Hope was heading toward the door when his voice stopped her.
“Oh, Miss Langston? I see here that one of the names is Captain Trevor.”
“Yes?” She held her breath, waiting impatiently for the old gentleman to continue. When he didn't say anything more, she prompted him. “He used to be at Port Huron in Michigan. He had a daughter named Faith.”
The professor took off his glasses and wiped them on a large handkerchief. “Hmm, yes. I'm sure it's the same one, then.”
“The same one as what?”
“Do you know the Haddington Family? Lovely family all of them. And so devoted to keeping the various historical societies alive and active.”
“Yes?”
“Well, if I'm not mistaken, the Haddingtons are direct descendants of Faith Trevor Haddington.”
Hope sat back down with a thud. “Are you sure?” Her voice sounded like a croak. “Are you absolutely sure?”
He bobbed his head, then placed his glasses back on the tip of his nose. “Oh, yes, dear, I'm sure. It's a shame they're not in town right now. I believe their youngest daughter just got married in St. Paul last week, and the family is still there.”
So Faith had married! She hadn't waited for Armand, but had fallen in love with someone else! Hope leaned forward. “Do you know when they'll return?”
He shook his head. “Who can say? Tomorrow? A few days? Perhaps a week. Maybe by then you'll have found other information that might help.”
She stood again, only this time her knees were weak. “Thank you again, Professor. I'll be here for a few days. Don't forget to call if you hear anything.”
Hope left the spacious Victorian home and walked toward her car. She didn't have much information, but she did have hopes of getting some. And she now knew about Faith.
Mixed emotions flooded her as she thought about what the professor had said. On one hand, she was thrilled to death to find that Faith had been as fickle as she had thought her to be. On the other, she knew how much pain this information would cause Armand. Faith had been everything to him....
Duluth was a fountain of information, but the sources were scattered all over. After another several hours at the public library, Hope found herself in the University of Minnesota library going through the archives, checking microfilmed bible flaps, letters and notes. There was nothing. Disappointment was a bitter taste in her mouth.
She trudged to the Northeast Historical Society's section. Most of the records there began in the 1850s, but there were a few mentions of the period she needed. Still she couldn't locate the names of the scouts.
Late that night, as she ate a meal from room service and listened to the news on TV, she had just about decided to call it quits and head back to the island. She'd rather be with Armand right now than sifting through reams of paper that were leading her nowhere.
The next morning she was certain that this trip was a wild-goose chase. All she could think of was getting back to Armand and the safety of his arms.
She packed quickly, throwing her things in the overnighter she had brought with her. She was just walking out the door when the telephone rang. She hesitated before answering it.
The professor's reedy voice made her heart beat faster. “I have some more information if you're still interested, Miss Langston. You can come over any time this morning, and I’ll be glad to talk it over with you.”
“Thank you. III be right there,” she promised before hanging up. How stupid could she be? She had almost given up, which would have been disastrous for Armand. No matter how much she missed him, she had to keep searching.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Even if they are back from their trip, do you really think the Haddingtons have any more information about Faith Trevor?” Hope persisted. Leaning forward in her chair, she stared expectantly at the historian on the other side of the desk.
He squinted through his rimless glasses. “My dear, I would say that if anyone did, it would be Bella Haddington.” He glanced down at his notes. “Faith was one of forty or fifty white women at Port Huron at the time, and most of them either married or went back to the cities scattered along the east coast. When they married, their own names were lost from the records.” He wheezed. “But Faith Haddington is the exception, perhaps because she settled in the west rather than the east. I've spoken to Bella Haddington on the phone, and met her once or twice. She's a pleasure to talk to. Perhaps you could go by her home? I'm sorry I don't have the telephone number. I've misplaced it, and it's unlisted,” he explained. “But if you knock at her door and tell her what you're doing, she might take time out of her busy schedule to see you.”
Her face showed the doubt she felt. “You don't think she'd kick me off her property?”
He chuckled, reaching for a blank piece of paper and quickly scribbling down the address. “Bella doesn't seem the type of woman to turn anyone away.” He pushed it across the desk. “It's worth a try.”
She grinned. “It is, isn't it?” Suddenly she was excited. Perhaps she could piece this whole thing together, help find the information Armand needed to...
The professor interrupted her thoughts. “As for the other men, you've done very well on your own. Only one thing that mystifies me is the gentleman you can't locate. This Henri Houdon, I know he's in my records somewhere and I'm sure that I'll run across him. Just have patience,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll find him. My memory may not be as good as it used to be, but my notes are very thorough.”
She smiled as she stood and held out her hand. “Thank you. Professor Richards. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.”
He brushed away her words with an arthritic hand and an answering smile. “No problem, as my grandchildren say I'm only too happy to acquaint someone with their ancestors. It's that vital link between the past and the present that makes our future so much easier to bear.”
“I agree.” She smiled as she moved toward the door. It had been easier to tell him she was interested in her family's ancestors than to explain she had met a ghost who needed to piece his past together. Much easier. “May I come by tomorrow, before I leave Duluth?”
