Receive Me Falling (13 page)

           
“Yes, you are wanting to look
through the archive collection.”

           
“I am.
 
Are you Mr. Edmead.”

           
“Yes, please call me Drew.
 
If you’ll sign our visitors’ book and take a
look around, I’ll be right with you.”

           
Drew went to his desk and made some
notes in a binder while Meg scribbled her name in the book and walked
around.
 
There were many items and
documents on display to do with Alexander Hamilton, but there were also
ceramics from indigenous people, and a display dealing with environmental
conservation on the island.
 

           
“I hope we are able to help you find
what it is you are looking for.”

           
“I hardly know what it is I’m
looking for.
 
As I told you on the phone,
I have come to own the property that was once the Eden plantation. I’m curious about the early
inhabitants of the plantation, the lore surrounding the place…”

           
“Unfortunately, it is very difficult
in our geographical location to preserve history.
 
Hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions,
strong tropical weather in general wipe away all traces of those who came
before us.
 
Nature is still in command,
here.
 
But what we do have we take good
care of, document carefully, and limit its handling. You’ll have to wear these
gloves when searching through the archives.”

           
As Meg reached to take the linen
gloves from Drew, she noticed his left hand looked as if it had been badly
burned.
 
He was missing three of his
fingers, and the others looked as if they had been fused by some terrible
heat.
 
Chalky patches of virgin flesh
moved up his arm and disappeared beneath the tan sleeves of his shirt.
 
Meg averted her eyes, but Drew had seen her
studying his wounds.
 
Meg grasped for
something to say to hide her embarrassment.
 

“Eden
is a miracle, it would seem,” she said.
 
“It’s
amazing how much inside is still in tact.”

           
“Really?
 
Perhaps, if you find anything historically
significant you could show it to me or donate it to the collection.”

           
“I’ll let you know.”
 

           
Drew led Meg to a large cabinet and
opened its locked doors.

           
“In here you’ll find old documents:
tax records, slave lists, parish records, even the occasional letter or
journal.
 
Take as long as you’d
like.
 
We’re open until four.”

           
“Thank you.”

           
Meg watched Drew walk back to his
desk.
 
His black hair was graying at the
temples, his skin was dark and lined, and he favored his right foot when he
walked, creating a slight limp.
 

           
Meg checked her watch—
10:15
.
 
She took out her notebook and set it on the table by the cabinet.
 

The
first hour passed slowly.
 
She sifted
through ancient tax records she could barely decipher and found nothing on Eden.
 
Several references to debt caused Meg’s
stomach to churn, and she thought of her father.
 
Tears burned behind her eyes.
 
Meg blinked back her tears and looked up at
Drew.
 
He sat hunched over his desk with
a magnifying glass, pouring over some document.
 
He didn’t notice her at all.
 
Meg
looked at the tax record and then back at Drew.
 
She smiled suddenly at her memory.

           
St. John’s
College—one of the oldest Liberal Arts
colleges in the country—was a short walk from Meg’s house in Annapolis.
 
Housed in the basement of one of its dorms, Humphrey’s Hall, its tiny
bookstore was an abundance of literary treasures—well-known and unknown.
 
Meg enjoyed picking up coffee from The City
Dock Café, strolling up

           
One autumn day, Meg had walked to
the bookstore.
 
It was the kind of day
when every leaf of every tree seemed to hold on in all its warm-hued glory
before shedding itself.
 
Meg had wandered
into the bookstore and saw someone new working behind the counter.
 
He looked young—mid-thirties, maybe—and
erudite.
 
He was wearing glasses and was
hunched over some musical text with a magnifying glass.
 
He looked up when Meg entered, smiled, and said
some words of welcome.

           
Meg could feel him watching her as
she scanned the shelves, and found that she could scarcely remember why she was
in the bookstore.
 
The weight of his eyes
on her back was paralyzing her.
  
She
concentrated on the books again, and as her ability to read returned she
noticed, with some annoyance, that the book she wanted was out of her reach.
 
She did not wish to make the awkward jump
necessary to secure it in front of the new clerk.

           
“May I help you with something?”

