Chapter Ten #3
“There were grumblings about his professional capabilities, though that was said of many physicians in his day. Medical science was still in its infancy, and the lack of antisepsis inevitably meant high rates of mortality from infections. Louis Pasteur proposed his germ theory in 1861, but it took decades to catch on.”
Harper nodded.
Constance laughed. “Listen to me natter on—you no doubt know the history of medicine far better than I. As for the Perles family, most of what I know is rooted in local legend and rumor. They came here from Galveston, I believe, but most of the family died within a few years, leaving just the brother and sister, Soren and Isabel. They were esteemed members of the community, but neither married nor had children.”
“That seems unusual for the time period.”
“Doesn’t it, though? Perhaps that’s what led to the rumors.”
“Such as?”
She hesitated. “Some say they were involved in an incestuous affair. I haven’t done the research, but I imagine it was pure speculation.
Some also thought that Soren Perles had a hand in the death of his family, but as you know it wasn’t rare for epidemics to wipe out entire generations.
As I said, most of the Perles family’s papers were burned, and they left no descendants, so there really wasn’t anyone to confirm or deny what went on in that house other than the servants, and as you know… ”
“Servants rarely left written documents behind.”
“More’s the pity. Well, seeing as I’m the only one working today, I’d best get back to the front desk.
” Constance pointed to another door. “Over there’s the research room, with more files, books, and microfilm readers.
On the farthest wall you’ll find shelves with the papers relevant to early Monterey-area families, filed alphabetically.
We don’t require gloves but do ask that you wash and thoroughly dry your hands before handling the papers.
The lavatory’s to your right. Knock yourself out. ”
Harper quickly washed up, feeling her excitement growing at the thought of what the family papers might have to tell her.
The heavy oak door to the research room looked original to the building, and its massive wrought iron hinges let out an impressive groan as she pulled it open.
Inside the windowless, climate-controlled room, she paused and took a deep breath, contentedly inhaling the must of antiquity.
Some folks liked to come up with descriptors for fine wine. Harper did the same for the scent of old books and papers: Grassy notes with a tang of acid and a hint of vanilla, laid over a distinct mustiness.
She followed a labyrinthine path through the crowded shelves to the rear of the large room, until she located a heavy cardboard manuscript box labeled “Perles Family.” She moved it onto the oak table and, after a brief moment of anticipation, lifted the lid.
Inside were several leather-bound books and a folder containing miscellaneous receipts and lists of groceries and other supplies.
She was disappointed but not surprised not to find any letters or anything written by Isabel Perles.
Literate women of her era might have kept a diary, but whether or not it survived the passage of time was usually a matter of luck, and the Perles family did not seem to be overly burdened with good luck.
At last, beneath a yellowed, crumbling invitation to a gala event at the county courthouse, she hit pay dirt: Soren Perles’s account book.
In the 1800s, Harper knew, every shipowner, businessman, lawyer, physician, blacksmith, and farmer kept accounts of money coming in and going out, services rendered, and supplies received.
Although commercial exchanges were increasingly made in cash, in-kind payments, such as a physician accepting eggs or meat from a farmer in exchange for his services, were not uncommon, especially in smaller or rural communities.
Harper smiled. Most folks would not know how to read an old account book or grasp the significance of the entries. But to a historian, an account book could reveal a great deal about the nitty-gritty of daily life. She took a seat and started reading.
It took a few minutes to accustom herself to Soren Perles’s handwriting, the faded—sometimes nearly invisible—ink, and his idiosyncratic style of recordkeeping, which included sketches and notes in the margins.
“Talk to me, Soren,” she murmured under her breath.
Harper sometimes wondered whether her love of history was anchored as much in these tactile sensations as in sheer intellectual curiosity.
She loved nothing more than being left alone in the stacks, hidden among the books and ephemera, tracking down clues and uncovering historical Easter eggs, putting together family trees and following trails through personal correspondence and diaries.
Living other lives in other times. And occasionally, like now, she could swear she felt the past speaking to her, whispering: Come.
Figure me out. I have a secret to tell you…
Absorbed in her treasure hunt, Harper was startled by a loud scraping sound.
She was not alone.