Chapter 5 #2
She picked up a carved wooden one. "Your mother saved all these?"
"Collected them."
Mercy looked up. "Collected them?"
A hint of amusement lit his eyes. "Everyone had a story."
That immediately caught her attention. "What do you mean?"
Mr. Porter reached into the tin and selected a tarnished brass button. "This one came from my grandfather's Sunday coat." He pointed to another. "That one came from a dress Ma wore to a church social before she married Pa."
Mercy blinked, surprised that a man as practical as Mr. Porter had paid such close attention to something as sentimental as a button collection. "You know where all of them came from?"
"Not all." His mouth twitched. "But Ma sure did." He rolled the button between his fingers. "When I was a boy, she'd pull out the tin some evenings and have me choose one. Then she'd tell me where it came from and who wore it."
Mercy smiled. "That sounds exactly like something I would have enjoyed."
A thoughtful look crossed his face. "Ma couldn't look at a thing without remembering who it belonged to either."
The observation warmed her more than it should have. His mother preserving family memories through ordinary objects. It wasn't so very different from what Mercy herself was trying to do for the town.
She carefully returned the button to the tin and set it beside the photograph. "I think I would have liked your mother."
One corner of Mr. Porter's mouth lifted. "Likely. Ma got along with most folks"
The quiet affection in his voice made Mercy smile.
Before she could lift out another item, Mr. Porter’s gaze sharpened on something in the trunk. He reached past her and retrieved a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief that had been embroidered with daisies. He turned it over, studying it a moment, then unwrapped it.
Even before it was revealed, the faint scent of tobacco told her it was a pipe.
His gaze on the object. "This was Pa's."
She could see the pipe was worn smooth with use, its dark wood polished by years of handling.
Mr. Porter handed it to her. "I suppose Ma couldn't bring herself to throw it away."
Mercy turned the pipe gently in her hands. "Did your father smoke it often?"
A reminiscent smile touched his face. "Most evenings. Usually on the porch. Ma wouldn't tolerate it in the house."
Mercy grinned. "A compromise."
"Something like that." His smile deepened slightly. "I remember spending the better part of a summer pestering him to let me try it. But he said Ma wouldn’t approve."
Mercy looked up. "You?"
"I was ten."
She tried to picture him at that age and failed. "And did he finally give in?"
"One puff."
She grinned. "One puff?"
"That was all it took." He grimaced. "I spent the next hour convinced I was dying. Never had much interest in smoking after that."
Mercy couldn’t help a little bark of laughter. "And your father?"
"Couldn't stop laughing." His smile lingered for a moment before softening. "Funny thing is, after he died, Ma told me she missed the smell."
Mercy's gaze dropped to the pipe. "The tobacco?"
He nodded. "She spent years fussing about pipe smoke drifting through the kitchen window. Then one day after he passed, she confessed she'd give just about anything to smell it again because it meant she’d know he was close."
For a moment Mercy could only stare at the pipe in her hands as her throat tightened unexpectedly. It wasn't really about the tobacco. It was about presence and the comfort of knowing someone you loved was nearby.
Strange how often people failed to appreciate such things until they were gone.
She handed the pipe back to Mr. Porter and watched as he carefully wrapped it back in the feminine handkerchief and set it beside the photograph and button tin.
Mercy caught herself mentally repeating details from the stories he’d shared, trying to fix them firmly in memory. She hoped she could remember all of the details to record later.
Before she could turn her attention back to the contents of the trunk, Mr. Porter again reached past her. This time he pulled out a small black leather box tucked near one corner.
There was something akin to surprise in his expression. Then he handed it to her. “I’d forgotten all about this.”
It seemed to be a jewelry presentation box of some sort, one that had a lot of age on it. “Did it belong to your mother?”
“No, Ma wasn’t much for jewelry.” He rubbed his jaw. “I actually found it a while back.”
“Found it?” That was definitely an interesting twist. “Then this isn't a family keepsake."
He shook his head. "I used to take long rides whenever I needed to clear my head. One day I was riding out near a railroad watering station and I had to stop and check my horse’s hoof. That’s the only reason I spotted it. It was in a weatherproof pouch, mostly hidden by a patch of weeds."
