21
Shereford’s historical society occupied the second floor of the white-steepled community church, located in the middle of the village green.
A rainbow flag flapped in the crisp morning air as Raquel mounted the front steps.
The wooden door, dark-stained and creaky with age, was unlocked, but took several determined tugs to budge.
She walked into the shadowed interior, thinking about old journals, family trees, and early-American records. Then drew up short.
Raquel didn’t believe in God. As far as she could tell, institutions were man-made vanity projects designed to hide people’s sins while allowing them to judge others.
From the holier-than-thou church ladies who delivered the occasional hot meal while tut-tutting about the squalid state of their home, to the teachers who took in her and her siblings’ bruised arms before turning away, to the county sheriff’s deputies still zipping up their pants as they unloaded her mother from the back of their cruisers.
To Raquel, the afterlife sounded like just another fairy tale, designed to lull the gullible to sleep at night. As far as she was concerned, you lived, then one day you died, and you did your best to limit the damage in between. Or not.
But now, standing in the middle of this hushed and shadowed space…The rows of dark oiled pews. The walls of stained-glass windows. The classic oil paintings depicting pastoral splendor. Lambs, cherubs, saints. The Virgin Mary holding her infant son.
A first tremble rippling through her body, followed quickly by another.
Did babies have souls? Even the ones who never took a breath, but kicked their precious tiny feet and turned funny little somersaults inside the safety of their mothers’ wombs?
Did they pass over to some kind of golden hereafter where they snuggled with puppies and danced with angels?
Did they gaze down benevolently upon the parents who’d loved them, even if they’d never met on the physical plane?
Or were they just fragile wisps of what might have been, an idea never fully formed, a possibility never wholly rendered?
Another shudder. There were times she truly wanted to believe. It would be so much easier to picture her baby daughter, giggling forever on a bed of fluffy white clouds, safe and protected in some higher power’s embrace.
And yet, and yet…
“Why an axe,” they’d asked her.
“Because it was all I had.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT!”
Staring them straight in the eyes with her own unflinching gaze. “Yes.”
They didn’t know. They would never know. The sight of her younger brother’s unconscious body. Her sister’s ragged sobs. Realizing once and for all, the moment had come. If she was to protect them…
Her hand curling around the rough wooden handle.
The eerie out-of-body feeling that she was doing this, but not doing this.
Her sister screaming louder. Her mother, not screaming at all.
In the final moment, her mother’s eyes had flown open.
She hadn’t appeared terrified or repentant or furious. She’d looked strangely triumphant.
“Now you’re just like me.”
Which was probably Raquel’s real issue with religion. If she believed in God, then she’d also have to accept that she was damned.
She was tempted now to shout up at the ceiling, Do your worst!
To giddily dare the powers-that-be to put on a little display, strike her down with lightning.
And while they were at it, send a pitchfork-wielding devil to stab her through the heart, because that’s certainly how it’d felt when she’d held her perfectly formed, absolutely motionless baby in her arms.
As she’d inflicted pain, so pain had been visited upon her a hundred times over. She might not get institutionalized faith, but she certainly understood karma.
Now she stood in the hushed silence, watching dust motes flicker through jewel-toned sunbeams in a space designed to provide sanctuary, offer comfort.
Theo believed in God. She hoped, for their baby’s sake, he was right.
Because speaking for herself, she still felt nothing at all.
The historical society occupied the second floor.
A single, expansive room, it boasted large windows overlooking the village green, which made the space feel light, bright, and airy, especially compared to the sanctuary below.
The lower half of the walls were lined with bookshelves, while the long interior wall featured an impressive collection of age-darkened oil paintings, most probably centuries old and depicting sweeping mountain ranges.
Interspersed were smaller framed black-and-white photos.
Scenes from farm life featuring plow horses and exhausted-looking families.
A group of adults in old-fashioned swimsuits playing at a local waterfall.
Women in voluminous skirts resiliently hiking up a wooded trail.
A few grim-faced men in various military uniforms from various wars, gazing stoically out at the camera.
