Chapter 17 #2
A blessing sent to end my suffering, or a promise that it shall endure.
I recall the mysterious revelation written by my own hand in the year of my son’s birth, and I wonder if she is the one to whom it refers.
The back of my neck tingles.
I know not who she is …
I turn the sleeve over, like there might be more on the back. But there isn’t, and my thoughts have spun into a whirling dervish.
“A blessing sent to end my suffering,” Jude reads. “Did Ezra suffer?”
“Only as much as any tortured artist with wealth, status, and no known ailments. There was a rift in the family, which I’m sure didn’t help his sense of suffering.”
“Between him and his brother?” I say.
“Raphael,” Maggie replies with a nod. “According to all accounts, the two were estranged.”
Hatred all the way down.
“There were rumors of madness, too,” Maggie continues. “But those centered around the portrait. Hence, the title. Ezra’s Obsession.” She emphasizes the second word. “Most limners didn’t go around painting figments of their imagination.”
“Is that what she was?” I ask.
“If I had to guess, I’d say she was a lover.”
Maggie’s conclusion irks me.
So does the smug look on Jude’s face when she says it.
“Then his own words don’t make any sense,” I say. “If the subject of Ezra’s Obsession was a lover, why would he write I know not who she is?”
“Like I said, he was a bit touched in the head. And, if he was having an affair, he wouldn’t very well record a confession, would he?”
“It was his private journal.”
“His supposed private journal.” Maggie’s attention slides to the charcoal sketch, her eyes brightening. “Is this what you’re after? You believe this woman was the subject?”
No, actually.
She’s not the subject.
I am.
It takes every ounce of will power to bite back the words, to shrug along with Jude like neither of us know.
Maggie takes back her artifact.
But I’m not ready to move on.
I want to examine the words. Dissect them with Jude.
Instead, I barely have time to snap a picture before she returns the journal fragment to the folio and heads back to her office. I open my mouth, but Jude gives his head a curt shake, like now isn’t the time to talk about anything.
When Maggie returns, she opens the album she retrieved from a shelf. Its leather binding creaks in protest.
A registry of ball guests have been written in elegant cursive. Not for the Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball, but its predecessor, Foggy Hollow’s Yuletide Ball.
“The fire took a great deal,” Maggie says, flipping toward the front.
“But not everything.” She runs a reverent hand down the column of names.
“Plenty of archives like these were kept in stone cellars. Fireproof and damp as death. And thank the heavens, too. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have any public records at all before 1822. ”
She turns to the very first register—December 23, 1758.
The inaugural Yuletide Ball.
She slides her finger down the list, then comes to a stop.
Miss Molly Ludwig, escorted by Mr. Ezra Vandenberg.
My eyes go wide. “That has to be her, right?”
Maggie’s already on the move, muttering Ludwig under her breath as she marches toward an old-fashioned card catalog. She pulls open the drawer labeled with an L and starts shuffling through the cards.
I join her, watching as she bypasses Lovell, Nathaniel, who—according to the card—drowned in the Blackwillow River in 1792.
Then Lowry, Esther—a milliner who crafted elaborate hats for the town’s elite.
Then Ludwig, Peter—a reverend who advocated for temperance and moral reform.
On the improbable chance that Maggie has alphabetized wrong, she flips past Peter to Lyle, Eleanor—a midwife who delivered all the town’s babies from 1872 through 1888.
She turns back to Ludwig, Peter and removes his card.
It lists his wife, Greta Ludwig. Along with his two children, Gideon & Molly. The card contains six reference numbers.
We chase after each one.
The first leads to an obituary for the wife, who died in childbirth in 1739.
The second leads to the Temperance Proclamation of 1756, authored by the reverend, who publicly condemned local taverns for promoting vice, drunkenness, and moral decay.
The third leads to the guest list that mentioned Molly.
The fourth, a collection of his sermons from the 1770s.
The fifth, a Public Petition to the Magistrate in 1779, urging town officials to shut down a boarding house of ill repute.
The sixth and final reference, Reverend Peter Ludwig’s obituary, published in the Foggy Hollow Gazette in the summer of 1781.
I read the last few lines aloud, “He is preceded in death by his beloved wife, Margareta Ludwig. He is survived by his esteemed son, Gideon Ludwig, and a devoted congregation who mourn his passing yet take solace in the promise of his eternal rest.” I look up with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t say anything about Molly.”
Maggie rubs her chin, as though pondering the curiosity.
I stare hard at the symbol drawn in the corner of the sketch.
“What about town hall?” Jude asks. “There might be some information there.”
“You’ll find nothing more than birth, marriage, and death records,” Maggie says, her disdain evident.
She doesn’t loathe town hall to the degree with which she loathes the FHPS, but she certainly isn’t a fan of the impersonal way in which they handle history—they drain all the life and blood out of a thing!
I’m sure there’s also some jealousy involved, given their legal right to archives she’d rather have in her possession.
“But if she got married,” I say, “there could be more to find here. Under a different surname.”
“That is a possibility,” Maggie concedes. “Unfortunately, it’s a possibility that will have to wait until Monday. Town hall is already closed.”
Jude looks at his watch, and sure enough, the time is 4:38 p.m. Town hall locked its doors eight minutes ago.
We step outside, the bell jingling behind us as we turn toward the square, in the direction of our parked cars—Dad’s Ford Bronco for me, a dark gray BMW for Jude.
“Well, at least we got some clarity.” I curl my thumbs under the straps of my backpack. “The symbol isn’t a family crest. Which means we can eliminate your theory.”
Jude slides on his sunglasses. “How do you figure?”
“Molly wasn’t an illegitimate love child.”
“Ezra was courting her,” he says.
“Exactly,” I say back.
“So maybe the symbol represented his affection.” Jude and I pause at the curb as a minivan drives past. “He loved Molly, just like he loved the woman in the portrait. Who could still very well be one of your ancestors. Or maybe she’s not an ancestor. Maybe she’s just a lookalike.”
“Jude—”
“I did some research. On doppelg?ngers.”
My jaw drops.
“Not the supernatural kind. The biological kind. Twin strangers. They’re rare, but they exist.”
“According to Ezra’s journal fragment, the woman he painted didn’t exist. He, himself, didn’t know who he was painting. How do you explain that?”
“The same way Maggie explained it. Ezra struggled with mental illness. Maybe he forgot she existed. Maybe he lost her, and the grief of it drove him insane.”
I take a deep breath, grasping for patience as we cross the street. “At what point does your obsession with logic turn into something illogical?”
“It’s no more illogical than your theory. Which is what, exactly? He painted you?” He pushes a short huff of breath from his nose. “How is that possible? And why?”
“I don’t know, but I think those answers could be found in this mysterious revelation he mentioned in that journal fragment. He said it was written by his own hand in the year of his son’s birth. And he suspected it was about me.”
“Selah,” Jude says, both syllables filled with exasperation.
“Fine, not me. The girl in the portrait who looks exactly like me. He thought I—she might end his suffering.”
“The man is dead. His suffering has ended.”
“But the painting is still here.” I stop and face him, my hand held up to my forehead like a visor against the sun. “I know I sound crazy. But the portrait is crazy. And yet, it exists. I don’t know about you, but I have to know why.”