He nodded his balding head. “By all means. I know I'll have something by then, my dear.” He glanced once more at the piles of paper on his desk. Hope was sure he was the only person who could possibly make sense out of that mess. She wasn't about to volunteer, much as she would have liked to dig around. She wanted answers and she needed them now, but prudence had to be her guide.
She let herself out. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was too early to make an impromptu call on a woman she had never met. Perhaps she should wait another hour or so.
Her step was light and almost bouncy as she made her way to the newspaper office. She still had a lot to learn. Even though there had been no newspapers in Armand's time, there had been pieces written during the thirties and forties about the colorful history of the area. Maybe one of those articles could help. One clue was all she needed.
The woman in charge threaded the spool of microfilm through the machine and left Hope to her task. Page by page, Hope checked through the papers, her interest piqued by the replay of day-to-day history. Armand had made those past days real to her. The people, places and events she was reading about seemed to belong to yesterday not to a time two hundred years ago. The Indian wars, the trading posts that bought and shipped furs, the pemmican factories, the strange clothing and unusual household utensils—all had been part of the lives of those people who had carved a life out of the wilderness.
Suddenly one historical article caught her eye. Alongside the piece was a photograph of a portrait of a woman, blurred and faded, but clearly identifiable. She stared at the image for what seemed like hours, her heart racing. If it hadn't been for the hairstyle, it could have been herself.
The article was about Faith Trevor Haddington, who had married a British officer a year after Armand's death. Her husband had been forty-two, obviously much older than she, but they had
built a lovely home in St. Paul and had had three children together, a son and two daughters. Faith had witnessed the changing of the boundaries from France to England and then to the United States during her lifetime of turmoil. She had lived to the ripe old age of sixty-two, the last ten years as a widow. Her descendants were scattered throughout Minnesota.
All the color left Hope's face as she read the article. Not only had Armand's love married, but she had had three children and had raised them nearby. Her pulse leaped in her throat and excitement coursed through her body.
Quickly calling back the librarian, she asked, “Are you familiar with this article?”
The librarian, a stocky lady in her mid-forties, bent toward the machine and squinted at the screen. Her face lit up with delight. “Ah, yes. Faith Haddington. She's quite a celebrity up here.” Her voice became almost tender, “One of her descendants is a real VIP in Duluth. I'm sure you've heard of him. Jeff Haddington? He owns one of the most successful real-estate companies in the state, with an office here in Duluth that caters to clients wealthy enough to buy their own islands in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area,” she said, referring to the land and water between the United States and Canada. “Not all of that land is national park, you know.”
Hope nodded. “I know,” she said absently. No wonder the name was familiar. Her father had often recommended that her mother sell the island through Jeff Haddington. And Bella Haddington was his mother. Now that she thought of it, she vaguely remembered her mother having been an acquaintance of Mrs. Haddington.
“And Mrs. Haddington has generously donated a wealth of research material to the library. She's a wonderful woman.”
“Does she live with her son?”
“Why, I believe she does.” The librarian smiled.
Hope pointed to the screen. “May I have a copy of this article?”
“Of course. Just put a quarter in the slot, push that button, and the machine will do it.”
Hope did as she was told, and a small white copy came out of the side of the machine. As she folded it and put it in her purse, she asked one more question. “Is Jeff Haddington still here?”
The woman nodded. “Oh, yes. He travels some, but his home is the one at the edge of town, toward French Harbor. His family was in the mining industry here when they built it. You know, the red brick one with the tall wrought-iron fence around it that sits on the side of the mountain overlooking Lake Superior? It's a beautiful place, the finest in the Arrowhead area, some say.”
“I'm sure it is,” Hope said, picking up her notebook. “Thank you very much, you've been a great help. I'll be back tomorrow.”
Fifteen minutes later she was on the road that would take her to the Haddington residence. She thought of the article and the picture that had brought her face-to-face with herself. For the first time since she had seen the article, she thought about Armand. He had mistaken Hope for Faith. She finally understood why.
It wasn't just that she looked like a carbon copy of Faith that shook her. It was that Armand had become hers—her man, her property. Now she had to face that fact with knowledge that was earth-shattering to her.
She loved him; she had told him so. But now she doubted he could tell the difference between her and the woman he had loved so many years ago. Earlier today the ground beneath her had been solid, despite the fact that Armand was a ghost. Now, with the discovery of her picture and the basic facts about Faith's life, she was once more unsure of everything.
One message did come through, and it was one she had already suspected, but hadn't really believed until this moment. Armand had fallen in love with Hope because she looked like Faith, not because she was Hope. That knowledge was shattering to her.
The enormous, dark red brick home sat on the edge of the cliff, deep green grounds and a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding its several acres. If the house hadn't been so beautiful, it could have been used as a setting for a Gothic novel. Luckily the gates were open, and Hope drove in, her hands clenching the steering wheel. She prayed there were answers waiting for her at the end of the drive.
