Bitter Harvest (20 page)

“Perfect. See you there.”

Noon found Meg waiting in the parking lot next to Gran’s restaurant on the green in town. Since she’d been instrumental in bringing the restaurant to Granford, and was in a small way a shareholder, she felt incredibly proud of it, and of Nicky and Brian Czarnecki, its two young owners. Nicky was a great cook, and her husband Brian managed everything else. In addition, they’d hired several people from Granford to work there, which had further endeared them to the town. They served local food, creatively prepared, and they kept their prices affordable. All in all, it was no surprise that the restaurant appeared to be doing a brisk business, even during the week, which pleased her—and no doubt thrilled Nicky and Brian. They’d been open three months now and had made a profit each month so far. Nicky had been excited when Meg called to say that she wanted to bring a couple of guests—and why.

Gail pulled in a few minutes later. “Hi, Meg! Is Janice here yet?”

“Beats me. I don’t know what she looks like.”

“Oh, right. Well, why don’t we go inside and keep warm? And I can start filling you in on the family history part, at least, which she doesn’t care much about anyway.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m amazed that you put anything together so fast. Do you know everything there is to know about Granford and its history?”

Gail laughed. “Not hardly. My family’s only been here six or eight generations, while your Warrens go back to the sixteen hundreds. But I like puzzles, and this one’s interesting.”

They walked into the restaurant and waved to Nicky, busy with some other customers. Sitting down, Gail added, “Plus I love that sampler of yours. You wouldn’t consider donating it to the Historical Society?” she asked wistfully.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do with it yet,” Meg hedged. “It’s pretty delicate.” Much as she was fond of the place, Granford’s Historical Society still had quite a ways to go before making a safe environment for anything fragile.

“Well, maybe we can find it a good home, if you don’t want to keep it. Let’s go ahead and order while we wait for Janice. She won’t mind, and I’m starving. When I’ve got to get the kids off in the morning, I don’t always get breakfast.”

Nicky made her way over to their table. “Hi, Nicky,” Meg said. “Looks like business is good.”

Nicky beamed at her. “It is! We’ve been run off our feet from Day One, but it’s a great feeling. And I’ve come up with some amazing new recipes. Did your folks enjoy their meal when they were visiting, Meg?”

“They did, and they’re picky, so that’s high praise. We’re expecting one more person, but we couldn’t wait to eat.”

“I’ll send a waitress over, and I’ll keep an eye out for your friend. Good to see you, Meg. And you, too, Gail—I loved that old cookbook you found for me.”

“I hope you can get something useful out of it. Oh, by the way, I’m including it, and how you’re using it, in our quarterly newsletter.”

“Ooh, free publicity! I love it. Enjoy your lunch!” Nicky hurried back to the kitchen.

Meg sighed. “I don’t know where she gets the energy. She’s on her feet all day, and she never slows down. So, where were we?”

Their waitress, a middle-aged woman with a weary face and no makeup, walked over. Gail greeted her by name. “Hi, Donna. How’ve you been?”

“’Bout the same. You two ready to order?”

“I think so. Meg, have you met Donna Taylor? She lives about half a mile down the road from you.”

“I don’t think I have,” Meg said. “I haven’t met a lot of my neighbors, I’ve been so busy until now. It’s nice to meet you, Donna.”

“Yeah. You’re at the old Warren place—nice house you’ve got.”

“Thank you. Wait—are you John’s mother? I just met him the other day.”

“Yeah,” Donna said ungraciously. “What you want for lunch?”

Sandwiches and drinks requested, Gail pulled a folder out of her bag and started laying papers out across the table.

“What’ve you got for me, Gail?” Meg said impatiently.

“I’m getting there, and I think you’ll be happy. So, we started with a name for the girl—Violet Cox—and the date on the sampler, 1798, and a register with some other people, presumably family members, right? And the piece was found here in Granford, in a house built by the Warrens and continuously occupied by them until a couple of decades ago. So either that was a cosmic coincidence, which would be no fun at all, or there’s some connection to the Warren family. Right?”

“That’s what I’ve been hoping for.” Meg nodded.

“Now, you know who lived in your house in 1800, right?”

“Eli Warren senior,” Meg said promptly.

“Right, and then his son Eli after him.”

Meg nodded. “The first Eli was the grandson of the original owner, Stephen Warren. But all that line stayed right here in Granford, and I couldn’t find any Coxes in the bunch. What does this have to do with the sampler?”

“Patience, Meg. Stephen the builder had two sons: Stephen junior, who was Eli’s father, and Eleazer. Stephen’s descendants stayed right here, as you know. Eleazer did, too. But he had six kids, and they
didn’t
all stay. They were all born here, but then four of them don’t appear again in the records.” When Meg tried to interrupt, Gail plowed on. “But! There’s a note in the town records that three of the sons and a daughter all removed to Pittsford, Vermont.”

“What? Why? When?” Meg sputtered.

“Looks like the 1780s. As I keep telling you, the records are kind of patchy for that period, and I’m surprised I found even that much. But it was a small town then, so I guess the departure of three able-bodied men made a difference. Oh, hang on,” Gail said, when Donna reappeared with their food.

She and Meg tucked into their meals, and after Gail had made half her sandwich disappear, Meg said, “So you’re telling me I need to look at Vermont records?”

“Yup. I warn you, you’re already getting spoiled, working on Massachusetts families. For other states there’s still a lot of stuff that isn’t available online. You’re going to have to do some digging, maybe even head up to Pittsford.”

“So you don’t have a clue how and why Violet, or at least her sampler, ended up in my house?”

“You’re in luck. I can’t tell you the why, but I can prove that Eli Warren took her in, in 1796.”

