Here I Stay (17 page)

"I wonder if Franklin Broadhurst was a Confederate sympathizer," Martin mused. "That would explain how he lost his fortune—contributing to The
Cause. He died of a broken heart and extreme frustration, like any honorable old Reb. Mary wouldn't have married a Southern soldier unless her father—"

"That," said Jim loftily, "is the sort of unsubstantiated conjecture we researchers do not allow."

Another aspect of Jim's discovery had fired Andrea's imagination. "Eighteen sixty-six, did you say? That's almost a hundred and twenty years ago. I couldn't say we had been in operation that long, I guess; but why not 'Founded in 1866,' or—"

"Everything is grist for your commercial instincts, isn't it," Martin said.

"Why not?"

"Aren't you even mildly interested in people? Don't you wonder about that woman, struggling to survive in a man's world? I suspect she must have been a lot like you."

Still intent on promotional possibilities, Andrea dismissed this sentimental speech with a shrug. "Jimmie, remember those drawings we found? The woman in black—I'll bet you that's a portrait of Mary! I could have it framed, hang it over the desk in the hall..."

"What drawings are those?" Martin asked.

"Didn't Jim show you?"

"No."

"Where are they, Jimmie?"

"I put them back where we found them," Jim said.

"In that dirty hole? That was foolish; something that old is worth—"

"Money," Jim said. "I know. Do you want to see them, Martin?"

"Please."

"I'll go—" Andrea dropped back into her chair,
wincing from the pain of a hard kick on the calf. Jim got up and went out.

"A gentle nudge would have gotten your point across," Andrea said, rubbing her leg.

"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry. "Why is Jim so reluctant to show me those drawings?"

"He's not; why should he be? They're rather peculiar, but they have nothing to do with him. He found them under the floorboards in the tower room. He's got some nutty idea of moving up there."

"So he told me." Martin's face cleared. "Maybe that's the explanation. It's his own private place and he doesn't want outsiders poking their noses into his things.. .I wonder why Mary Fairfax didn't marry again."

"She probably had better sense."

Martin smiled. " 'If you're an old maid, everybody feels sorry for you. If you're married, your husband bosses you. The best thing is to be a widow.' Where did I read that?"

"It must be a common attitude."

"What a cynic you are. Let's see..." Martin reached for Jim's notebook. "Born in 1823. She was thirty-nine when her child was born. She was an old maid for a long time, at that."

"How do you know? She could have been a widow twice over when she married the soldier..." Andrea paused. Why did that word rouse a shadow of memory in her mind? Dismissing it, she went on, "And she might have had a dozen children. They died young in those days."

"Yes, but...Ah, Jim. Are those the famous drawings?"

If Jim had felt any misgivings about displaying the find, there was no trace of any such feeling now.
He handed it over and resumed his chair.

Martin took his time examining the sketches. Watching him, Andrea saw that he was quicker than she had been to sense their strangeness. The first sketch, of the worm-riddled roses, sent a visible ripple of shock across his face.

When he reached the portrait of the woman in black, Andrea said, "There she is. The dress is the style they wore in the 1880's, and the unrelieved black, even her jewelry, indicates she was a widow. It has to be Mary."

"And Beelzebub," Martin murmured. That's right. Her will actually mentions the cat." You don't seem to realize the significance of the name," Martin said, staring at the drawing.

"What?" Jim asked.

"Beelzebub is the name of the Prince of Darkness—Lucifer—the Devil. Satan."

"It's a logical, if rather unimaginative name for a black cat," Andrea said carelessly. "People are so superstitious."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'll treat my old buddy with a little more respect from now on. You know, these are remarkable sketches. I wonder who did them."

"There's no name on any of them," Andrea said. "I don't suppose Mary—"

"A self-portrait? Not likely." Martin didn't explain his reasoning. "Where are you going next in your research, Jim?"

"I've pretty well exhausted the records room," Jim said. "I don't know where to look next."