Mercy was somewhat taken aback. The nearest watering station she knew of was miles from town—long rides indeed. “And this box was inside?”
"Yes, but there was nothing to indicate where it came from." He tugged on his shirt cuff. "I let Sheriff Fogarty know about it in case someone came looking for it.” He shrugged. “Nobody ever did, so I asked Ma to put it away for safekeeping."
Mercy's smile appeared before she could stop it. "And the two of you promptly forgot about it."
A reluctant grin answered her. "Something like that."
She was intrigued by the mystery of it and was curious to examine the contents. She gestured toward the box. "May I?"
He shrugged. "Help yourself."
Mercy opened it and her breath caught. Nestled inside on dark velvet rested a silver locket. Time had softened its shine. Tarnish darkened the recessed portions of the design, accentuating the raised silverwork and giving the piece depth.
"Oh my." She lifted it carefully from its resting place.
The metal felt cool against her fingertips as she traced the intricate scrollwork covering the front.
Whoever had made it had been exceptionally skilled.
The locket seemed old—older than she would have expected.
How many hands had held this before hers?
The storyteller in her wondered about the woman who had once worn it. Had it been a gift? A wedding present? A token from someone she loved?
She gently pressed the catch and the locket opened. The left side was engraved with an inscription that read In God We Trust in elaborate script. But it was the right side that captured her attention. A small lock of pale hair rested there, pressed loosely into the recess.
Mercy's gaze lingered on the delicate strands. There were usually only two reasons a person kept such a memento. It marked either one of life's greatest joys or one of its deepest sorrows. Perhaps both.
Neither spoke for a moment.
The tiny keepsake transformed the locket from an interesting piece of jewelry into something far more personal. Somewhere, sometime, someone had carefully clipped those fine strands and placed them inside.
When Mercy glanced up, she found Mr. Porter studying the lock of hair with the same quiet gravity he might have given a gravesite or a family Bible.
She looked back down at the locket and carefully closed it.
Finally, Mercy reluctantly closed the locket. “Time to put this away.”
But as she attempted to guide the chain back into the narrow slit in the velvet lining, she noticed something odd. What was that?
Mr. Porter must have seen something in her expression. “What is it?”
"I'm not certain." She tilted the box toward the light coming in through the window. There was definitely something inside the lining. Heart beginning to quicken, Mercy slipped a fingertip inside. Something brushed her skin.
Paper.
Old paper.
She looked up. "Mr. Porter..."
His expression sharpened immediately.
Mercy eased the parchment free and checked to make certain there weren’t any other surprises hidden there, then she carefully unfolded the parchment atop the teacher's desk.
At first, she noticed only that the documents were composed of a number of notes, all written in different ands.
Then a jolt of excitement shot through her as she spotted the signature on the first and longest of the notes.
"Goodness." Her voice sounded strange, even to her own ears
He stepped closer. "What is it?"
She looked up at him, scarcely able to contain her excitement. "This appears to have been written by Martha Washington."
His brows rose. “Martha Washington?” He glanced down at the letter and his brows rose.
The letter shook a moment as her pulse raced. "This means both the letter and the locket may have far more historical significance than I first realized."
She lowered her gaze to the parchment again, her excitement growing as she began to read it more closely.
The letter itself was brief, written in a graceful hand that seemed somehow at odds with the simple sheet of parchment. As she reached the end, she found herself rereading several lines, imagining the first lady herself sitting at a writing desk, penning this with a quill and inkpot
Love, like liberty, thrives when freely bestowed.
Those words especially lingered in her mind.
For a moment the crowded schoolroom seemed to fade around her. She had spent months searching for artifacts that connected Hawthorn's celebration to the nation's founding. Most of what they had gathered were family keepsakes, treasured certainly, but local in significance.
This was different.
If the letter proved genuine, she was holding words penned by the wife of the nation's first president.
The significance of that nearly stole her breath.
A display case immediately sprang to mind.
The letter would become one of the most remarkable artifacts in the Centennial exhibit, especially when paired with the locket.
Then Mercy caught herself. The parchment didn't belong to her or even to the committee. And Mr. Porter hadn't offered it for display.
She forced her attention back to the page. "There's more here."
Mr. Porter leaned slightly closer.
"What do you mean?"