           
Meg felt her face color as she
turned to him.

           
“I can’t reach.
 
Do you have a step ladder?”

           
“I’ll help you.”

           
The man stood and crossed behind the
counter to help Meg. He was very tall—much taller than Meg initially
observed—and thin. His hair was light brown and disheveled—as though he had
been running his fingers through it all morning.
 
He was not handsome in a conventional way,
but something about him was attractive—perhaps it was the accent.
 
It sounded British, but slightly
different.
 

           
“Austen—
Sandition
.”

           
He made a face.

           
“You don’t recommend it?”

           
“I personally detest Jane
Austen.
 
I suppose that would be due to
extreme overexposure.
 
But don’t allow me
to dissuade you.”

           
“Well, I can’t possibly buy it now,”
said Meg.
 
“Do you have any other recommendations?”

           
“I’m partial to Homer, Dante,
Dostoevsky…but it all depends on your mood.”

           
“It’s more about the period, for
me.
 
I’m most interested in the
nineteenth century.”

           
“Have you read Flaubert—
Madame Bovary
?
 
Wilde’s
Picture
of Dorian Gray
?”

           
“No, I haven’t.”

           
“Excellent selections. Those are my
recommendations.”

           
“I can reach those, thank you.”

           
The man smiled, returned to his
desk, and resumed his magnifying glass inspections.

           
After Meg browsed around a bit
longer, she carried her selections to the cash register.

           
“Ready?”
 
He put down the magnifying glass and rang up
the books.

           
“You might need a stronger
prescription.”

           
He laughed.
 
“I desperately need a stronger
prescription.
 
I’ve not been able to find
an ophthalmologist since I arrived.”

           
“Where are you from?
 
You don’t sound exactly British.”

           
“You’ve single-handedly dismantled
my prejudice against Americans with that observation.”

           
“What do you mean?” asked Meg.

           
“Well, to Americans, foreigners tend
to fall in broad categories. I’m extremely impressed that you detected
something else in my accent.”

           
“Thanks, I think.”

           
“Thank you.
 
I’m Welsh.”

           
“How long have you been in Annapolis?”

           
“Since August.
 
I head a preceptorial on Milton’s
Paradise
Lost & Paradise Regained
.
 
Are
you a student?”

           
“I’m not, actually.”

           
“Good, then it won’t be considered
sordid if I ask to you join me for coffee sometime.
 
You can let me know about the books.”

           
“When I finish them, I’ll let you
know.”

           
The man smiled and handed Meg her
bag.

           
“Thank you.”
 
She left the store and started up the stairs
to the campus lawn, but turned around and peeked back into the store.

           
“Meghan Owen.”

           
“Brian Hyer.”

           
Cecil
Dall.

           
Meg snapped out of her reverie.
 
Dall, Cecil Dall.
 
And under his name was Catherine Dall
followed by Eden,
1830.
 
Pounds of sugar cane and currency
were listed, acreage, location, number of slaves: 202.

           
My
God.

           
Meg’s heart raced.
 
The Dalls owned 202 slaves—an entire
village.
 
How was she related to these
people?
 
Were the Dalls father and
daughter, or were they married?
 
No,
James Silwell’s note was addressed to a “Miss Dall,” and Hamilton had mentioned that a father and
daughter lived at the plantation.

           
“Drew, I found something.
 
Cecil and Catherine Dall lived on the
plantation in 1830.
 
Do you know how I
could find out more about them?”

           
“I could check my computer.
 
All of our archived material has been
entered.
 
I may have a cross reference
for you.
 
Give me a minute.”

           
Meg watched Drew go to the computer
and use his good hand to navigate through the search engine.
 

           
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he
said.
 
“My hand slows me down quite a
bit.”
  

           
“What happened to it?”

           
“Common sugar boiling injury.”

           
“Were you a cane worker?”

           
“I was.”

           
“How long ago were you injured?”
asked Meg.

           
“It was two years ago.
 
It was a blessing in disguise.
 
I had only worked part time at the Museum
before the accident. Now I’m able to be here all the time with a full time job.
 
My friends are not so lucky right now.”