Chapter 12 Vivian #2
“Anyway, I’m hoping that somewhere in here,” Vivian says to Rachel, gesturing around them, “is evidence that proves my family lineage to the Knox—to William Knox himself. According to my grandmother, there’s a book in the family that somehow reveals, or proves, the truth about my family. How a book can do that, I don’t know.”
“And remind me why you need to prove this?”
Vivian feels her face grow warm. “My mother’s health care needs have grown…complex.” She’s reluctant to say more. Her friend can read between the lines; Vivian is clearly putting her mom’s house on the market for a reason.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I…I know that nursing home care can be expensive. Well, I don’t know personally, but I’ve heard.”
“Thank you.” She has yet to reveal her own financial woes to Rachel.
It’s silly; Rachel will realize soon enough, once the second store officially closes.
It’s already shuttered for the time being; she has let go of the store manager.
But Vivian has her pride. Or maybe it’s more a state of denial.
“Anyway, this could all be a wild-goose chase, but my grandmother used to insinuate that there was some Knox fortune we might be entitled to—so I guess that means the long-lost book is the key to finding it.”
Rachel’s eyes light up; Vivian knew she’d be on board once she heard this detail. Rachel can’t get enough of movies and novels about treasure hunting.
“I’m assuming you can’t ask your mom about the book, or any details she might know. And your grandmother has passed, right?”
Vivian nods. “Unfortunately, my mom is…” She doesn’t need to finish; Rachel nods sympathetically. “Although she does remember her La Mer face cream,” Vivian ruefully adds.
Rachel laughs, and Crimson grins, as if she’s in on the joke. Rachel gazes adoringly at her daughter. Christ. When Rachel glances back up, Vivian does her best to display a matching expression of adoration at Crimson. It seems to work.
It’s times like these that Vivian misses her friendship with Xavier. They would likely have a little private chuckle at Rachel’s expense. It wasn’t so long ago that Rachel had sworn off having kids—or a husband, for that matter.
It feels like both of Vivian’s friends have moved on without her, like their time together was just a stop on a train they’ve now reboarded.
Vivian has always loved her station in life—her antiques store, her life in Beacon Hill—but recent events have made her wonder if there’s a train she’s supposed to be boarding, too.
But what exactly does that mean? Finding a life partner?
Vivian hasn’t written off getting married—her mother might have been surprised to learn—but she’s never pined for it, either.
She’s had a string of relationships, some longer and more serious than others, and the majority of which have been long-distance—New York, London, Singapore—which Rachel likes to cheekily point out is one way to predetermine their fates.
But the fact is, Vivian’s never been in love.
Not really—or at least, not yet. Thoughts of Peter create a warmth inside her that she’s not used to feeling.
“How many generations back does this house go?” Rachel now asks, pointing to the floor.
“Let me think. Well, I know my grandmother grew up in this house…. Her grandmother, the illegitimate child, was sent to Rhode Island, I believe, to be raised by a servant. So I guess my grandmother’s mother—my great-grandmother—must have returned to Boston to live here.
She married a banker.” Vivian shudders thinking about how her distant relatives would have viewed her mother’s recent house renovation.
Rachel is furiously scribbling notes. “Where in Rhode Island was the child sent to?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure. That’s literally the extent of what I know.”
“I won’t ask now, but I’ll need first and last names, middle names, birth dates, anything you know about your family.”
Vivian laughs. “There’s a family tree I constructed when I was in sixth grade in one of those other boxes in the basement.”
Rachel nods. “Good. We’ll look for it. Meanwhile, anything that jogs your memory—now or later—let me know. As a genealogist, I’ve found the slightest facts can go a long way. Have you done a DNA test through something like ?”
“I did one a few years back…I just looked at it yesterday.”
“Any surprise relatives? Any leads we can follow?”
“I’ll send you the results, but I don’t think so…
. It seems like a dead end; I only saw relatives on my dad’s side.
As for my mom’s side, don’t forget I’m the only child of an only child of an only child…
. A long line of women, actually. My mom used to say we had the one-woman curse in our blood.
Also, every woman in my family apparently gives birth at a late age, like in their forties.
” Vivian feels a warmth come over her face.
Why would she have volunteered this last piece of information? Is Peter already scrambling her brain?
Rachel plows forward. “But this William Knox must have had another child, right? An heir? So wouldn’t that person’s ancestors have shown up?”
Vivian shrugs. “You’d think so…. Maybe they’re not on genealogy sites?”
Rachel knits her brows. “Maybe. Anyway, let’s get to work.
Anything we flag of interest goes here.” She nudges a box lid she’s turned over, a makeshift tray.
