Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (22 page)

He drank his coffee but didn't eat his cookies. “You're doing a yeoman's job here, Daisy. You've stepped up and I appreciate it.”

“Happy to help.”

“So what are your plans once you get this place back on its feet?”

I stopped wiping. “You're the first person who thinks this might not be forever.”

“I want you to do what you want to do. Life is too short.” He stared into his coffee. “I never planned on spending a lifetime here. I had dreams of going off to school.”

He'd never told me this before. “Why didn't you?”

“My dad died. Someone had to step up and take over. My mother couldn't do it alone. I was the only child.” There was no hint of self-pity as he stated the facts.

I'd never really thought of my father as a real person. He was just the guy who worked, who went all out with the Christmas decorations, and the guy who kept us safe. “I always thought that you loved this place.”

“I don't love it, but I respect it. And I understand now that life isn't about doing what you want to do but what you need to do.”

“That's what I'm doing.”

His expression turned grim. “And that was okay for me, but it's not okay for you. I want more for you.”

“If not me, then who? Rachel can't do this alone, Dad. You and Mom have done enough. And Margaret, well, she's a bit of a witch when she stays here too long.”

That tickled a smile. “How is Henri holding up?”

It didn't surprise me that Dad had noticed Henri's stooped shoulders and worn features. “He's leaving at the end of June.”

Dad drew in a breath. “I'm not surprised. I know his back has been troubling him the last couple of years.”

I brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes with the back of my hand. “He's holding on for Rachel.”

His lips flattened. “But now that you're here, he's leaving.”

I sprayed more cleaner on the glass and attacked another set of prints. “He says he has a cousin. He's put a call in to him.”

“When will you know?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But he says soon, and I trust him.”

He glanced around the room seemingly cataloging every crack and flaw. “That's the thing about this place, it's never satisfied. Just when you think you've done enough, it wants more.”

“I'm starting to see that.” I stared up at him. “Did you ever resent this place?”

“Sure. Probably more times than I could count in the early days. But it gave me a life, put a roof over my head and my family's. And I've met a lot of good folks in this community because of the bakery. I met your mother here.”

“But it's not what you wanted.”

“Maybe not in the beginning, but over time I stopped wondering where it ended and where I started. One door closes and another opens. That's life.”

Nervous laughter bubbled inside of me. “I'm starting to feel that way.”

“You're more like me than Rachel and Margaret. They're like Mom.”

He meant that as a compliment but it irritated me for some reason. “The non-McCrae is the real McCrae.”

A deep frown creased his forehead. “You're a real McCrae. Mom and I never thought otherwise.”

“I am, but I'm not. I am connected to a whole other family.” I could never say this to Mom. Her eyes would have filled with tears as her gaze looked away.

Dad, however, was more practical. Life had left him with little patience for shades of gray. “Then call that woman, Daisy. Ask her what the hell is going on.”

“I am.”

He studied me as if trying to peel the layers away. “When?”

“Soon.”

“Time to rip the Band-Aid off, Daisy, and see what you've got. If you don't, you'll never know.”

“What if it's bad?”

“Better to know than spend the rest of your life wondering.”

Chapter Thirteen

O
h, you are so not going to believe what I found.” Margaret's voice jumped through the phone when I answered it just after seven on Friday night.

I plopped on my bed and kicked off my shoes. I stared at my swollen feet. “What?”

“Pictures. I found pictures of the Randolph family.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. “As in the Randolphs mentioned in the diary?”

“One in the same.” She sounded quite pleased with herself.

I had to concede that when it came to all things historical, Margaret was gifted and driven. “Really? Where?”

“Digging through tons of files and archives. So are you coming over to see them or not?”

I glanced toward the window. The sun clung to the sky but it wouldn't hold onto the light much longer. “Where are you?”

“At the Archaeology Center. The front doors are locked now but I'll wait for you. Ten minutes.”

“Fifteen.” I scrambled swollen feet into clogs and grabbed a sweatshirt. Though the temps had hit the low eighties today, the spring air cooled quickly as the sun set. I moved down the attic stairs softly, not really interested in catching Rachel's attention, which could trigger a Q&A session. Since Terry's letter arrived, she'd seemed more motherly toward me. And right now the last thing I needed was another mother.

Through her door I heard the girls giggling and Rachel singing. Pausing, I listened as the trio managed a rendition of the “Itsy Bitsy Spider
.
” The peals of laughter triggered an unexpected tightening in my throat and I found myself longing for the connection that Rachel shared with her daughters. Their losses had bound them closer and I knew no matter how bad things got, Rachel would never leave her kids in a café bakery with a couple of cookies and a lousy, “Be a good girl.”

