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’sinterpretationof a book. A bundle of letters. A scrapbook, which was popular in the nineteenth century. We are looking foranydocuments or letters or photos that revealanyinformation 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 neverthrew 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 Lifeby 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,