"You dare say that in my presence?" Martin exclaimed. "Newspapers, you young ignoramus— newspapers. And if you ask me if they had them back in those antediluvian days, I'll slug you."

Jim grinned. "I guess it wasn't that long ago, was it?"

"It was very long ago," Martin said with a sigh. "But the printing press had been invented. Suppose we check the library."

"You haven't got time to help Jim with his hobbies," Andrea objected. "You're behind schedule
now."

"It looks as if I may be farther behind," Martin said placidly. "I know the symptoms. I am about to wander off onto a seductive byway of useless research. Damn, but the story has its intriguing aspects, doesn't it? I'd like to see that will of Mary's. It reeks of vindictiveness—cutting off her relatives with a pittance. And what about her daughter? You did say she had a daughter, Jim?"

"Her name was Alice," Jim said. "She died in 1879. When she was seventeen."

Yet often as she worked a face intruded itself
between her and the object of her labors—the strongly marked features of Mary Fairfax. Mary's story had affected her more than she had been willing to admit to Martin. She and Mary did have much in common. They were both strong women fighting to survive—too strong for kindness, perhaps, or for love. Like herself, Mary had loved only one person. Why was she so sure of that? Because of Mary's will, she supposed; Martin was right about that document, it was a virulent expression of contempt for everyone she knew—except one old black cat. Mary hadn't loved anyone enough to marry again; she may have loved her husband, but he had left her nothing except their child. She would not have been forced to open her home to strangers if she had inherited anything else from her husband.

Andrea felt certain the sketchbook had belonged to Alice Fairfax. Who else could have portrayed Mary with that compelling blend of admiration and resentment? That mixture was, and probably always had been, the normal attitude of adolescents toward their parents.

Seventeen. They died young in those days. And, typically, Victorian artists and dramatists dealt with that tragedy by turning it into a lace-paper Valentine. How they did wallow in deathbed scenes, especially the deaths of the young and beautiful! Little Eva, Little Nell, Beth in
Little Women.. It
was worse than sentimentality, it was hypocrisy; instead of fighting back or cursing God, they had folded their hands and rolled their eyes heavenward, and draped the skeleton in plushy platitudes. "God's will be done," "He has called her home." "So young, so pure, so unstained by the sins of this world..." Theirs had been a sinful cruel world, especially for women.

From such an existence death might indeed be viewed as escape.

Mary Fairfax had not tried to escape. She had tucked up her widow's veils and gone to work. Andrea's sympathies were not for the girl who had died young, they were for the bereaved mother. Alice had escaped, Mary had been left to bear another, harder burden.

The fatiguing household chores took on a new and poignant interest when she thought of Mary performing them too—scrubbing the same floors, washing the same windows, even polishing some of the same furniture. The walnut what-not and the mahogany breakfront were old enough to have belonged to her. Mary had directed that the contents of the house be sold; why not, she had no one left to inherit her treasures. Seventeen.. .Alice must have died—Andrea couldn't remember the exact dates— somewhere around 1880. Mary had lived alone for twenty years.

Yes, her sympathies were with Mary, not with Little Alice, dying young. Somewhere, at some time, she must have known a girl named Alice, a girl she thoroughly disliked. The name had negative vibes, as Jim would have said. Back in the third or fourth grade—a flaxen-haired, smirking child whose pigtails never dissolved into straggling wisps and who was the teacher's pet.

Andrea got through the weekend somehow, and staggered on into Monday. The promised helper arrived, but was not much help. Slow and reluctant, obviously regarding housework as a more demeaning occupation than bottling syrupy slop, Mrs. Shorb had to be shown how to do everything, even how to make a bed. Jim took one look at the woman's glum face and retreated to his aerie in the tower. During the course of the day ominous sounds of sawing and pounding reached Andrea's ears.