Drawing in a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and headed down the remaining stairs. The cool air outside had me shoving hands in my pockets as I hurried down the uneven brick sidewalk along the waterfront. The orange-red sun had dipped in the sky casting a soft glow over the waters of the Potomac. Scattered sailing boats passed slowly through the shallow waters. Sails low, they searched for a place to dock for the night.

The Archaeology Center was located on the third floor of the Torpedo Factory. The Torpedo Factory earned its name because it had actually been a torpedo and munitions factory back in the '30s or '40s. Sometime in the early '80s, it had been converted to an art center and now housed artists on all three of its floors.

I hurried north on Union Street toward the factory. Inside the large glass doors stood Margaret, her hands folded over her chest. Tense fingers drummed her forearms until she saw me, muttered something I couldn't decipher, and opened the front door. “That was fairly fast.”

“I aim to please.” My voice echoed inside the large concrete building and bounced off the center foyer, which stretched up to the third floor. I had never taken the time to stroll through the hallways and visit the artists' shops. It was one of those
really-should-do
things but it had never climbed far enough up the priority list to require action.

I followed Margaret up the metal center staircase to the Archaeology Center, which took up a better part of the north side of the third floor. The center's glass walls gave passersby a view into the long white tables that held displays of recent digs in the city. A large sign in one corner read
SHUTER'S HILL
and featured volunteers digging on a site near the Masonic Temple at the end of King Street. Margaret had said Shuter's Hill was the site of an eighteenth-century home that volunteers and professionals were slowly unearthing. On the table were bits of pottery, buttons, doorknobs, and bricks.

There were older displays. One featured Civil War soldiers in Alexandria and another highlighted Jamison's Bakery, which I'd been told had been one of Shaun McCrae's biggest competitors in the 1850s.

Beyond the first set of white tables was a collection of photos that had been laid out in a long, neat row. The pictures varied in size from several inches in diameter to more than a foot in length.

“All those pictures are of the Randolph family?”

“Or people they knew. I've arranged them so that they tell a story.”

As I moved toward the table, I couldn't help but admire Margaret's dedication. “Damn, Margaret, there has to be two dozen photos here. Where did you find all these?”

She hooked her thumbs in her belt loop. “I put a 411 call out to my sources, and they really came through. Some come from private collections, others private museums, the Barrett Library's collection, and, of course, our own files.”

Several of the old black-and-white photos were yellowed and had cracked or curled on the edges. Some looked so delicate that I was afraid to touch them. They stood testament to Margaret's cache in the historical world. “You are amazing.”

“I know.”

Laughter bubbled. “One is never a prophet in their own land.”

“Exactly.”

Excited, I pushed up my sleeves. “So what do we have here? You said a story?”

“A story indeed.” She pulled dark framed glasses from her pocket, cleaned the lenses, and then settled them on her nose. “Let's start at the photo closest to us.”

The man in that daguerreotype had closely cropped black hair parted severely on the right side. He had a high slash of cheekbones and vivid eyes that held no hint of laughter. He stared not directly into the camera's lenses but off to the side as if he had been caught in a daydream. “A young man.”

“Not any young man, but one Rupert Randolph while he attended the University of Virginia. He went to the university to study medicine. He received his degree in 1832 and returned to his family home in Alexandria.”

I sensed that I'd glanced into those eyes before, and then I remembered the presence I'd felt a week earlier. Anger had radiated from the figure. Could it have been Dr. Randolph?

Margaret moved to the next photo of a young girl. A center part divided blond hair, which had been swept back into a low chignon. A high lace collar teased the underside of a square jaw and drew attention to full lips and large, wide-set eyes. Her features weren't beautiful but she was pleasant enough.

“This is Elisabeth Stewart who, according to the society page of the
Alexandria Gazette,
in 1840 married Dr. Randolph in a lavish affair. She was nineteen and from a very wealthy and prominent merchant family. He was thirty at the time of their marriage. It was quite the affair, according to the paper, which reported that the new couple moved into the home Rupert inherited from his father. The marriage did quite a bit to improve the young doctor's struggling practice.” She arched an eyebrow. “And here is the big kicker. Their house is Mabel's house.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. Rupert Sr. passed the house to Rupert Jr., who left it to his only child, a girl, Frances, who married Colin Woodrow. Frances and Colin had one son, Robert Woodrow.”

“Mabel's husband.”

“Yes. She inherited the house from him when he died in 1946.”

“I never would have connected the dots. Florence said that Mabel's will allows her to stay in the house until she dies.”

Margaret straightened. “When did you see Florence?”

“A few days ago. I happened by while she was tossing out flowers.” I shifted my attention to the next set of photos. “By the way, Florence says we can dig through Mabel's attic on Thursday.”

