A Whisper in Time (5 page)

There was a large crowd on the front lawn. I hesitated on the sidewalk and pressed closer to Mark’s side.

“Come on.” He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here.”

We continued onto the property. Many of the people were dressed in late-eighteenth-century garb. They had done their research well.

“We came on the perfect day,” Mark said. “It’s like their grand opening or something. The sign in front says they started renovations a couple of years ago and took a lot of time to make sure everything was as correct as possible. See those people in costumes? They’re called re-enactors. Most of them have studied how things worked in your century, and then they give demonstrations at events like this.”

“I’m impressed at their accuracy.” If I allowed myself, I could relax and pretend I was at a celebration of old.

We stopped in the midst of the activity. Children played games in one corner of the yard. An awning covered a table with lemonade and small ginger cookies. A lady, wearing the clothing of a shopkeeper’s wife, sat under a tree, stitching a sampler. A well-dressed housemaid showed a cluster of visitors how to dip candles.

I laughed.

“What?” Mark asked, looking around.

“Truly, the Etons would’ve been unlikely to make their own candles.” I gently detached my hand and started to turn away when I spotted a tent spilling over with young girls. Looking more closely, I could see baskets and racks of clothing. The sight drew me with an irresistible pull.

There were white aprons and caps trimmed with lace, tie-on pockets with heavy embroidery, and neck scarves of every imaginable color. Yet I bypassed them all to approach the shimmering folds of the ball gowns. I longed to touch them.

An older woman slipped a dress of gold silk from a hanger. “Would you like to try this on?”

“Indeed, yes.” Had that light, breathy sound come from my mouth?

She beamed as she helped me into the sleeves. “There now. Here’s a hat.” She dropped a frilly confection of lace and gold ribbons atop my head. “You look adorable, hon. You’re never too old to enjoy dressing up.”

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Never had I seen a garment so beautiful. It was the kind of gown I’d dreamed of as a little girl—the kind I’d imagined only appeared in great cities, for no event so grand had ever happened in the village of Worthville.

“Mark?” I looked over my shoulder. He stood a few feet behind me, holding up his phone. The camera flashed.

The look on his face charmed me. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said to the woman as I reluctantly removed the garment.

“No problem. I completely understand. It’s why I volunteer here.”

When we emerged from the tent, Mark asked, “Where next?”

“I should like to go inside.”

We drifted toward the small, square porch at the front of the house. I paused a moment, standing on a sidewalk that had long ago been part of a dirt lane, and shivered at the onslaught of memories. Mark’s stillness suggested that he remembered too.

If I blocked out the trees and the smell of new paint, the magnificence of this place flowed over me as it had when I was here in July, except it had been July of 1796. The house had just been built, its bricks freshly mortared and its boards freshly nailed.

“Ready to go in?” he asked.

I nodded and then preceded him up the steps.

Ladies in period costumes stood at the entrance to each room. Mats covered the hardwood floors, with velvet ropes blocking the base of the grand staircase.

I entered the housekeeper’s office. It was smaller than most of the closets at Mark’s house, but it would have been considered quite extravagant for a housekeeper in 1800. I stood in its center, absorbing the sparse furnishings and rippled glass in the windows.

Had my sister spent any time in this space? I focused with all of my senses.

“Miss, may I help you?”

Mark spoke from behind me. “My girlfriend loves this period of history.”

“Do you?” The lady’s voice squeaked eagerly. “Do you have any questions?”

I turned to face her, full of questions for which I already had an inkling of the answers. “How many staff did the families keep?”

“Both the Averys and the Etons had many servants. Ten or more. At the very back of this property, you can see the foundation of an old dormitory for the slaves, and some of the hired staff had rooms on the property, like the housekeeper, butler, and cook.”

“In the main house?”

“Mostly. The butler lived in the basement. The housekeeper had a small bedchamber through there,” she said, pointing to a narrow doorway in the corner of the office. “The Etons had maids who slept over the kitchen.”

“Truly?”

