Whispers from the Past (11 page)

Her request was most unexpected. “Why have you thought of that?”

She gestured at my skirt and top. “Those are the kind of things you wore when you moved here.”

I frowned at my clothes. I didn’t like that I felt soothed by modest clothing today, but I did. “What stuff would you like to know?”

“I don’t think you and Mark are being honest about that place.”

I frowned, choosing my words with care. “We speak the truth. Otherwise, we would forget and say the wrong thing. You would recognize our lies.”

“I don’t know if I buy that.”

It would not be much longer before I refused to respond to her questions. “We do not tell you the whole truth. Parts of my past would be hard to believe. It is best, therefore, not to explain them.”

“Let me try.”

“No. Please accept that all you have heard is true and that the gaps are intentional and too wide to cross.”

She jumped up, grabbed the dirty plates, and carried them to the sink. “I know you had to drop out of school. I know that you had a job. Can you tell me what you expected from the future?”

That information was simple enough. “To be a wife and a mother. To do whatever was necessary to take care of my family well.” I picked up my mug and crossed to the coffee pot. “I did not worry about finding work that pleased me.”

“That doesn’t seem like much to look forward to.”

“In the village, life was harder. We had no electricity. We had only one small store. If we needed something, we made it with our own hands. It took every hour of daylight to survive.” I smiled at my good memories. “Pleasure came from being with the people I loved.”

“You’ve been here long enough to know that there is more.”

“Yet my wishes have not changed.”

She refilled her coffee cup. “So, you’re not a career girl?”

I gave a quick shake of my head. I had been raised with the simple expectation to respect my husband, love our children, and devote myself to their care. Dreams of meaningful work—or romantic love—were luxuries that a working-class girl could not afford. “My career plan has always been to care for a family, except in the future I hope the family will be mine.”

She laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Susanna,” she said, her tone sympathetic. “My brother isn’t ready for that.”

“I know. It is why…” I looked away from her.

“Why what?”

I couldn’t continue, stunned at these thoughts—shadowy but there. Waiting for me like a predator, hungry for the right moment to pounce. Mark was years away from being ready for something that I wanted now. How did we reconcile such a difference?

There was a loud knock on the door and, seconds later, Mark strode in. “Why isn’t this door locked?”

“Why don’t you wait before walking in?” Marissa gave him a playful punch in the arm. “You’re going to embarrass yourself sometime with what you might see in that living room.”

“TMI,” he said, catching her in a headlock hug.

I watched brother and sister greet each other, glad of the reprieve from her questions and my thoughts.

Tuesday was the second day since I’d begun my job that my name did not appear on the schedule. Marissa took the morning off and drove me downtown for the adventure she’d promised.

I had an appointment at the health department. I received a physical examination and then a consultation about all of the options for birth control. Both events were too hideous for contemplation.

When Marissa and I were alone again in the car, I turned to her. She would not look my way. “You did not warn me sufficiently about the nature of that visit.”

“Sure didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“How could I possibly describe what you just went through?”

That surprised a laugh from me. “You are correct. Words cannot do justice to the hour I’ve just spent. Is this entirely objectionable experience repeated often?”

“Women are supposed to do it every year or two.”

“I must assume it is utterly necessary for good health.”

“That’s what they say.” She stared at me a moment, her brow creased. “What did you do for women’s health in your cult?”

“It was our own responsibility, except for childbirth. Then we had either midwives or whomever was about.”

“Were you ever about?”

I nodded. “I have delivered babies.”

“Wow. As in more than one.” She reversed the car from its parking place. “And that conversation has come to an overdue end. It is time to shop. Where should we go?”

“I need a prom dress.”

“Oh?” She turned to look at me. “Any conditions for what you’ll wear?”

“It must cover my legs, arms, chest, and back.”

“Mark will hate me forever if I go along with that.” She smiled. “He’s probably hoping for something tiny and slinky.”

“He’s too wise to expect it.” I looked at her with a laugh. “Truly, Marissa, I don’t know what I shall do. I have researched prom dresses on the internet. I cannot tell how they stay on, and Mark must know that I cannot wear something that exposes so much skin.”

“I have an idea. I know of this place that sells vintage dresses.” She frowned and made a hard right turn at the next intersection—from the leftmost lane.

“Vintage?” I repeated the unknown term.

“They’re old. Maybe fifty years or more. I’ll bet we can find something gorgeous that you and Mark will both love.”

Our shopping trip was most successful. I left the store with a new pair of old jeans, a red lace shirt, a pale pink dress to wear to church, and a lovely vintage gown of cream and blue.

Marissa dropped me off near the State Capitol building and then departed for her job, my packages safely stored in her trunk.

