The Old Cape House (21 page)

As the dough began its rise on the hearth Maria reached for a jar of apple butter; finding it empty, she headed to the root cellar to fetch another. Folding back the small braided rug that covered the trapdoor, she lifted the wooden cover with one hand. With a lamp for light, she descended the stone stairs.

As her foot reached the bottom, Maria noticed dark stains across the dirt floor. A chill slid down her back that truly frightened her. Was it the cold of the cellar or something else? She continued her quest, being careful where she stepped. The dirt crunched and the cellar’s dank odor made her uncomfortable. An ominous feeling spread over her; she did not want to stay in this underground room.

She spied a row of filled fruit jars on a shelf. As she reached for one, her eye caught a glimpse of rotten black apples in a basket on the floor in the corner. The sight of the moldy fruit sparked Maria’s memory. She dropped the jar of butter; it broke and spilled its contents over the dirt floor. Her heart began to race as frightening
images of a dead child wrapped in white linen flooded her head
with a now believable clarity. She remembered kneeling in dirt, covered in blood, her forearms and fingers blackened with the residue of soil. She remembered the chest with a D carved onto its lid.

Maria dropped to her knees and dragged the basket away from the corner. Her fingers scratched frantically at the dirt. Just under inches of loose, cold soil, she could see the wooden top of a chest. Brushing away the soil she uncovered the carved letter D.

Maria leaned back onto her heels and felt nauseous. She closed her eyes and rubbed them as hard as she could before she opened them to make sure her mind had not played a cruel trick on her. The chest was real. Her child was buried here. Maria’s fears rushed over her. “I can’t tell anyone,” she whispered.

Drops of perspiration dripped from under her breasts and from her forehead. Anxiety clouded her thoughts. Telling no one was the only answer. No one must know, no one must find her child. She would carry this burden alone.

Maria knew she must protect herself from the hatred and
punishment of those who wished her harm. Before the townspeople would have a chance to bring their evil upon her, she would run away from the safe haven of her friend’s house and find Sam.

She covered the box with dirt and patted it flat. Pushing the basket back to its original place, she hoped it would stand guard and protect the secret that lay beneath it. Maria brushed her hands clean, wiped her face of the dirt and sweat, then climbed the steps back into the kitchen.

A knock at the door startled her as she covered the trapdoor
with
the rug. Maria wondered who would be calling so early in the
morning.

The rap grew more intense. Frightened, she ran into the borning room and shut the door behind her. She held her breath, fearful of making any sound, hoping the visitor would go away.

A gruff voice yelled out, “Open up, Abigail, it’s Constable Ezra!”

Maria’s back stiffened against the door.

She heard Abigail’s voice.

“Coming…. Coming…my word, what is the matter?” Dressed only in her nightclothes and a loose shawl, Abigail opened the door. “Ezra! Lower your voice.”

Ezra was not alone. A stout man with a constable’s patch on his arm stood behind him.

“May I come in?” Not waiting for a reply, Ezra pushed his way past Abigail and strode into the kitchen, followed by Constable Bayer, from Eastham. “We need to speak with the Hallett girl.”

“Of course.” Realizing that this was not a social visit, Abigail
walked in measured steps to the borning room, stalling for time,
trying to collect her thoughts.

Once at the door she asked, “Maria, are you awake?”

Afraid to answer, Maria stayed quiet.

Abigail looked to the two men. “Wait here.”

With guarded movements, Abigail opened the door and saw Maria cowering in the corner near her bed. Quickly closing the door, she crouched next to the girl and began to persuade her to cooperate. “Maria, be strong. You knew this time would come. You must talk with them and do exactly as they say.”

They stood up together. “Do you understand?”

Maria nodded her head.

Abigail clasped her hand and led the terrified girl into the
kitchen to face the constables.

Ezra needed to identify the suspect. “Maria Hallett?”

Maria nodded again.