Her courage almost deserted her when she stood in front of the large double doors. It was only by sheer willpower that she remained where she was and waited for the chime to be answered. And when it was, her voice deserted her.
“Yes?” An older woman with beautifully graying hair pulled back in a ponytail stood in the entryway. She wore jeans, a jade-green silk shirt and dangling earrings. Though she was obviously in her late fifties, she was in great shape for any age.
“Mrs. Haddington?” Hope asked finally.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you could talk to me about Faith Trevor Haddington. I'm doing some research for an article about women who helped settle this area, and ran across her name.”
The older woman's eyes narrowed, taking in every nuance of Hope's face, obviously seeing the resemblance. “Are you a relative?”
Hope smiled, pulling out her wallet and showing her press card for Today's World magazine. “No, but I've been told I look like her.” By a ghost who loves her very much.
Mrs. Haddington's expression relaxed. “Of course. You're Cynthia Langston's daughter! I met her several times when she came to visit the island. Teardrop, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Hope said, relieved that this was going to be easier than she had thought.
“I was sorry to hear she had died. She dearly loved this part of the country. Almost as much as I do.”
“I know. In fact, I use it as home base when I'm writing.”
Bella Haddington stood back. “Well, no use yakking on the steps. Come in, and I'll see if I can help.” She led the way into a high-ceilinged library whose glass cases ran around the entire room. “Faith was a remarkable woman, you know.”
“Was she? How so?” Hope asked, taking a seat on one of the twin sofas bordering the large fireplace.
“She married a British officer her father chose for her, raised three children on land that wasn't to become St. Paul until almost a hundred years later. When her husband died, she continued the family shipping business until her son was old enough to take over.”
“She had three children, didn't she?”
“Yes, a boy and two girls. The boy was my great-great-grandfather.”
Hope cleared her voice, asking a question that had been sitting in the back of her mind. “Was he tall?”
Mrs. Haddington laughed. “Goodness, no! Back in those days, men weren't as tall as they are now. And besides, I think the colonel, the man Faith married, was shorter than average. I believe father and son were very much alike.”
“How do you know?”
“Why...” The older woman's well-arched eyebrows rose over mischievous eyes. “Didn't you know? I have her journal. She wrote in it faithfully. Every day until her death.”
“Would it... is there any way I could see it?” Hope asked, her heart tripping over itself. Would it mention Armand? Would it give a clue as to whether or not Faith had been waiting for him in Port Huron?
Mrs. Haddington shook her head. “I'm afraid we have the journal sealed to keep it from deteriorating any further. You can imagine how the humidity here would eat at it.”
Hope hid her disappointment. One road block after another. “Yes. Certainly.”
The older woman stood. “But I do have a typewritten copy of it, if you'd care to see that. It's not as good as holding the original, but at least you can read it.”
“I'd love to!” Hope stood, too, tracing her hostess's steps to the large table in one corner of the library.
Everything in the room faded as Hope began her journey into Faith’s diary. It began on her first day in her new home along the Mississippi, on the land that would become St. Paul. Three hours later, with tears almost blinding her as they streamed down her cheeks, she read the last entry.
I know now that youth is made for fools, middle age for guilt and old age for regrets. My regret is sometimes too st
rong for me to overcome. My soldier, my soldier. Gone forever and it was my fault. I often wonder, now that life’s pace has slowed to a snail’s walk and I have time to do nothing but think, what could have happened if father had not become ill that fateful night, and I had left Port Huron? Is he happy now? Does he have the children he so wanted? Does he miss me?
There were several pages about the children and grandchildren. Then one last paragraph, I met a young half-breed trader named Santeuil today. When I questioned him on his name, he explained his heritage. He also told me that his uncle must have died years ago, for he never returned to France or tried to reach his brother again. The sorrow is almost unbearable. All these years of wondering about another's happiness only to find death. But perhaps death is the final peace. Perhaps it is the meeting place of like minds and loves. Perhaps.
“Now don't you start!” Bella Haddington strode into the room balancing a tray filled with glasses, a pitcher, and a plate of sandwiches. “Every time I get to the end, I start to blubber, too. It's such a tragic story, isn't it?”
Hope closed the notebook. “But how did she survive all that hatred that must have surrounded her? Her husband sounds like a monster!”
“Well, I have my own theory.” She poured tea into the ice-filled glasses and handed one to Hope. “I think he always knew that Faith was in love with another man. A soldier, as far as I can tell. I think it ate at him, and he took it out on her. He never abused her physically, just ignored her unless he could say something caustic in public. And from what Faith says, he was very good at embarrassing her.”
Hope leaned back and wiped her eyes, slightly embarrassed to be sitting in this woman's library crying. “But why commit suicide? She was free of him by then!”
“I'm not sure, but from Faith's point of view, she was old, and all used up. She lived under the unbearably heavy umbrella of guilt and regrets, all making for a very unhappy woman. When she found out that her true love was probably dead, the last of her dreams was shattered. I think she thought she could join him.”
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