After Mrs. Shorb left she didn't even have the energy to go up and find out what he was doing. Martin found her drooping over the kitchen table with a bottle of sherry on one side and a box of tissues on the other.

"You ought to see the doctor about that cold," he said.

"It's my sinuses, I guess." Andrea blew. "Standard complaint in this area."

"I brought you a present." Martin tossed a bundle of papers on the table. "It may or may not cheer you up."

As she reached disinterestedly for the papers, she heard Jim come clattering down the stairs. Martin's presence drew him like a magnet.

"Hi, Martin. Did you—"

"You might say hello to your sister," Andrea said hoarsely.

"Why? You've been here all the time. Did you find what you were looking for, Martin?"

"Some of it." Martin sat down at the table. "You should have come with me."

"I had stuff to do." Jim gestured at the ceiling. "What's that you have?"

"Xeroxed copies of old newspapers," said Andrea, leafing through them. "I'm glad you have time to waste, Martin."

"It wasn't a waste of time. I can get a couple of columns out of this material—changes in journalistic styles, quaint quotes, that sort of thing." He picked up a pile of sheets and began arranging them. "I didn't take the time to sort these, but they should be more or less in order...Here we go. This is the Frederick
Examiner
of July 17, 1869. It was a weekly—ten whole pages. Not a bad effort for a small community, but one can't help being amused at the arrangement, which seems to have been typical of newspapers of that period. There is hardly any national news, not to mention international. Even local news is relegated to the back pages. The front page features a poem, "Always Look on the Sunny Side"—probably written by the editor's mother, judging from the quality and the fact that it is modestly anonymous; a moral tale entitled "Mrs. Wilkins' Duty"; and six paragraphs of what might he loosely termed humorous stories."

"Also useful bits of information," said Jim, reading over his shoulder. "Andy, did you know that 'tabby cat' comes from 'Atab, a street in Bagdad'?"

"Uh," said Andrea, blowing her nose.

"On page three we get to the news," Martin said. " 'On Friday last Mrs. Jonathan Fried slipped and fell on the staves of a half-barrel. One of her ribs was fractured and she suffered acutely.' And here, Ms. Businessperson, are the advertisements. Dr. Robinson guarantees a cure in all diseases of the Urinary Organs, Nervous and Seminal Weakness, Impotency and Syphilis."

He handed the sheets to Andrea, who found them entertaining enough to distract her from her aching nose. "Confectioner and Ice Cream Saloon," she read.

"Saloon?" Jim repeated.

"Saloon. Ladies and gentlemen's watches, Henry
Miller's Cheap Shoe Store—I admire his honesty, don't you?—French Pattern Hats and Bonnets, Manhood Restored...Oh! Here's an ad for Fairfax's Hotel. Is that why you copied this, Martin?"

"I thought it might interest you."

" 'Fairfax's Hotel, Ladiesburg, Maryland. Mrs. Mary W. Fairfax, Proprietor. First class in all its appointments. Private parlor for ladies. Commercial gentlemen welcome.' Not very imaginative, is it? I hoped she would have something unusual I could reproduce in my brochure."

"Try this." Martin handed her another page. It did not contain advertisements, only news items, but the boldly printed
notice
caught her eye.

"
'notice
to all citizens of Ladiesburg, and in particular to those unknown parties responsible for the recent series of reputed accidents in and around my establishment. This is to serve
notice
that in future anyone trespassing on my property with or without intent to do damage will face the pistols once owned by my late father. Though but a "weak woman," I have inherited my father's skill along with his weapons and will have no scruples in employing them against those cowards whose evident purpose it is to force me from my home. Here I have every right to be, and here I will stay. Mrs. Mary Fairfax, proprietor, Fairfax's Hotel.' "

"Here I stay," Andrea repeated. "So that was why..."

"That was how it started," Martin said. "But one wonders..." He caught Andrea's startled eyes and smiled faintly. "I was referring to her religious views, or the lack thereof, Andrea. What did you think I meant?"