“Oh, yes. We’re certain of that. We recently found a journal by a housemaid wedged into the attic wall. It’s quite a find. Most maids would’ve been able to read some, but it was rare for someone in the working class to write so well.” The lady’s voice lowered as if confiding a secret. “The Eton family would’ve lived here at the time. Abigail Eton taught the girl herself…”

The woman’s voice faded into the background, unable to compete against the hum of excitement singing in my veins.

A maid who could write?

I interrupted. “Where is this journal now?”

“Oh.” The lady blinked at me through big round lenses. “It’s exhibited in the dormitory above the kitchen.”

I darted from the room, hurried through the length of the main house and out the back, rushing straight for the kitchen dependency. Two surprised ladies in costumes watched me run past and up the narrow stairs to the top floor. The maids’ space was at the front of the building. It had unadorned walls and a tiny window. Two small bed frames slumped sadly against each other, topped with straw mattresses over ropes.

My eyes passed over the beds and moved on. This might have been the first true mistake I had seen in the reconstruction of this house. Bed frames were a luxury unlikely to have been provided to an indentured housemaid. My sister would’ve slept on the floor on a mattress that was not so thick as the ones shown here.

The journal rested on a stand in the farthest corner of the room, protected in a sealed case. I approached it with fear, wanting desperately to be right about its author.

Mrs. Eton began our studies this month
.

Pleasure and pain whispered through my limbs. It was indeed my sister’s handwriting—childish and poorly formed, yet recognizable to me.

“That journal is the greatest treasure of the Avery-Eton House Foundation,” an unfamiliar voice murmured behind me. “A young maid wrote the entries in the last decade of the eighteenth century. She used the journal to practice her writing lessons. Her name was Phoebe.”

The sound of her name ached through me. Phoebe Marsh. My beloved sister. “What do you know about her?” My voice was gruff.

“Only what her journal says and what we found on her indenture, which we found in the State Archives. Phoebe was likely fourteen when she arrived.”

“Twelve,” I said as I turned to face the lady. She was tall, thin, and dressed like a housekeeper in a cotton roundgown printed with stripes of green, gold, and brown.

“They did not hire someone so young.” The woman shook her head, a patient curve to her lips. “A family of the Etons’ wealth and position would’ve had their pick…”

I said nothing. The Etons had indeed hired someone so young. It wouldn’t have been Mrs. Eton’s natural inclination. Yet once she became convinced of the brutal treatment my sister would encounter elsewhere, Mrs. Eton had made an exception for Phoebe.

“…Mrs. Eton had forward-thinking ideas. It was unusual to teach a servant how to write.”

“The girl knew how to write before she arrived.”

The woman’s smile deepened into something a bit smug.

“That is an interesting guess. Some of the historians agree with you. Will you tell me why you think so?”

It would’ve been better to keep my knowledge quiet, but I couldn’t allow them to think poorly of Phoebe or my parents. “The girl states that she began lessons that month, yet this journal demonstrates that she can write her thoughts as they flow, rather than copy a sentence crafted for her. Phoebe didn’t learn to form the letters of the alphabet in a matter of weeks. The girl uses the journal to perfect her handwriting—not to learn how to hold a quill.”

The lady wrinkled her nose as she stared intently through the glass.

“Was this the only journal you found?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

Disappointment tickled at the edge of my smile, but I wouldn’t permit it to dim. “May I see the other pages?”

“I can’t let you touch the journal, but we have all of the pages scanned. You can buy a DVD of the images in the gift shop.”

Mark trailed me out the door and down the stairs, waiting to speak until we were alone in the bright sunshine. “Do you want me to stop in the gift shop?”

“Please.” I studied his eyes. They reflected concern. “Are you worried about something?”

“I want you to be prepared.” He cupped my shoulders lightly. “What if you learn that her life was miserable?”

I did not wish to believe it. But even if it were true, even if the Etons had been harsh with Phoebe, her years in their employ had rescued her from an indenture to my master, and there could’ve been no fate worse than that. “I wish to know how her life went. I do not fool myself to believe it would have been easy.”