And, of course, several shots of the iconic Old Man of the Mountain, the rocky visage that had brought fame to northern New Hampshire, before collapsing two decades prior.
In these harsh conditions, apparently not even granite lasted forever.
As she’d suspected, both Betty and Mason were already at work, the copied ledger pages spread across the battle-scarred table that occupied the center of the room.
Betty, clad in a lavender turtleneck topped by a deep purple quilted vest, flashed her a welcoming smile.
Mason, wearing a tweed jacket that would’ve looked at home in a Cambridge study, merely granted a short nod, then went back to typing on the laptop before him.
Raquel took her time entering the room, perusing the space with interest. When getting to know new clients, she always felt it was best to let them come to her. Plus, like any natural predator, she preferred to get the lay of the land before she made her move.
“William Joseph Savage,” Betty rattled off. “Born December 7, 1790. Died December 8, 1790.”
Mason clacked away on the keyboard.
Raquel started skimming her way through the collection of books.
Guides to hiking from the 1930s. Histories of the grand inns that had served as summer playgrounds for families of rich Bostonians and New Yorkers back in the day.
Followed by a complete overview of the railroad that had dramatically changed the economy at the turn of the twentieth century.
In other words, about what one would expect.
“To Joseph Edgar Savage and Sarah Lynn Savage. You’re certain?” Mason was asking.
“Of course I’m sure,” Betty answered testily.
Mason, scrolling down several screens. Then finally, “Let’s try another one.”
Raquel made a show of wandering over. “Are those births listed in the ledger?” Betty had a clutch of printed photos before her.
“Yes. In the good news department, we’ve made some headway.
The name on the inside cover appears to be Ruth something.
Maybe Ruth Laurel or Ruth Louise. But I’m pretty sure on the Ruth part.
So definitely a female and most certainly a midwife.
The ledger itself is a series of local ministrations.
Everything from treatments rendered—poultice for this person, tonic for that individual, to sales of tinctures, dried herbs, candles. It’s quite extensive as you can see.”
Betty gestured to the papers strewn on the table.
Upon closer examination, Raquel could see the woman’s point.
Each page was nearly covered by tightly rendered script, often as many as a half dozen entries per day, each separated by a hard horizontal line.
The writing was faded in places, blurred in others, but certain words popped out.
She saw references to swelling, pain, faring poorly, as well as several mentions of poultice and tonic. Many entries ended with numbers.
“What does this mean?” she asked, pointing to a repeat of the number six. Sometimes written with a slash before it, sometimes with a slash after it: /6 or 6/.
“Payment,” Mason spoke up. “In theory, post Revolution, America had its own money, Continental currency. But British pounds remained prevalent. The slash six is an abbreviation for sixpence, while six slash would indicate six shillings. Further evidence this journal served as some kind of professional register in the late eighteenth century. It’s very important not to make any assumptions, however—”
“Hence we’ve been cross-referencing key census entries,” Betty interrupted, “working our way through weddings, marriages, and births. We started with the entries we could most easily decipher, of course. Both weddings mentioned are consistent with information available on genealogy sites. Same with several of the deaths. Now we’re on births. That’s proving a bit more problematic.”
Raquel crossed behind Mason to peer at his screen.
She recognized the ancestry site from her own efforts.
As a relative newbie to genealogy, she’d been flabbergasted by the sheer quantity of information.
Starting with one woman in an 1840s American daguerreotype, she’d ended up with a family tree that sprouted all the way back to Scotland, all with only a few clicks of a mouse.
“I still think I’ve seen this writing somewhere before,” Betty was muttering, staring at the page in front of her. “But where…” The woman eyed the bookshelves around them intently.
“I could take over this part if you’d like,” Raquel offered. She was itching to peruse the material. “I have experience with historic documents from hunting down early-American antiques for my clients.”
Betty beamed. “Oh, well, in that case! Imagine, a young person who actually knows her history!”
Mason merely harrumphed, while Raquel took over Betty’s seat. The older woman tapped the next listing they were trying to translate, then disappeared to peruse the bookshelves.