew her son Marcus did well for himself in later years, but never knew what became of Faith and her son Cullen. Reportedly, she was buried in the Christ Church cemetery in 1783, but Cullen vanished.”
“And now you do know,” I said.
“Now I know she moved to the McDonald farm with her twin sons soon after Ben Talbot died. She lived on the farm for over three decades until her death.”
“Didn’t she start off with the McDonalds and didn’t they send her away?” Addie asked again.
“You’re correct.”
“So then why allow her back?” Addie asked.
Margaret spoke about the possibility that the McDonalds lost a third infant son just days before Faith arrived with her twin sons. “Later records only mention one of Faith’s sons. The logical conclusion is one of Faith’s babies died. That happened all the time. But . . .”
We all watched as she reached for her coffee and took a deliberately long sip and a bite of cookie for effect.
“And thumbs up to Rae for this theory I’m about to share. The McDonalds actually lost all of their first three sons who died before the age of one.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Addie said. “Who sired the McDonald line? It didn’t die out.”
Margaret hesitated, savoring the secret she was about to share. “I believe Faith relinquished, under duress, one of her twins to the McDonalds.” Margaret reached for an envelope and pulled out a copy of two old paintings. “This is Patrick McDonald, the only male child of Patience’s to ‘survive’ to adulthood. The other is a portrait of Hanna McDonald Dowd, the McDonalds only surviving daughter.”
We all saw a dour-faced man in his midthirties with pale reddish hair and green eyes. Gazes then shifted to the daughter’s dark hair and brown eyes.
“The two don’t look anything alike,” I said. “But that’s hardly irrefutable proof.”
Margaret leaned forward, her eyes glistening. “The third portrait is of Marcus Shire.” Marcus and Patrick shared the same lightly colored eyes. Although Patrick’s hair and skin tones were lighter than Marcus’s, the resemblance was uncanny. “Granted, these are paintings, but come on, guys. Not identical twins, but definitely brothers.”
“Do you believe they knew?” I asked.
“I’d say they did. Neither spoke of a connection, but the next couple of generations of the Shires and McDonalds were close. They had quite a few business ties.”
“But there’s no way of proving it,” I said.
“In my backpack I have three genetic testing kits. They simply involve a cheek swab. I have a lab friend who will test the sample for free. I bet we find markers linking at least Addie and Rae.”
“Then why run mine?” Lisa asked. “It’s a waste of time.”
Margaret shook her head as she nibbled a second cookie. You never know what will shake out. And what could it hurt?”
“Which brings us back to the bottles,” I said. “Why did the good ladies of Alexandria construct the bottles?”
“Because they were deeply afraid of Faith and her powers.”
“They really thought she was a witch?” I understood that one person’s fear could infect an entire group. “Or perhaps they were afraid she would talk.”
Margaret leaned back in her chair and held up an index finger. “Faith had the potential to cause problems for all three women, so it was easy to convince themselves she was a witch. They gathered in secret, cast protection spells, and declared their wishes.”
“Unfortunately, their wishes were curses,” Addie said. “Sarah wished to be free of her sister and for generations, Shire women have been bound to sisters stricken with the curse of madness.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said.
“I can’t speak for the entire bloodline,” Addie said. “But I’ll spot you heavy odds that I’m right.”
“When Addie’s bottle broke, we found a scroll inside encased in candlewax,” Margaret said. “Sarah was afraid the world would know Faith was her sister.”
“Do the other bottles have scrolls?” Lisa asked.
“Based on X-rays, I think they do. I can’t read the other two scrolls without breaking the seal. Otherwise I could tell you what your ancestors wished for themselves.”
“I suppose Imogen wished her secret would stay a secret,” Lisa said, almost to herself.
I could imagine Patience McDonald’s wish after witnessing the death of so many children. The agony must have been unbearable. Was it a wonder the women in my family wished to distance themselves from their secrets?
“Should we break the bottles and see what the scrolls say?” I asked.
Margaret held up her hands. “As curious as I am, no. Breaking them would not be good. They’re so valuable because they’re intact.”
“What are you proposing, Margaret?” I asked.
“I’d like to do an exhibit in town and maybe give a lecture discussing the families. You’ve provided so much detail. And the DNA swabs would prove or disprove my theory about Patience McDonald’s son. It’s all a very fascinating story.”
