Chapter 5 #3
Mercy traced a finger downward. "Martha Washington’s letter isn't the only thing on the parchment."
As she studied them, Mercy's excitement returned. "Oh my."
"What?"
She glanced up at him. "I think these were written by all the people who owned the locket through the years."
He frowned slightly. "How can you tell?"
"The original letter says the locket should be passed from one hopeful heart to another." She tapped the parchment. "And Look. These are marriage notes."
Carefully she read the first entry aloud, then the second and third. With each note her excitement grew. What had begun as a letter from Martha Washington was becoming something even more extraordinary—a chain of couples stretching across the years, each adding their own small piece of the story.
By the time she reached the fourth entry, she could scarcely remain seated. "Do you the significance of this?"
Mr. Porter folded his arms. "I suspect you're about to tell me."
She could tell he was more interested than he let on. "These weren't written all at once. Each couple added their own note before passing the locket on." She looked down at the parchment again, following the entries in order.
Philadelphia, 1776.
Fort Stanwix, 1777.
Long Island, 1781.
The next also in 1781.
Each note carried echoes of its own era. Love found during war. Love found amid uncertainty. Love found despite obstacles that must have seemed impossible at the time.
Mercy could almost picture the couples themselves. A young bride carefully unfolding the parchment. A husband reading the earlier entries. Another note added. Another story.
She reached the final entry and stopped and looked at the dates again.
"What is it?"
She looked up to see Mr. Porter studying her carefully. Was she so easy to read?
She gestured toward the parchment. "The dates don't make sense."
He moved closer, looking at the document. "What do you mean?"
"The first four entries were written within five years of one another." She pointed as she spoke. "1776. 1777. 1778. 1781." Then her finger moved to the final note. "And this one is 1865."
Mr. Porter studied the page. "That's quite a gap."
"Eighty-four years." The discrepancy set her mind racing for possible reasons.
Had there been other entries written elsewhere? Was there a second parchment?
Or had it been in the hands of someone who didn’t know what he, or she, had, the way it had with Wilson and his mother?
Had it fallen in the hands of someone who never married so had no reason to write a marriage note?
Questions crowded in faster than she could sort through them.
Mr. Porter was reading the final note now.
"Kate Brodie and Griffin Fletcher. Fort Kearny, Kansas. July fifteenth, 1865."
Mercy nodded. "Only eleven years ago."
Her gaze drifted briefly to the closed locket resting beside the parchment. Had Kate Fletcher been the one who placed the lock of hair inside, had it belonged to a child she loved?
If so, Kate had not merely lost a piece of jewelry. She had lost something far more personal, something irreplaceable.
The thought lingered in the back of Mercy's mind as her attention returned to the final entry. Eleven years was not so very long ago. What had become of Kate and Griffin Fletcher since then? And were they wondering what had become of this locket and its precious contents?
Mercy glanced at her satchel on the chair beside her. For most of the morning she had resisted the urge to take notes, unwilling to interrupt the stories Mr. Porter had been sharing about his family. This was different.
She reached for the notebook.
"You finally gave in."
The amusement in his voice made her glance up. "In my defense, I lasted longer than usual."
One corner of his mouth lifted. "Longer than I expected."
Was he actually teasing her? "I wasn't about to trust my memory with this."
His grin widened, but he merely said "Wise decision."
She opened the notebook and began copying names and dates. As she wrote, her thoughts continued racing ahead of her pencil.
A letter from Martha Washington. A chain of couples stretching from the Revolution to the aftermath of the Civil War. And somehow the locket had ended up abandoned beside a railroad watering station in Texas.
The historian in her wanted answers. The committee member in her could already imagine how remarkable the locket would appear among the Centennial displays.
Yet when her gaze drifted back to the marriage notes, uncertainty stirred.
At first, she’d imagined the parchment displayed alongside the Centennial exhibits. Now she wasn't so certain.
The notes hadn’t merely been preserved, they had been hidden. Tucked deep within the lining where only someone examining the box closely would ever find them.
These felt less like historical records and more like private promises entrusted from one couple to another, strangers connected only by this small silver locket and the stories it carried.
The thought unsettled her enough that she paused in her writing. Perhaps the locket belonged in a display case.
She was no longer certain the notes did.
Mercy carefully finished copying the information before refolding the parchment and slipping it back into the hidden slit within the velvet lining. Then she settled the locket back into its velvet nest and closed the lid of the box.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Finally, Mercy rested her hand atop the closed case. "If you still want to find out who owns this, Fort Kearny gives us a place to begin."
Mr. Porter considered that. "A place to begin, maybe."
She nodded, understanding his meaning. "But not necessarily where the trail ends."
"No."
Given that the note was already eleven years old, the couple could have moved several times since then. Still, Fort Kearny was more information than they had possessed an hour ago.
The thought lingered only briefly before Mr. Porter glanced toward the window then his gaze shifted to her schoolroom clock. "I'd best get back to the livery. Walt Green is supposed to bring his mare in for me to work on today.”
Mercy blinked and followed his gaze. Had that much time really passed?
Apparently, it had.
Rising, she gathered the notebook and slipped it into her satchel while Mr. Porter returned the remaining items to the trunk.
When he lifted the trunk from the desk, the movement drew her attention.
The old trunk was hardly light, yet he carried it across the room with an ease that reminded her how often she forgot the strength concealed beneath his quiet manner.
As though sensing her gaze, he looked up.
Heat touched her cheeks and she quickly turned her attention to fastening her satchel.
A moment later he set the trunk carefully on the floor beside the door to the annex. So, he wasn’t taking it home.
The realization pleased her more than it should have.
He turned and met her gaze. "You still intend to come out tomorrow?" he asked.
Mercy nodded. "Of course. I’ll be at the livery bright and early."
"I can handle the lumber on my own."
She folded her arms. "And miss the opportunity to inspect a potentially valuable historic structure?"
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Fair point." And with a nod he headed for the door.