“Constable Bayer and I, do hereby inform you that you are
under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder and fornication. You will please come with us.”

Abigail protested that Maria was not well enough to go
anywhere but Ezra would not listen.

He replied in sharp tones, “Enough time has passed for her to recover. This heinous matter must be concluded. We will wait for her to gather her things.”

Desperate to see a way out of this, Maria looked to her friend.

After several seconds of tense silence, Abigail guided her back to the borning room to collect the things that she might need. She gave the young girl directions. “Layer most of your clothes on your body in case you need them for warmth.”

Maria numbly obeyed her friend.

Abigail’s hands trembled as she helped her fasten multiple skirts around her waist. “If they take you to Constable Ezra’s house, there is a room off the kitchen which is used as a jail cell. There, your care will be adequate. If sent directly to Eastham, with Constable Bayer, your comfort will be less than minimal. The Eastham jail is cold, dirty and damp.”

Abigail tried to keep her composure. She knew this day would come, but more time was needed with Maria; after all, the girl was only fifteen years old. Realizing there was nothing she could do or
say to help, and against her better judgment, Abigail opened the
borning room door.

As the constable grabbed Maria’s elbow to escort her outside, she turned to Abigail in one last agonizing plea and cried out, “Abigail, don’t let them take me from you. Please!”

Abigail watched Maria climb through the small door on the back of the wagon. Barely able to contain her emotions, she bowed her head and thought she might die as she leaned against the edge of the open front door. Abigail was angry, sad, shamed for not doing more, and felt utterly helpless. With a broken heart, she backed away and closed the door on the only safe home Maria ever had.

***

Maria’s body shook in fear as the enclosed wagon swallowed her up into its darkness. Used for prisoners, the absence of windows gave her no clues as to where she was going. To keep herself from crying, she bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, trying to imagine Sam’s face, wishing that he would rip open the door to her prison
and take her in his arms, where she could stay forever. But ten
minutes into her journey Maria sensed her fate, and as the hour went by, it became apparent that she was going back to Eastham, to the place
that she despised–the one place she had hoped never to return to.
She
rocked back and forth on the wooden floor as she prayed to her
mother.

Present Day – July 16

BREWSTER – CAPE COD

THE SOUND OF EARL’S TRUCK WOKE ME
around 8 am; I rolled over and hoped that today he would finally finish the chimney in the new kitchen. Paul was already brewing coffee. With a bit of guilty pleasure I recalled that the night before Paul had told me to sleep in, and that it was important, if I really was pregnant, to get a lot of rest. So I did. At 9 am, I appeared in the doorway of the kitchen to find Molly eating her breakfast.

“I’m sorry I slept so late. Everything okay?” I took my seat
across the table from her.

“Just fine, Mommy.” Molly smiled with a mouthful of cereal and
milk.

Paul graciously poured me a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you take a drive down 6A, to Barnstable Records, and research the house’s history?”

“Are you sure? There’s so much to do here at home.”

“I’m fine. You should go. Besides, I’m really curious about who’s owned the house.”

“Well, if you insist. I’ll drop Molly off at camp on my way.”

He kissed my cheek. “Sounds like a plan. Maybe you could stop at the new gallery in Sandwich and deliver my painting?”

“That’s a great idea; we can use the trip as a business expense.”

I threw Molly a kiss. “Get your backpack ready when you’re
finished eating. I’ll be dressed by then.” I grabbed my coffee and
headed for the shower.

In less than thirty minutes I was loading the painting into the car. “Hurry up Molly.

We don’t want to be late.”

I went over my agenda for the day: drop off Molly at day camp, visit the gallery and on the return trip stop by the county offices in Barnstable. True to my schedule, Molly was delivered and I headed west out of the camp’s parking lot.

The drive down Route 6A from Brewster to Sandwich was
beautiful. I sipped my coffee to the sounds of new age music, passing ancient trees, stately homes and rock walls that dotted the landscape along the old road. On my return home, I entered the historic town of Barnstable and parked in the courthouse complex.