Her eyes widened. “No shit!”

“Yep.”

She sat back, her gaze alight with excitement. “What time?”

“Six.”

“Shit. I have to work, but I'll switch with someone. I am not going to miss this.”

“I can go it alone,” I teased.

Margaret held up her hands. “No f-ing way, Daisy. That attic is my idea of a wet dream.”

I laughed. “And I thought my sex life lagged.” I glanced at the pictures. “These are the Randolph children?”

She shifted her attention back to the pictures. “Yes.”

I leaned in to study the delicate lace gowns the infants all wore. A closer look revealed that each child had been photographed in the same white christening gown. In some photos, the children laid in a small cradle and in the last two an older, sterner Mrs. Randolph held a baby in her arms. In the image, mother glanced down at the child but there was no hint of warmth in her eyes. “She doesn't seem to be happy.”

“That's because these first six children were photographed after their deaths.”

I backed away from the desk and the photos, which in an instant took on a grotesque aura. “What? How do you know that?”

“A couple of reasons. According to church records, the Randolphs had seven children and six died in infancy before the age of one. The first six children fit that age range.”

“Yes, but how do you know they are dead and who in God's name would photograph a dead child?”

“It was common to photograph the dead in the nineteenth century. It wasn't like today. In those days, death was a very common threat and worry. And in a time when photos were taken only at very special times, it made sense to mark the end of a life, which would have been their final special event.”

“But to photograph a dead baby in your arms? That doesn't strike me as healthy.”

“It was a different time, Daisy. No doubt Mrs. Randolph also kept snippets of hair from each child and wore them in a locket close to her heart.”

This woman buried six children. Even in a time when death hovered constantly, that kind of loss had to have been devastating to a young woman. “How did the children die?”

“That I don't know. There were outbreaks of typhus and smallpox during those years. The house was also on city water until the late 1840s. Bad water could very well have killed the children. I also wonder if it might have been a genetic issue. But I don't think we'll ever know.”

I lowered my gaze back to the faces of the children. “They look like they're sleeping.”

“I know.”

“So Mrs. Randolph lost six of her seven children. What happened to the seventh?”

“Rupert Randolph Jr. grew into adulthood. He was the one who inherited Susie. And his survival also supports the theory that bad water killed the first six children. He was born after the family installed a private cistern. Anyway, like I said, he married and had one daughter.” She picked up a picture that had been taken in the 1880s. “Here he is.”

Father and son were strikingly similar. “They must have cherished him.”

“I suppose Elisabeth did. Remember Rupert Sr. died when Rupert Jr. was just seven months old.”

“Crap. I mean I knew that but I forgot. So much death in one family. Did you ever find out how he died?”

“Heart failure was listed as the cause of death in the
Alexandria Gazette
's obituary.”

“Honestly, it's a wonder Elisabeth could get out of bed in the morning.” Another picture of Elisabeth taken in the 1860s showed a very different woman. Her features had grown stern, her mouth pinched and her eyes sunken. In this photo she did not stare down at a bouquet in her hands but directly into the camera. Intensity in her eyes made my skin prickle and I resisted the urge to step back. “I can see why she resented Susie so much. Living under her roof was her husband's child by another woman and as she buried her children, that child thrived.”

Margaret tapped Elisabeth's picture. “She lived to be forty-three,” Margaret said. “She died just before the Civil War ended.”

“How?”

“From what I can gather, a sudden illness overtook her. According to the paper, her sister, Joanna, moved from Newport News to Alexandria to raise the boy.”

“So what happened to Susie and Hennie? You said the doctor left them to his son. And we believe Susie was sold, likely by Bruin.”

“I'm almost certain Mrs. Randolph sold the girl. Both mother and daughter were assets, and after her husband's death there were a lot of debts to be settled. Seems Dr. Randolph was good at spending money but his medical practice never earned what he'd hoped.

“Though the house had been an inheritance to the doctor, its maintenance always seemed to remain beyond the doctor's means. And, by this time, I'm guessing whatever Elisabeth's father had left her had been spent maintaining their lifestyle.”

“How do you know this?”

“Filed with the doctor's will is a petition for payment. He was in real debt at the time of his death. Susie and Hennie would have fetched a good price at market.”

My voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Do you know if both were actually sold or who bought them?”

“That is a question I have yet to answer. I have Elisabeth's and Rupert Jr.'s wills but of course slavery was outlawed in 1863 so Hennie or Susie would not have been listed as assets in Rupert Jr.'s will. But I am going to see if I can get a hold of the property tax records from the late 1850s and early 1860s. The records are spotty, but who knows? I might get lucky. And then there are the records from Bruin's.”