* * *

Mark’s mother was in the kitchen when we returned home. Since Bruce was away on a trip, the table had been set for three. I declined her offer of lunch, anxious to be alone with Phoebe’s journal.

Mark brought their old laptop to the apartment, set up the DVD, explained what I needed to do, and then left. After preparing a cup of tea in the kitchenette, I settled onto the couch and opened the collection of files. There was a preface from the foundation that ran the Avery-Eton House, explaining that the journal had been discovered this summer. I clicked on the first journal page and then looked away again in a bout of nerves. What if Mark were right? What if Phoebe had been miserable in her position as housemaid?

I sipped my tea, took a deep breath, and looked at the file again. I had to know. Why waste another moment?

Mrs. Eton began our studies this month. Patty is learning to read while I focus on my handwriting. Mrs. Eton says it is deplorable. She gave me this little book in which to practice
.

Mrs. Parham reminds me without ceasing of my good fortune to

have such a fine mistress. I need no such reminders
.

I enjoy writing the letters with loops the best. My lines are never straight
.

I smiled at her words, as if I could hear Phoebe’s bright voice saying them aloud.

In an apparent effort to conserve paper, each day’s entry had been written in tiny, cramped sections of the page. Phoebe had drawn a thin line to end an entry, and often left behind blots of ink. These imperfections had not dissuaded my sister from her goal.

July 28th, 1796

Raleigh, North Carolina

Mrs. Eton says that it is only right to begin each day’s lesson with the date, for the months of the year are excellent words to write beautifully, and the ability to create elegant numerals has great merit
.

Mrs. Eton says that clever girls are always able to think of lovely sentences to practice. I must not be clever, for I cannot think of a single lovely sentence
.

How I wish Susie were here
.

Perhaps I shall write to her. Indeed, yes. If I cannot be a clever girl with my journal, I shall be a good sister
.

Dearest Susie,

I miss you greatly. Please visit me often. I have much to tell you…

I looked away from the laptop and shuddered. I would never see Phoebe again. How had she learned this fact? Had she hoped forever, or had she given up after months of silence?

If there were many more such statements from my sister, I wouldn’t be able to read on.

…I shall begin my news with a description of the family
.

Senator Eton is seen only at mealtimes, for his government duties are heavy and his hours long
.

Two Eton children have married. Mr. John lives nearby and practices law. Mrs. Mary Johnson is the mistress of a plantation near New Bern. I do not believe she or her child has ever visited here, a fact which Mrs. Parham views as a personal slight
.

Mr. William and Miss Judith are still in residence, although it will not be much longer before Mr. William leaves for college. He winked at me once as I left the family parlor with dishes. Mrs. Parham would have thrashed me had she seen
.

I must not forget Mrs. Whitcomb. She is Mrs. Eton’s sister and stays in Raleigh for much of the summer. Mrs. Parham says that it is a pity Mrs. Whitcomb never had children, but I cannot see that it has harmed her. She is very beautiful and much admired
.

Yours most affectionately
,

Phoebe

* * *

August 2nd, 1796

Dearest Susie
,

In today’s letter, I shall tell you all about the household staff
.

Patty works in the kitchen. She does not live in the house. Her family home is but a mile away. She walks to and fro each day
.

There are five servants who live here. Mrs. Parham—have I mentioned the housekeeper?—has her own small suite in the main house, as does Mr. Fisk, the butler
.

Mrs. Parham is a distant cousin to Senator Eton. I do not think she would be here otherwise, for she is disapproving of the household and, indeed, everything else she comments on
.

Miss Trilby is a lady’s maid to Mrs. Eton and sleeps in a smallish chamber on the floor with the family
.

I sleep alone in the maids’ dormitory above the kitchen. I suppose that more help will be added over time, but for now, I retire eagerly each night to my own small room
.

Cook has a private bedchamber across the hall from me, and very possessive he is of the space. He will not permit me to clean it, for which I am truly thankful. He has a smell about him that is most objectionable
.