I quickly walked towards the inner courtyard of two large
buildings.
‘Barnstable County Deeds and Probate’ was painted on glass
windows and lettered on the brick façade of the building to my left. I felt a
little intimidated by the nervous energy created by the police,
lawyers,
and maybe soon-to-be criminals. Thank goodness, I was only
searching for old property records.

After a short wait for the security check archway, the elderly guard finally waved me through with a smile. I passed more suited men, high-heeled ladies, and a few people who, like me, didn’t look
like they knew what they were doing.
A pleasant receptionist
directed me across the hall and into the Copy Center room.

Armed with our deed, I stood in front of a big sign that read ‘Information’. A petite female clerk behind the counter asked a few questions about my visit, so I politely answered that I was in search of the history of our house. Once she’d found our Brewster property on the computer, she explained that the certificate number on the deed would lead to the previous certificate number, which in turn would identify successive owners of the property. As the computer searched back into time, the name Doane began to appear around the late 1920s, then kept resurfacing all the way back to 1815, with only the first names changing on the deeds to the land.

After a few minutes, the clerk leaned her pixie-like body around to my right and pointed to a room across the hall. She whispered to
me, “You’ll have to search deeper into the records by yourself
because a line is forming behind you.”

It was already 12:30 pm, and I assumed that only a few more minutes were needed to finish my project; after all, I’d found records dating back to 1815. I carried my deed back across the hall to a large room filled with rows of tall filing cabinets. I went unnoticed by everyone sitting at tables and computers, probably searching for lost deeds or for clear titles to property for real estate attorneys. No one questioned my presence.

The really old records were stored in blue, black, and white
bound metal books. Lined up next to each other in rows, their numbered labels ran into the thousands–as high as Book #10543. I was looking for Book #143, page 387. I walked to the very back of the long room and spotted #143 stamped in white letters on a blue plastic binding in the last row by the windows. I opened it to page 387 to see the name Doane in beautiful Old English script.

When I slid my finger to the bottom of the page, the year 1780 popped out at me. Intrigued, I kept searching and was directed to an even older book and page. Finally, the last entry I found was for a property in the name of Nathaniel Doane, posted in 1715. I was elated to discover it was the same year on the piece of parchment we’d found in the root cellar.

As I drove home I mulled over the dates of the property. The house we bought was built in 1880, yet the deed to the land went back to the early 1700s. The property seemed to have a long history with the Doane family, so there could have been another house on it in 1715. I stopped at a red light. What happened to the first house? Where was it in relation to the current house? A horn beeped from behind me; the light had turned green. Pay attention I told myself,
opening the window for fresh air. The root cellar must have
belonged to another house on the property.

When I got back to Brewster, I was eager to talk to Paul. I parked the car and ran into the gallery. “Hi, honey. Everything went fine at the Sandwich gallery, and I have something neat to tell you about our house.”

Paul was at his drawing table. He kept painting.

Plopping down into the big, overstuffed chair that faced him, I exploded with the news, “I went as far back as 1780, then searched in the older books to 1715! A family by the name of Doane owned the land all the way forward to 1927.”

I turned away from Paul to the cellar. “There must have been two houses on this property.”

Paul put his paintbrush down and looked up. “What did you
say?”

“I said I think there was another house here besides ours, before 1880, and it probably was owned by a Doane.”

***

That evening, I found some quiet time and secluded myself by the computer in the spare bedroom. Paul joined me and lay across the twin bed. Leaning on his side, he gently touched the pieces of vellum. “Now I understand the letter ‘D’ on the chest that we found; it probably stood for the Doane family. But I’m not so sure about the other letters.”

Curious, I typed ‘Maria Hallett’ into the computer. “Remember what the Hallett guy said? He thought the letters stood for Maria Hallett and Sam Bellamy.” Clicking to the next page on the computer screen I said, “I think he’s right.”