We were tugging at the threads of so many secrets and memories that had remained undisturbed, much like their relatives in their graves. Lisa looked at me, and for a moment, I tensed. She was one of the very few people who knew about the boy. Would she blurt out my secret tonight?
There were so many reasons to shut all this down now and to forget about the McDonald family history. But they were all trumped soundly by the boy.
I held out an open palm toward Margaret. “I’ll do it. Give me the swab.”
Grinning, Margaret fished out a swab and handed it to me. “This is awesome. You won’t regret this, Rae.”
I read the instructions and, tearing open the package, swiped the inside of my cheek. This might be a fascinating tidbit for the boy. I sealed the swab and handed it back to Margaret.
Lisa shrugged. “What the hell. Why not?” She repeated the process and gave her sample to Margaret.
Addie swabbed her cheek and gave the swab to Margaret.
“I’ll send this off immediately.” Margaret sealed the three samples in a padded envelope. “This could be the way to solve the mystery of the missing twin, and who knows, maybe we can confirm Amelia’s birth parents.”
“Amelia?” Addie asked.
“My aunt,” Lisa said. “She’s in a nursing home. She believes her birth father was a McDonald. If I swab her cheek, we could determine if she’s related to Rae.”
“We could.” Margaret fished out a fourth test kit and handed it to Lisa. “Have at it.”
“You carry spares?” Lisa asked.
“I know you are doing a family search for Amelia,” Margaret said.
Lisa accepted the swab. “I’ll swing by the home in the morning.”
Addie shook her head. “I’m confused. So Lisa’s aunt Amelia is really Rae’s aunt?”
I nodded. “Amelia’s biological father was Jeffrey McDonald. His younger brother, Stuart, would have been my great-uncle. And my mother, Diane, is Amelia’s half sister.”
Addie shook her head. “So, that would make Rae and Lisa . . . what?”
“Lisa and Rae are connected but its by adoption and not biological,” Margaret said. “Now that Addie and I have completed the job at the church and processed what we salvaged, I have a day to figure Fiona’s story. Digging back seventy-five years has got to be easier than going back to colonial America.”
“Famous last words,” Addie said.
• • •
I left Lisa, Margaret, and Addie at the warehouse to head home, but as I approached my turn, I felt a tug. Something in me said I needed to see Ameli
a.
It was early evening and the commuter traffic on the Beltway had thinned, so the drive went fast. As I pulled into a parking spot, a quick check of my watch told me I had a half hour left before visiting hours ended. Grabbing my purse, I moved across the parking lot, nearly swimming in the humid air. Air-conditioning chilled my skin as I walked through the automatic doors and held up my identification to the front desk nurse.
“Dr. McDonald,” the nurse said. “It’s been a couple of weeks.”
“How’s Amelia doing today?”
“Comes and goes. Hard to say.”
“May I go in?”
“We’re glad you’re here. Visitors are always welcome.”
“Thank you.” I slowly walked to Amelia’s room thinking about what Margaret had said earlier.
Her door was slightly ajar, allowing a trickle of light into the hallway as I knocked gently. When I heard no answer, I slowly pushed open the door. Amelia wasn’t in her bed but sitting in a chair by the window that overlooked a parking lot. The clouds were thick again, blocking the moon and the stars. The only illumination came from two large lamps that cast light on the few remaining cars and the thin ribbon of woods separating this property from a shopping mall.
I hesitated until she turned and acknowledged me. Amelia’s hair was styled in a curly coiffure of soft, bluish white curls that framed her lined face. I knew from the staff that she had her hair done weekly and most days insisted on a hint of rouge to brighten her pale cheeks. The lamp glowed warm and inviting, brightening her smile. She appeared lucid until I spoke her name.
“Amelia?”
She looked away from the window. “Diane. It’s so good to see you. It’s been ages.”
I could have corrected her, explained I wasn’t my mother, but then each time I did, she became upset and confused, so I simply smiled. “Do you mind if I visit with you for a minute?”
“No, no,” she said, smiling. “Always good to see you.”
Moving across the room, I pulled a chair closer to her. “I’ve missed you.”
As long as I can remember, Amelia, a friend of my mother’s, was pegged as the vivacious “aunt” who always came by bearing some exotic toy that kept Jennifer and me delighted for hours. I had always assumed the term aunt was figurative but now realized it was indeed genuine. No one ever gave a hint to the biological relationship, and it saddened me now to believe Mom had lived her entire life never knowing she had a half sister.
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