“I’ll go through this pile, and you start on that box with the torn top.
But here’s the thing: We aren’t just looking for a book.
In fact, I doubt we’ll find it, based on how your grandmother herself grew up in this house—”
“There are some old books here,” Vivian interrupts.
“Okay, we can take a look at them. What I meant, though, was that if your grandmother had the book in her possession, then there wouldn’t be a family lore that the book exists. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” Vivian had never stopped to consider such intricacies.
“Also, it might not be a book, but someone’s interpretation of a book. A bundle of letters. A scrapbook, which was popular in the nineteenth century. We are looking for any documents or letters or photos that reveal any information about your mother’s family history.”
Vivian notices that her friend looks remarkably better than she did when she first arrived; she’s retied her hair, and the lipstick on the teeth is long gone. There is a flush to her face, like all she needed was a spot of adulthood.
“Sounds like a plan. And I will do the honors of keeping our beverages refreshed,” Vivian says as she refills their glasses.
“What’s the other thing you need?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you called, you said you needed help with three things at your mom’s house.” Rachel ticks off her fingers. “One, tagging items for resale, donation, or disposal. Two, a mystery project. What’s the third?”
“Oh!” Once again, Vivian feels the blood rush to her face. “I have a date on Friday night. I’m sorry; I know we had dinner plans, so I’ll need to reschedule. I need help figuring out what to wear and thought we could raid my mom’s closet.”
Rachel is looking at her quizzically. “No worries—we can reschedule. But why do you need to raid your mom’s closet? You’re the best-dressed woman I know.”
“Because I need something quite specific that’s a little out of my comfort zone. And unlike valuable antiques, my mom never threw out a single piece of clothing.” Vivian pauses, then says, “I’m going to the masquerade ball at the Knox.”
An hour later, by a stroke of luck, she and Rachel uncover a few letters of importance.
They nearly miss them, as they’re pressed between the pages of an old poetry book: Musings on Love and Life by a man named Edgar Rolo Butterworth.
The collection is almost laughable, between the antiquated nineteenth-century language and the overly sentimental drivel, and she and Rachel have a good chuckle as they dramatically read select passages aloud.
Rachel is about to put the book back in the box where they found it, but then Vivian snatches it back for one last comical read.
As she holds up the book, the letters gently fall from the pages like magical leaves, landing on Vivian’s lap.
Vivian and Rachel lock eyes, the world momentarily collapsing behind them.
October 5, 1830
Boston, Massachusetts
My dear daughter Mercy,
Should I draw you a picture of my heart, you would be within it.
But should I draw you a picture of the world, neither of us would be within it, for men unjustly believe that women are not worthy.
I fear that I have done you an even further disservice: Your father is not my husband, and herein lies the difficulty.
Were my husband not at sea the past eleven months and unaware of your birth, it would bring great shame to him and potentially peril to you.
As such, I am hereby entrusting you to the care of my most dutiful servant, Aoife, who has assured me she will raise you like her own in Rhode Island.
I retain an unalterable love for you, that neither time nor distance nor circumstance will abate.
Rest be assured, when God calls me home, you will find that I have made provisions for you, as my father has done for me. Until then, may God grant you mercy, like the name I have chosen for you.
Your loving mother,
Margaret
September 7, 1855
Boston, Massachusetts
My dear daughter Mercy,
The heavens today shine brilliant, as if knowing they call me.
My physician says I am to prepare. I no sooner take the pen in my hand than I begin thinking of you, my dearest daughter.
Life has cruelly separated us, yet in death there is joy, as I will patiently wait to be reunited with you.
I furthermore take solace that in life my faithful Aoife has cared for you like her own.
I have, at my disposal, sizable assets, as my husband has departed before me. I have composed a nominee trust of such assets and a schedule of beneficiaries. As I have made provisions for you in life, so will I do in death for both you and your brother.
Rest be assured, my daughter, that my love for you transcends time and earth. Until we meet again, I remain your loving mother.
Yours,
Margaret
September 28, 1855
Dear Aoife,
I regret to inform you that the mistress Margaret has died.
We are in morning. She was a good, kind mistress and so very careful of me.
Her son the doctor does not have the same kind heart.
Something is not right. He has her body in the basement.
There is a paper with a schedule of beneficiaries the doctor has discarded.
For this reason I am writing to you since I beleve it was of great importance to my mistress Margaret and pertains to Mercy.
I took the paper and hid it in the secretery for safekeeping.
Its in a secret compartment there. Please come get it and beware of the doctor.
Respectfuly your loveing cousin,
Sara