The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (5 page)

Then it struck her.  Was this photograph taken after John had written the letter to Evelyn or before?  Eve examined the photo caption more closely to see when the photo had been taken.  The date was written in small type.  December 1885!

Eve swallowed and read his brief biography. 

John Allister Harringshaw II was born in New York City in 1854, the second son of John Allister Harringshaw I and Alice Mayfair Gibson.  He attended the St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire and Harvard University.  For a time, he managed the family estate and became active in real estate development, building several notable New York City hotels, including The Continental Hotel and The Hotel Dickenson.

He was engaged to socialite Elizabeth Ashley Loring, but they never married, and it was speculated that some scandal or the potential for such was the reason, although it never appeared in the press of the day.  It has, however, surfaced in two of eight biographies written about the Harringshaw family.

John vanished from business and society for a time (most biographers claim he moved to southern France) while his brother, Albert Wilson Harringshaw, assumed the responsibilities of managing the estate. 

John reappeared after his brother’s death in 1915 and once again took over managing his family’s estate, but he seldom appeared in society and he never married.  When he died in 1921 at age 67, his net worth was US $95 million (equivalent to over US $2 billion by today’s standards).

The Harringshaw family’s prominence lasted until the mid-20th century, when the family’s great Fifth Avenue mansion was sold and turned into The Collermore Art Museum.

Eve studied a photo of the Harringshaw mansion and she tried to recall if she’d ever been to The Collermore Art Museum.  No, now that she thought about it, she never had.  Eve looked up, her face bright with a new idea.  She would visit the museum and walk the house where John Harringshaw II and his family had lived.  Now that would be an electrifying and novel adventure. 

Eve found The Collermore Art Museum website and read about it.  It housed exhibitions of European painting and decorative art, as well as some Hudson River Art, American lithographs and watercolors from the New England Watercolor Society, including Winslow Homer and John Singer Sargent.

The museum was open six days a week, closed on Monday. 

As Eve sat contemplating her visit to the museum, two thoughts entered her mind.  First, she’d promised to call Granny Gilbert and convey the contents of the letter.  Second, she wondered if she should contact the Harringshaw estate and let them know she had a letter they might want.  Eve was sure she’d get a good price for it. 

She closed the lid of the laptop, shut her eyes and heard the radiators pop and hiss.  Heat at last. 

At 10 minutes after 9 o’clock, Eve dialed Granny Gilbert’s number and waited as it rang.  Five rings later a woman’s small, friendly voice answered.  It wasn’t Granny’s.

“Hello, may I speak to Granny Gilbert, please?” Eve asked.

There was a pause.  “Who’s calling?”

“My name is Eve.  I was in the antiques shop yesterday.  I have some information I promised to share with her.”

Another pause.  “I’m Granny’s daughter, April.  Granny had a stroke last night.  She’s in the hospital.”

Eve straightened.  “I’m so sorry.  Is it serious?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.  She’s had at least two others this year, but none as serious as this one.”

Eve switched the phone to her other ear.  “She was so kind to me yesterday.  I hope she recovers quickly.”

“Thank you.  Is there something you want me to tell her?”

“No… no, it’s not important.  But can I call again in a few days to check up on her?  Would that be all right?”

“Yes, of course.  That’s very nice of you.  You said your name is Eve?”

“Yes, Eve Sharland.”

“Okay, Eve.  Call anytime you wish.”

Eve slept restlessly that night, and when her alarm buzzed at 6am, her quilt was wrapped tightly around her.  Georgy Boy came in, tail swinging, and leaped up on the bed, licking her ear and nuzzling her cheek until she unwound herself.

“Okay, Georgy Boy,” she said, walking stiff-legged into the kitchen.

Later, as she ate breakfast and sipped her second cup of coffee, Eve wondered again if she should contact the Harringshaw family about the letter.  Once again, she decided she wasn’t ready to share it with anyone else just yet.  The letter seemed sweetly private somehow, and she suspected that John Allister wouldn’t want historians nor his descendants to see a letter that was obviously intended for one person only, a person he loved deeply and had probably regretted losing for the rest of his life.

As odd as it seemed, Eve felt like a kind of caretaker, a confidant and, dare she think it?  A secret friend.  She still felt goosebumps on her neck and arms whenever she realized that only she and John Allister knew the highly emotional contents of his letter. 

