“I didn’t tell Mabel anything!” Percy’s voice rose in indignation. “I have no idea how she found out about the details. Someone must have overheard us talking, or maybe she saw something when she was helping with the church committee last week.”
“The church committee?” Kathleen felt a spark of memory. “Wasn’t she at the church when you and I were discussing the journal entries?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Oh no,” Percy said slowly. “Last Tuesday, when we were in Pastor John’s office looking at the photocopies. Mabel came in to discuss the arrangements for the Christmas pageant. She said she needed to check something with John, but we were so absorbed in Florence’s story that we didn’t pay attention to how long she stayed.”
Kathleen pressed her palm against her forehead, feeling a headache beginning to build. Mabel was notorious for her ability to gather information, and she had an uncanny talent for being in the right place at the right time to overhear people’s conversations. If she’d heard even part of their discussion about Florence Buckley and the documents, she would have been determined to learn more.
“She must have been listening,” Kathleen said. “But Percy, she knows details that we only discussed privately. She knew about the new identities and about Florence and her aunt working together. How could she know all that?”
“I don’t know,” Percy admitted miserably. “But I swear to you, Kathleen, I never spoke to her directly about any of this. You know how important this discovery is to me. I would never jeopardize the academic integrity of the research.”
Isabel had been listening to Kathleen’s side of the conversation, and she leaned closer. “Ask him what we should do now,” she whispered urgently.
“Percy, what do we do?” Kathleen asked. “The post is already being shared, and people are asking about visiting the house.”
“We need damage control,” Percy said. “First, I’ll call the Smithsonian and explain what’s happened. They need to know that the discovery has gone public before we intended. Then I’ll post a response on the community page asking people to respect your privacy and the historical significance of the site.”
“Will that work?” Kathleen asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
Percy’s sigh was audible through the phone. “Honestly? Probably not. Once something like this gets out, it takes on a life of its own. But we can try to channel the interest in a positive direction. Emphasize the historical importance, ask for patience while we work with professional preservationists.”
The front doorbell chimed, and Kathleen sighed. “I need to go,” she told Percy. “Half the town is probably hearing about this from their friends, and the other half will know within the hour.”
“I’m sorry, Kathleen. I really am. This isn’t how we wanted this to happen.”
After ending the call, Kathleen stood in the middle of the kitchen, feeling overwhelmed and exposed. Miriam and Florence Buckley’s story was no longer a private discovery to be shared with trusted friends and academics. It was community property now, spreading across social media and probably growing more sensationalized with each retelling.
Isabel placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”
Kathleen looked at her friend’s concerned face. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m not okay at all.”
The peaceful start to the day had been shattered by Mabel’s Facebook post. The story of many unmarried, pregnant women had become public knowledge. Kathleen wasn’t sure she was ready for what that meant for her home, her privacy, or the legacy of the brave women who had once found sanctuary in her Victorian house.
As she opened the kitchen door, she could already see people walking past the café more slowly than usual, craning their necks to look inside. The curiosity had begun, and Kathleen feared it was only the beginning of what was to come.
Chapter 28
Kathleen brushed a strand of hair from her face with the back of her gardening glove. The morning was warmer than she’d expected, and she could feel perspiration gathering beneath her wide-brimmed sun hat. Around her, the garden was slowly revealing its original beauty as she and Patrick worked methodically through years of neglect.
“I think Florence and Miriam would approve,” she said, sitting back on her heels to survey their progress. The flowerbeds that flanked the wraparound porch were beginning to show their intended design. Curved borders that had once showcased carefully planned perennial displays were slowly taking shape. “Look at this iris. It has to be original to the house.”
Patrick straightened from where he’d been wrestling with an overgrown lilac, his face flushed but content. His presence in her life had become as natural as breathing. “I still can’t believe that Percy found some photos of what the house used to look like.”
Kathleen nodded, gently freeing the delicate purple iris from its tangle of weeds. Ever since Mabel’s Facebook post had thrust Florence and Miriam Buckley’s story into the public eye, she’d felt compelled to restore the house and grounds as quickly as possible. The photos Percy had found were worth their weight in gold.
Working on the house also provided a distraction from the chaos that had erupted since the discovery became public knowledge. Working in the garden felt like she was reclaiming some measure of peace in the midst of the media storm.
The sound of a car door closing in the driveway made her tense. Over the past two weeks, she’d had a steady stream of visitors. Reporters, curiosity seekers, self-proclaimed historians, and local residents had made their way to her front door. Kathleen had grown weary of explaining over and over that she wasn’t ready to discuss Miriam and Florence’s story publicly.
“Mrs. Armstrong?” A woman’s nervous voice called out. “I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
A young woman approached Kathleen and Patrick with a camera bag slung over one shoulder and a backpack on the other. She stopped a respectful distance away, her hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace. Unlike the local news crew that had shown up yesterday demanding interviews, this woman waited to be invited closer.
Patrick had risen and positioned himself slightly in front of Kathleen. It was a protective gesture that had become second nature to him since the media attention began. “Can we help you?” he asked, his tone polite but wary.
“My name is Piper Adams,” the woman said, and Kathleen could see her making an effort to slow down despite her obvious excitement.
She must have been in her early thirties, with curly brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. “I tried to reach you at the café, but it was closed. I know I should have contacted you another way, but I was afraid that if I didn’t come immediately, I might lose my nerve.”