“What?” Meg couldn’t believe the twists and turns this story was taking. “How on earth would you know that? The census is no help—it lists only heads of household at that point.”

“It’s in the Granford town records, believe it or not. The selectmen had to vote funds to cover the annual expenses for Violet Cox, payable to Eli, until she came of age or married, whichever came first. Eli petitioned for the money. Kind of a cheapskate, since he had only two kids of his own, and a house with plenty of room. To be fair, at least Eli sent Violet to a nice school, which is presumably where she learned needlework. Maybe that’s what the money went for—school fees are mentioned in the town minutes. That’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I wanted to leave something for you to do. Isn’t that half the fun? I haven’t had time to track down the details of Violet’s marriage yet—assuming she stayed around and married someone in Granford—but I haven’t given up. Here’s what I’ve got so far.” Gail handed her photocopies of what Meg recognized as pages from the town’s records.

“You’ve done an incredible job, Gail, in a very short time. It would have taken me a lot longer to get this far on my own.”

“Well, I’ve got the original documents to work with—that helps. And you can see that you never would have found this on your own, because it’s not published, in any way, shape, or form. That’s why I have this job—that, and the thrill of the hunt.”

“I can’t thank you enough. I wonder why the sampler ended up jammed in the back of a closet?”

“That I can’t tell you—you may never know. Maybe the old aunts your mother inherited from just kept stuff in front of the closet and never looked in the back. Nor did any of your renters, apparently.”

Meg giggled. “So nobody cleaned out that closet for over a hundred years? That makes me feel a lot better!”

“Heck, the Warren ladies might not even have known it was there, or that it existed. It looks like Violet died about ten years before the elder Warren sister was born.”

“Complicated, isn’t it? I still need to know why Violet ended up here, and why she has a different surname. Oh, did I tell you that I finally have a new furnace?”

“Congratulations! I’m sure you really appreciate it now.”

“Believe me, I do. Thanks so much for your help on this, Gail. It’s one of those things that would have nagged at me. I guess I’ve got the genealogist’s itch.”

“There’s no known cure for that, you know. Ah, here she is at last!” Gail waved at a woman who was headed for their table in a rush.

“Sorry, sorry—I got delayed. Hi, I’m Janice Fayerweather. And you must be Meg Corey?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Sorry, we went ahead and ate without you, Janice,” Gail said, “but I’ve got to get home in time to meet the school bus.”

“No problem.” Janice turned to Meg. “Gail says you’ve got something juicy for me to look at.” Donna appeared and waited, pad at the ready. “What’s good here?”

“Everything. But the sandwich special today is great,” Meg said.

“I’ll go with that. And coffee, please,” Janice said. When Donna retreated to the kitchen, Janice said, “I guess we should eat before looking at the piece.”

Gail glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot—I’ve got to run. Listen, you two have fun, and I want a full report.”

“Of course. I’ll get the check,” Meg volunteered.

“I won’t argue. Good to see you, Meg! Janice, I wish we had more time. Maybe I can drag Meg over to your place one day and we’ll have lunch there.”

“Always good to see you, Gail, even if only for a second. We’ll do that.”

Gail collected her winter coat and scarf, gloves, and hat and bustled out the door, leaving Meg and Janice at the table. Janice’s food appeared promptly, and she gave it the attention it deserved, but not before asking, “So, how do you know Gail?”

Meg’s story of her arrival in Granford took them through the rest of the meal. When Janice had drained her cup one last time, she looked around at the now-empty restaurant. “You think they’d let us use a table so we can spread out the sampler?”

“I’m sure they will,” Meg said. When Donna appeared to clear off their plates, Meg explained what they wanted, and in short order a table near the window had been wiped down for them. Janice took another napkin and made sure it was really clean and dry.

Then she turned to Meg, with an eager gleam in her eye. “Okay, let me see it.”

Meg retrieved the sampler and unrolled it carefully, laying it down on the table. Janice stalked around it, viewing it from all sides, mumbling to herself. “Silk on linen . . . good condition . . . interesting combination of motifs . . .” Meg watched, amused and intrigued.

Finally Janice straightened up and looked at Meg. “This is really special. How do you come to have it?”

“I found it in the back of a closet in a house my mother inherited, where I’m living now. From what Gail tells me, and what I’ve found doing my own family research, I think the girl who made it could be a relative, but that’s about all I know. I don’t know anything about samplers, beyond what I’ve looked up online since I found it. What can you tell me about it?”

“I think we need to sit down again.”

“There’s nowhere else you have to be?”

Janice laughed. “There are six other places I should be, but this is a lot more fun. It’s not often something as good as this comes along. What do you know about needlework, Meg?” she asked.

“I think ‘nothing’ about sums it up.”

“Okay, I’ll start at the beginning. Fancy needlework was a pursuit of young girls who attended schools in New England, and the early nineteenth century was the heyday. There were several noteworthy schools not far from here, in Northampton and South Hadley, although I don’t think your example comes from either of them. Did the maker come from around here?”

“I haven’t done all the research yet,” Meg said. “Were these samplers done for any particular purpose?”

“To show off the young ladies’ talents, for one,” Janice replied promptly. “Even in this one you can see the variety of stitches—this girl was good. And family registers were popular. They were often hung in the parlor, for public viewing, as were mourning samplers. Which, of course, means a lot of them didn’t survive—sunlight is murder on needlework. Not only do the colors fade, but the materials literally can disintegrate. You said you found this in a closet? Any idea how long it had been there?”

Meg shook her head. “None. Apparently Violet was in Granford before 1800, and she lived in the house, probably until she married, so that’s the most likely time frame. You’re saying that being in the closet helped preserve it?”