Once she was out of sight, I walked quickly to the State Archives, which was housed in an immense marble building. I hurried up the steps and into the narrow lobby.

A guard asked to see my ID. It pleased me to hand mine over. The last time I had visited, I hadn’t been permitted to proceed.

My first stop was the Search Room. A young, bearded man, his jeans bagging loosely on his slight frame, nodded as he leaned on the counter.

“I should like to see documents from the first decades of the nineteenth century.”

“Any particular county?”

“Wake.”

“Sure thing. We have lots to choose from.” He pointed out a directory. “When you find what you want, fill out a call slip and I’ll fetch the appropriate container.” He gave me a shy smile, his teeth a small slash of white in the middle of his dark beard. “Let me know if you need anything printed.”

“Wills first,” I said with an answering smile, “and I suspect that I shall wish to print many things.”

It did not take long to acquire the documents I wanted.

Jedidiah had a will dated from 1809. He’d included his wife and three children. The items listed were quite modest.

Peter Pratt, the young man born to Joan, had a will from 1830. He left properties and horses to his sons, clothing and jewelry to his daughters, yet made no mention of a wife. The list of belongings suggested that Peter had greater wealth to distribute than Jedidiah.

There was no will for Jethro Pratt past 1800. I could draw no conclusion from its absence. He could have failed to draft another one, the will could be lost to time, or he could have perished.

In the same box, a name caught my eye. Nathaniel Eton—a state senator of great reputation, and the husband to Mrs. Abigail Eton. I should always hold her in the highest esteem for her care of my sister Phoebe.

Senator Eton’s will had been signed in 1807. It was uncommonly generous to his wife and fair to each of his four children. My attention lingered over one name. William Eton of New Bern. My heart softened for the young man who had loved my sister yet stood by helplessly as she married a man of a lower class.

Impulsively, I returned to the counter. “I should like the wills from Craven County and New Bern.”

There was only one will for William Eton. It had been made in 1814. The legacies went to his nieces and nephews. I ached for him. He’d watched his first love marry another and lost his wife to a fire shortly after they wed.

“Anything else?” the assistant asked.

“Perhaps, yes. What do you recommend for seeking information on someone who has disappeared into history? I have checked wills and the census, but there is nothing further to glean.”

“Try court records. Sometimes people put cases on the docket. Sometimes they actually appear in court proceedings. And newspapers, too, although that takes a lot of dedication to scroll through and skim pages.”

“I shall want Wake County court records, please. For the first decade of the nineteenth century.”

There were plenty of documents to review, some bound in thick books on the shelves along the back. Others were brought from the mysterious room behind a large metal door that was restricted to staff only.

It did not take long for me to absorb myself in ten years’ worth of Wake County’s Court of Pleas and Quarter Sessions. I browsed the dockets quickly.

I’d made it to 1806 before I halted. Finally, I had learned an important detail. A bit of news that I cared about. In the summer court session, Jethro Pratt had filed a petition in a dispute with another man who had purchased a horse.

Mr. Pratt had survived the tornado, at least well enough to make his way to court later.

I readied myself to leave, a sheaf of printouts in my hand. I would go over all of these documents again to see if there were any details I had missed. But, for now, I had learned all I could bear.

As I was about to exit the Search Room, I noticed a space reserved for reviewing newspapers on microfilm.

I didn’t know what that meant, but the staff here would doubtless help me.

I glanced at the clock. I ought to leave, yet I couldn’t resist a peek at the
Raleigh Register
from May 1805. I could acquire one more page of information to ponder.

With a specific month in mind, it did not take long to find the page I desired. I printed it too and then hurried from the building, hoping that I wouldn’t have to wait long for the bus.

I wanted to reach the apartment without being seen, for I did not wish to explain where I had been this afternoon or why I had these documents. They must be hidden away for another day, but timing wasn’t with me. Mark lounged against the front bumper of his truck as I crossed the wide expanse of manicured lawn beside the apartment building. I clutched my purse and stared at him, hoping he didn’t question my activities this day.

“Where have you been, babe?”

I had to tell the truth, or at least some of it, but it would change the evening for us. “The State Archives.”

The smile left his lips. “Why?”

“I want to know what happened to Dorcas.”

“Why, Susanna?”

I licked my lips nervously, needing time to think of an acceptable response. “It is simple curiosity, Mark. Nothing more.” I made my way up the stairs to my apartment, his shoes thudding behind me. “I cannot rid my mind of her injury.”

“How badly do you want to know?”

As I fumbled with the key, I glanced up at him. His eyes scrutinized my face with something like fear. I looked down again. “Badly enough to travel to the State Archives to look through their documents. Do not let it worry you.”