No, Eve would not contact the Harringshaw family.  Not just yet.

Eve had the morning off from the doctor’s office that day, but spent a busy afternoon at the Women’s Free Clinic in lower Manhattan.  There she worked with two doctors giving routine GYN exams, Pap smears, and HPV testing, as well as counseling women on such issues as family health, emergency contraception and STD testing and treatment.  She also spent a half hour with a woman she’d seen before, who’d been beaten by her husband.  She was struggling to get herself and her son out of a homeless shelter and into permanent housing.  Eve promised to call her social worker to offer any help she could. 

At 5:10, Eve piled into a cab and instructed the driver to take her to The Collermore Art Museum at 650 5
^th
Avenue.  As they pressed through traffic, a ripple of excitement made her restless and she willed the driver to move faster through the clotted rush hour traffic.

When the landmarked building came into view, Eve craned her neck and took in the mansion, with all its Victorian and Gilded-Age splendor.  It was a massive structure, built of marble and pink brownstone, with turrets shooting into the sky, mansard roofs, dormer windows, elaborate balconies and rich stained glass.  It was difficult to believe that this mansion had ever been anyone’s private residence.

Eve paid the cab driver and sprang out, anxious to get inside.  She hurried across the walkway, passed through the double glass doors and entered a wide and spacious white marble lobby.  She turned in a circle, gazing in awe at the jewel-like stained glass windows, the oak and cherry woodwork, and the ornate decorative stenciling.  It was beyond anything she could have ever imagined owning.

She paid the entrance fee and browsed the quiet rooms, stepping lightly across parquet floors, scarcely giving the artwork hanging on the walls a glance, as her imagination expanded, creating scenes of extravagant parties and spectacular dinners, with stylish women dressed in lavish, colorful gowns and men in fashionable tuxedos.  She wondered if John Allister had ever brought Evelyn here, but then she dismissed it.  Whoever Evelyn was, she obviously did not move in the same circles John Allister did.  So what was it about her that had attracted John?  He could have had any wealthy and socially connected woman he wanted and, according to the biography, he was, in fact, engaged to someone else.  Eve recalled her name:  Elizabeth Ashley Loring. 

After she’d strolled through most of the rooms, Eve asked a pleasant, gray-haired security guard if there were any paintings of the Harringshaw family.  He wasn’t aware of any, and a search of her museum brochure confirmed he was right.  It was soon closing time and she had to leave. 

Outside, under a stormy sky, Eve hailed another cab and started for home, traveling through Central Park.  She gazed out at the trees, many of which were already bare.  As the sharp wind rattled them, more leaves fell and sailed and scattered like fleeing birds.  Again, Eve’s thoughts turned to Evelyn.  In a strange sort of way, Eve felt a kinship with her.  She felt an ineffable longing and sadness for Evelyn, a poor young woman who had fallen in love with a fabulously handsome and wealthy man.  How in the world had it happened?  How could a poor girl meet such a rich guy back in those days?  It was an old story, probably as old as the human race itself: poor girl meets rich boy. 

Eve would call her father later to see if he had located the family tree and perhaps then Eve would find out who Evelyn really was.  Maybe they
were
related.  Wouldn’t that be the craziest coincidence?

CHAPTER 5

“It’s me, Dad.  Did you find the family tree?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it here.  Your mother and I were looking at it during dinner.  I’d forgotten a lot of it already.”

Eve relaxed in her chair, staring at the letter that lay beside her.  The lantern was still on the hearth, candlelight illuminating it.  Georgy Boy was lying in his bed near the hearth, the candlelight gleaming in his warm eyes.

“Did you find any information about Evelyn Sharland?” Eve asked, anxiously.

Her father cleared his throat.  “Why are you suddenly interested in her?  You didn’t care at all when I was doing all the research.”

“I don’t know, Dad.  My marriage was in the toilet then and I was working mega hours.  I don’t know.  What did you find out about her?”

Her father cleared his throat again.  “Okay, whatever.  So Evelyn Sharland was born in 1860 in Concord, New Hampshire into a Quaker family.  They were pacifists and antislavery, among other things.  There’s not that much here about her except that she seems to have moved to Manhattan in about 1883.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know why.”

“Does it say what she was doing?  What kind of work?”

