Chapter 10
Mercy unlocked the schoolhouse a few minutes after sunrise, then crossed immediately to the annex. She paused just inside the doorway, allowing herself a moment to look around before setting her basket on the worktable.
The room had changed remarkably in only a few short weeks.
The shelving Wilson had built from the salvaged lumber now held much of the growing collection that had once been stacked in teetering piles across every available surface.
Family groupings had begun to take shape beneath neatly lettered labels.
Larger artifacts waited in thoughtful arrangements for their final placement.
There was still plenty to do, but now Mercy could picture the room as visitors would see it when the exhibit opened on Independence Day.
Monday's committee meeting had only strengthened that feeling. The members had toured the annex, most of them seeing the shelves in place for the first time. Mayor Caldwell had expressed his pleasure with the progress being made, Colonel Briggs had been especially enthusiastic about her proposal for the additional veterans’ display, and Mrs. Whitaker had offered a handful of suggestions for directing visitors through the room.
Mercy had also reported that the family interviews were now complete and that she didn't expect to receive many additional items for display before celebration day.
By the time the meeting adjourned, she had left encouraged that the committee continued to place its confidence in her judgment.
She also had Wilson to thank for the way the displays were shaping up.
Not only was he helping with the heavier items, but he was helping when she needed to talk through some of the dozens of decisions involved in organizing the various displays.
Not only that, but as the displays gradually took shape, Wilson kept finding little ways to improve them.
One day it was a small support to keep a photograph from tipping backward.
Another it was a shallow cradle for an awkward keepsake that refused to stay put.
None of it drew attention to itself, but each quiet improvement made the collection easier to view and better honored the story it represented.
Removing her bonnet, Mercy settled into the morning's work.
She spent the next hour transcribing the Johnston interview into its permanent family record, then compared several display labels against her notes before placing them with the artifacts they described.
Only a few family histories remained to be copied into their final form.
Most of what lay ahead now involved refining, arranging, and deciding how best to present the stories entrusted to her care.
One question, however, continued to resist an answer.
Her gaze settled on the Porter family display.
The old trunk rested open, its contents arranged much as she and Wilson had left them, each item quietly telling a portion of the family's story. Nestled among them sat the small leather presentation box.
The locket presented a dilemma unlike any other artifact in the collection.
Its possible connection to Martha Washington made it especially meaningful during the nation's Centennial celebration, yet the parchment inside had never been intended for public eyes.
She had considered displaying only the locket with a brief explanation of its discovery and significance.
Another possibility was to display the parchment folded so that only Martha Washington's handwritten message could be read while the generations of marriage notes remained tucked discreetly out of sight.
Neither solution felt entirely satisfactory.
She rested her fingertips lightly on the worn leather box.
Wilson would likely arrive within the hour. Since the locket remained in his keeping, perhaps together they could finally settle the matter.
With that in mind, Mercy carried the leather presentation box to the worktable so she wouldn't forget to discuss it with Wilson when he arrived.
She hesitated a moment, then gave in to the temptation to hold it again.
She opened the lid and carefully removed the locket, letting the silver rest against her palm while the morning light caught the delicate repoussé work across its surface.
She'd examined it several times since its discovery, yet it continued to reveal details she'd somehow overlooked before.
The tiny imperfections left by the silversmith's hand.
The gentle wear around the hinge where generations of fingers had opened and closed it.
Even the chain, though remarkably well preserved, bore the subtle marks of long use.
According to the parchment, George Washington himself had commissioned this very locket, and Martha Washington had worn it.
The very thought of the history surrounding this piece still filled her with a sense of awe.
Setting it aside for now, she unfolded the parchment with the same care she always used. Martha Washington's familiar words greeted her once again.
"To the woman who wears this locket..."
A faint smile touched her lips.
How many women had paused over those same lines?
How many had read them with hopeful hearts before carefully folding the parchment and returning it to its place?
The marriage notes tucked inside spoke of lives separated by decades, yet bound together by a simple act of love and remembrance.
Each woman had added a few heartfelt lines, adding her own voice to a century-long conversation begun by Martha Washington herself.
Her gaze drifted back to the locket.
If it became part of the Centennial exhibit, even temporarily, countless visitors would admire its beauty and marvel at its possible connection to Martha Washington. They would see a remarkable historical artifact. And something this special surely deserved to be shared, not hidden away.
Still...
Mercy looked again at the opening line of the parchment.
"To the woman who wears this locket..."
Every woman who had added her own marriage note had first fastened the locket around her neck and carried it close to her heart. For one brief moment, she wondered what that would feel like.
Almost before she realized she'd made the decision, she reached for the chain. Unfastening the clasp, she held an end in each hand, then carefully fastened the clasp behind her neck.
The cool silver settled against her.
For several heartbeats she did nothing at all.
She simply stood there, her fingertips resting lightly against the locket, committing the sensation to memory.
A hundred years separated her from Martha Washington, yet for this brief instant they were connected by something far more tangible than words written on parchment.
The same locket rested over her heart that had once rested over Martha's...
and over the hearts of every woman who had added her own marriage note before carefully returning it to its place.
She closed her eyes and imagined them, one after another.
Martha Washington. Then the women who had faithfully carried the tradition forward, each adding only a few lines before passing the parchment on for another generation to continue.
For this one quiet moment, Mercy had been allowed to glimpse that unbroken chain.
But only to glimpse it.
She would never add her own note to the parchment. She would never become part of its recorded history, and somehow that felt exactly as it should. Like Wilson, she was merely its caretaker for a season, entrusted with preserving it until it could find its rightful home.
When she opened her eyes, the Kendall family's tall looking glass standing against the wall caught her attention. She crossed the room and stopped before it, studying her reflection curiously.
The woman staring back at her looked no different than she had earlier.
But she knew otherwise.
For another moment Mercy remained where she was, letting the image linger in her mind. Then, feeling just a little foolish over her unexpected impulse, she smiled to herself and reached behind her neck.
Her fingers found the clasp easily enough.
It refused to budge.
She frowned and tried again, this time taking greater care to catch the tiny mechanism properly. Surely, she'd simply missed it the first time.
The clasp remained stubbornly closed.
Mercy lowered her hands and let out an exasperated breath. Then she caught sight of the watch pinned to her bodice reflected in the mirror.
Nearly ten.
Her pulse gave a little jump. Wilson generally arrived about this time each morning.
Warmth crept into her cheeks as she reached behind her neck once more.
This had been a private moment, one she hadn't expected anyone else to witness.
The thought of Wilson walking through the annex door to find her still wearing the locket was mortifying enough to make her even more determined to free the clasp.
She worked at it carefully, then a little less carefully.
Nothing.
Drawing a measured breath, she forced herself to stop before frustration made matters worse. There had to be a simple explanation. She just needed to?—
The sound of the outer schoolhouse door opening drifted through the annex.
Mercy's heart lurched.
Wilson.
She reached behind her neck, fumbling with the stubborn clasp once more. It refused to yield.
Footsteps crossed the schoolroom floor.
A flush crept up her neck as her hand slipped to the front of her dress. If she tucked the locket beneath the neckline of her bodice, perhaps he wouldn't notice...
She stopped herself almost as quickly as the thought came.
Really, Mercy?