“I’d like to do something special with this spot,” she said. “The footprint of the original Roost is still of historic interest, and I’d like to plant a garden on the plot. Perhaps medicinal herbs, the kind that would have been used in the seventeenth century. It will be another opportunity to teach history.”
“Good idea,” Jack said, heading toward the site of the new Roost. Rough-hewn logs from the old building were already in place for the ground floor of the future tavern. Surrounding them, the massive foundation for the new kitchen, a sprawling conference room, and a patio designed to overlook the shimmering waters of Saint Helga’s Spring hinted at the transformation to come.
When she’d first met Jack back in early May, she’d thought his boasts about attracting PGA tours and concerts and amphitheaters was an abomination, and yet, it wasn’t boasting. It was going to happen and by saving the Roost, this historic treasure would someday be shared with thousands of people each year. Someday soon the tavern and the terrace overlooking Saint Helga’s Spring would attract customers for elegant weddings, academic seminars, and even Jack’s prizedPGA tournament crowds. Many would simply knock back a few drinks, enjoying the charm and exclusivity without a second thought. But for others, entering the Roost would be like stepping back in time. They’d stroll along garden paths brimming with the same herbs and heirloom vegetables cultivated by hands from centuries past, feeling the whispers of history in the air. For those few, this place would be a touchstone to the past, a reminder that they were walking where stories had been lived and legends born.
Jack wouldn’t be here to share all that with her. A weight of sadness descended, and prickles of sweat broke out across her body.
Jack’s face was expressionless as he scanned the vista. What was he thinking? His entire fortune was invested in this building and the golf course. When finished, it was going to be magnificent. He had reason to be proud of what he’d accomplished here, but he looked anxious and uncomfortable.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded. “My ankle is throbbing. Don’t worry . . . it’s not a new bleed, it’s just overheated from this stupid boot. Let’s head down to the spring,” he said with a nod toward the pier stretching into Saint Helga’s Spring.
Alice walked ahead to scan the ground for obstacles as Jack followed. The pier was low enough that he’d be able to cool his feet in the soothing water. The old wooden planks creaked as they ventured forth. A soft, chilled mist hovered over the water, and a few midges hovered over the spring. Their translucent wings caught the last bits of twilight as they zigzagged just above the surface. Hundreds of years ago, Helga Denby probably watched midges just like this.
Jack unstrapped the plastic boot from his foot. He gingerly removed the sock, revealing shockingly white skin against the yellow and brown bruising around his still-swollen ankle.
“This is heaven,” he sighed after sinking both feet into the water.
She pulled off her boots and socks to join him, the cooling water sloshing between her toes.
Jack chuckled. “It’s been sixty seconds, and my hand to God, my ankle already feels better.” He lifted his foot, the skin glistening in the fading light. Perhaps it was her imagination, but his ankle looked a smidge less swollen.
“Maybe there really is something to the healing legend of this spring,” she said.
Jack lowered his ankle back into the water. “Maybe, but there’s probably a rational explanation. The water is cool, so my ankle feels better and the swelling went down. Women desperate to get pregnant come out here because they won’t leave any stone unturned, but I’ll bet they’re trying science, too.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “That’s so cynical.”
He gazed into the distance, where the sun sank low in the sky, a blaze of burnt orange and streaks of purple. He remained silent and pensive, only the dry rustle of leaves and the call of a whippoorwill somewhere in the distance breaking the quiet.
“I’m not cynical,” he finally said. “I’m proud of people who never give up. No matter how often they get smacked down by fate, they’ll figure out a way to change course and stand up again. For people like that, for people who refuse to quit . . . good things usually happen. So all those ladies who trek out here at the crack of dawn? They’re not quitters. It doesn’t surprise me that they get a baby sooner or later, some way or another. The trick is to never quit. They might have to adjust their sails. Heck, I wanted to be a pro golfer, but I wasn’t good enough. And yet, all those years of studying and training helped me become a great golf course architect. It’s not what I originally hoped for, but it worked out in the end.”
She traced a finger along the weathered, silvery gray planks of the pier, trying to reconcile Jack’s thoughts with her own faith. “I believe God answers our prayers, just not always in the way we hope. Helga came to America hoping for a child. It never happened for her, but she inspired women for hundreds of years. Perhaps Helga didn’t get what she prayed for, but she played a role for a lot of women who conceived.” She glanced back at the gap in the tall grass where the Roost once stood. “It’s sad that it never happened for Helga. The records say she died without an heir, so the Roost and all its contents went up for auction.”
“And the Tuckers bought everything?” Jack asked.
“Just the Roost and the land,” she said. “Another family, the Dunstables, bought the contents of the house in 1705. The furniture, a couple of flintlocks, that sort of thing.” She searched her mind. She’d read the inventory of the house back when she first started researching. It contained a number of well-to-do furnishings, such as silver spoons and a gilt mirror . . . and a portrait.”
She straightened, excitement starting to brew as she turned to face Jack. “The estate inventory mentioned a portrait. Amaritalportrait.”
“Do you suppose it could be them? Helga and her husband?”
“Maybe. Remember when we visited the Colonial Art Museum’s archives? Rich people in the seventeenth century often had portraits painted when they got married. I could see that it might be something William Denby might have brought with him when he fled into exile. It could have been the only image he had of his wife.”
“Are there any of those Dunstables still around? They might know what happened to it.”
Dunstable was a distinctive name. They’d been one of the First Families of Virginia, but many of those early families died out orwent back to England. “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think there are any left in the area.”
“I’d love to get a look at that portrait,” Jack said, and she matched his smile. It felt like they were in this together. She grabbed his hand.
“Let’s search for it! I’m good at genealogy, and we should be able to turn something up quickly. Tomorrow?”
He withdrew his hand. It felt like his entire body froze up as he inched back onto the pier and dragged his socks back on. “Alice, I can’t. I was able to schedule some appointments at Camp Lejeune to evaluate the site and submit a bid for their golf course renovation. I'm leaving for North Carolina tomorrow.”
She lifted her feet from the water, suddenly chilled. Of course he didn’t have time to chase down a rabbit hole for historical curiosities, but she worried about him.
“Surely you can’t drive all that way. I’ll take you down.”