“I’m not sure, but one census in 1884 listed an Evelyn Sharland working for the Western Union Telegraph Company, which was located at 195 Broadway.”

“What did it say her occupation was?”

“Telegraph operator.”

“Really?  I didn’t know women could work those jobs,” Eve said.  “Is there a home address for her?”

“232 East 9th Street.”

The same address as the one on the envelope,
Eve thought, springing off the couch with rubbery agility, so excited she could barely contain herself.  Georgy Boy lifted his head, looking at her with a strange curiosity. 

“Did she marry?” Eve asked.

“I don’t know.  I don’t think so.  There’s not much information on her after 1884.”

“Is there any information about her death?”

“There was a letter from her sister, your great grandmother, Ethel Sharland Compton, that says Evelyn died from typhoid in 1885 or 1886.”

Eve lowered her head.  “Typhoid?”

“Yes.  She was 25 or 26 years old.  That’s about all I have.  So when are you coming for a visit?  You haven’t been home in six months.”

Eve sat back down, distracted.

“Eve?  Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Dad.  I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.”

Her father’s voice dropped into concern.  “Have you heard anything from Blake?”

“Blake?  Oh, God no, and I hope I never will.  That’s over, Dad.  We’re divorced.  Why do you keep bringing him up?”

“Well, he calls here sometimes, asking about you.”

“Tell him to stop calling.  He should have called when we were together instead of running around with that married woman, who, by the way, won’t get a divorce now that he’s available.  Look, I’m sick of thinking about him and I don’t want to hear about him anymore.  Okay, Dad?  We’re divorced.”  She softened her voice.  “It’s over, Dad.”

“Okay, okay… It’s just that… Are you seeing anybody?”

“You and Mom must have had one of your long dinner conversations about the kids and the grandkids.”

“We just worry about you, Evie, that’s all.  Why don’t you think about moving back down here?  Ohio’s a good state.  You could find a good job here.”

“Maybe I will someday.  Not now.  I like New York and I like where I work.  I’ve made friends here, and now that Blake is out of my life, I feel much better.  Stop worrying.  I’m fine.  I’ve got to go now, okay?  Give my love to Mom.  Bye.”

Eve made a cup of Earl Grey tea and returned to stare into the candles.  She slumped deep into the chair, sure now that she and Evelyn Sharland
were
related.  Evelyn was her great grandmother’s sister, Eve’s distant aunt.  With that realization came a thin edge of anxiety, as if the coincidence was just a little too bizarre and way too poignant.  The dates of Evelyn’s birth and death almost certainly confirmed that she had been John Allister’s true love.  When Eve turned to view the letter once again, as it lay on the side table, she felt it was more alive than ever. 

Poor Evelyn had died from typhoid fever, probably as a result of drinking contaminated water.  Eve had never actually seen a patient with typhoid fever, and she didn’t recall the symptoms, so she Googled it.  As she read, she frowned.  Evelyn had not had an easy death.  She probably had a persistent fever, as high as 104°F.  She would have experienced headaches, loss of appetite, stomach pains, weakness and probably a rash.  Diarrhea most likely occurred in the second or third week, in combination with a declining fever.  Finally, assuming she had a severe case, she had ulceration and perforation of the intestinal wall, which led to death.

Eve closed her laptop and shut her eyes.  Could John Allister’s doctor have saved Evelyn’s life?  Probably not. There were no antibiotics in 1885. 

What would have happened if Evelyn had never contracted the disease or if she had survived?  Would John Allister have risked losing everything and married Evelyn? 

According to the letter, he would have.

Eve reached for the letter and read it again, for at least the fifteenth time.  What affected her most were two particular paragraphs.  Eve read them again, slowly, completely absorbed, her bright eyes taking in each word, as if she were hearing them from John Allister’s own trembling lips.

You told me in your last letter that you still have the lantern.  How that touched me, Evelyn.  How that moved me to tears.  If health permits, please light the lantern once more, the lantern that first brought us together on that snowy night, and then read this letter again, and think of me kindly.  Remember the good and pleasant times we had together; recall the sequestered timeless minutes when I held you in my arms, and recollect the tender kisses.  Evelyn, pray to God that he will allow us to be together again, either in this world or the next, and that our good and true love will then be blessed and come to full flower.