“I thought perhaps we’d start with one of the properties currently for sale,” Dr. Goodwin suggested, “and then walk down the length of Duke of Gloucester Street, with a stop at the Magazine and courthouse.”
We walked past the Palace Green, and I glanced toward the palace, thinking about the balls I had attended there. My heart broke when I saw that the once-glorious building was gone.
“What happened to the Governor’s Palace?” I asked Dr. Goodwin.
Everyone turned to look where I was indicating.
“After the last Royal Governor, Lord Dunmore, fled from Williamsburg on June 8, 1775, the place became home to a colonial mayor. After that, it was home to the two post-colonial governors, Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson, until the capital was moved to Richmond in 1780,” Dr. Goodwin explained as we walked. “It burned a year later while it was being used as a hospital for American soldiers during the revolution.”
“How horrible.” It was but the first of several buildings I would find much altered or destroyed, I was sure.
We drew closer to the print shop and my old home. I saw a glimpse of it, and my heart soared. It was still intact, though run-down and in need of attention. Thankfully, the roof looked sound, the windows looked sturdy, and the brick was still holding strong. Weeds grew up from the foundation, and the lawn was overgrown.
I could almost imagine the wassailers at Christmastide, the busyness of merchants up and down Duke of Gloucester Street while the burgesses met, and the loud noises and intense smells on market day. Everything was coming back to me as if I were here just yesterday.
“This is the house I was referencing,” Dr. Goodwin said as we came to a stop outside my old home. “It was originally built in 1755 by planter Philip Ludwell and then later purchased by Edward Conant, public printer and owner of theVirginia Gazette.”
My chest filled with pride at hearing Papa’s name, but even more so when Dr. Goodwin spoke about Mama next.
“When Mr. Conant died in 1774, his wife and daughter, Theodosia and Elizabeth, took over the press and became the first female public printers in Virginia.”
Abby gave me a look that indicated she was impressed with the idea of female printers. I could only smile.
“Sadly, Elizabeth died the following year, and Mistress Conant remarried a cobbler, selling the printing press to her journeyman, Louis Preston. He was run out of Williamsburg during the war, and the house was sold to the Paradise family after that.”
So Louis had not made a success of the newspaper. I couldn’t say I was sorry.
“Do you know what happened to Mistress Conant and her family after they left here?” I asked, knowing it would be unlikely that Dr. Goodwin was familiar with their history.
“I do, indeed.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s quite remarkable, actually. Mistress Conant, who married Alpheus Goodman, left a detailed diary dedicated to her daughter, Elizabeth, whom she called Libby. She wrote it as if she were writing a long letter to Libby after Libby’s death. It’s kept at the College of William and Mary. It’s full of the most amazing details and is one of the books we’ve studied atgreat length to learn the history of Williamsburg. Congressman Hollingsworth’s son, Dr. Hollingsworth, has preserved it and keeps it in his office. I’m certain we could arrange a special viewing of it, if you’d like.”
I stared at Dr. Goodwin for several moments, absorbing the things he’d just said to me. Mama had left me a diary? A letter written to me after I left them? Tears gathered in my eyes, and I had to bite my lips to keep them from trembling. I was torn between wanting to continue the tour and wanting to run back to the college to read her book.
But Dr. Goodwin had already moved on. “I’ve arranged for us to tour this building today,” he said. “I believe I can purchase this property for a reasonable sum if we decide to pursue this venture.”
He opened the door, and a thousand memories flooded my mind. I almost expected to see Mama standing in the hallway to greet us with a wide smile. But as we stepped inside, there was no one to receive us but shadows from the past.
It was bittersweet to walk through the dusty office, into the sitting room full of cobwebs, and up the stairs to the room I shared with Hannah and Rebecca. I stood at the window in Mama’s room, looking out at the town, reliving the best years of my life and counting down the minutes until I could see her diary.
Dr. Goodwin meandered through the house with the others, but I stayed back in each room, taking my time and allowing my heart to reconnect with the space. The printing room had long since been turned into a modern kitchen, Papa’s handprint painted over. Gone were the press, the rags, the paper and ink. But it was not difficult for me to see it all in my mind. I closed my eyes and could almost hear the thumping of the press, smell the moist paper, and feel the sticking of the ink pads against the type.
When the others went out to the backyard, I followed them.The kitchen building was gone, looking like it had burned at some point, but the large elm tree still stood, tall and proud.
It was there that Henry came alive to me. A day had not passed that I had not thought of him and longed for him. My heart still ached at his memory. I recalled the last time I saw him over a year ago, as we said our final good-byes and he’d walked down the back path to the gate.
The yard was now a tangled mess. I pushed aside some weeds and found remnants of Mama’s tulips, irises, and roses. Touching them felt like a soft caress from her gentle hands. The vegetable gardens were now fields of waving grass, with little to mark Mariah and Abraham’s work.
“I’m quite taken with this place,” Abby said as she stood beside me and looked back at the house. “I’ve been looking for a place to house my American Folk Art collection, and what better place than this? Many of the pieces were created right here in Virginia.”
“It would be remarkable,” I said, not knowing what else to add. It seemed strange to think of our home as an art museum.
She followed her husband and Dr. Goodwin as they walked back around the side of the house. Mr. Gartshore and Congressman Hollingsworth followed at a slower pace, talking to each other in low tones.
But I wasn’t ready to leave my home just yet. I needed a minute to indulge in the memories. In a way, this project Dr. Goodwin had proposed felt like a bridge between my two paths. I would return here often, I was certain, but seeing time wear away at this place was a good reminder that my work should not simply be material and earthly, but for eternity’s sake.
I stood under the elm tree and looked up into its leaves, allowing a wave of emotions to envelope me. They no longer held grief and sorrow alone but were mingled with joy and gladness.
A movement caught my eye, and I lowered my gaze to looktoward the back of the property where a man walked down the narrow path from the old, broken gate.
