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Flashing to the present, Hulda grabbed the paper closest to her and handed it over. “Yes, sorry.”
Myra glanced at her. “Did you... see something?”
Hulda shook her head. “Nothing important.” And it often wasn’t.
But after the events of the day, Hulda wasn’t comforted by that fact.
Chapter 16
September 15, 1846, Portsmouth, Rhode Island
The history of Whimbrel House was so obscure it took Merritt two hours to find the records he sought, which included colonial census records, deed records, and recorded deaths from the Salem witch trials, since the latter had been mentioned in Hulda’s file. Still, he cautioned himself not to be too optimistic. Records that old were often spotty, with gaps in the timeline, and the Narragansett Bay tended to be lumped together as a whole without individual islands, when it was bothered to be mentioned apart from Rhode Island itself.
Merritt would have called it a successful enough day, but someone very official looking stopped him on his way out to tell him he couldn’t justtakethe records. If he wanted the information, he would have to copy them by hand.
Damnation. “You don’t have a secretary on lend, do you?”
The official-looking person merely raised an eyebrow and walked away, glancing back to make sure Merritt didn’t make a run for it with the pages. Which he considered, but the man had long legs and could probably outrun him. So with a sigh, Merritt took up a seat by a window and laid out the paperwork. He could already feel the muscle beneath his right thumb cramping.
He started with the census, recording the names of anyone whomighthave lived in the home. The last fifty years were much clearer, and a surge of nostalgia nestled in his bones at the sight of his grandmother’s name. An affidavit said she’d won it in a card game.
I didn’t think she gambled,Merritt thought with a frown. But there it was in writing.
It was less than comfortable in the city building, so Merritt cracked open the nearest window. He was halfway through the deeds list when he found himself staring down at the city, watching people pass by, taking in the shapes of the surrounding architecture.
His thoughts floated back to Hulda. To the terror that had earlier flashed in her eyes. In that moment she’d seemed... younger. Vulnerable. She’d acted like a completely different person on the way to the tram. Quiet. Contemplative. Withdrawn.
An old employer.He tapped his pencil against the side of his nose.In prison?Did he have something to do with BIKER? In truth, Merritt knew not a lick about Hulda outside of her profession, except perhaps that she had poor vision and was tidy enough to put a monk to shame. It irked him. He wanted to help, somehow. He wanted to know what ailed her.
“And you’ll not find out until you finish this.” Merritt glanced at the stack with a sigh. Jotted down another name and another set of dates. By the time he finished the paper, he had to shake feeling back into his hand. He really should learn shorthand.
He moved to the next paper, eyeing the stack with distaste. He should have brought Beth along. She would have fit in the boat... if she sat in his lap, perhaps. But that would only create different problems.
Groaning, Merritt leaned his chin into his hand and stared out the window, the faint sound of clopping horse hooves wafting in on the autumn breeze. A woman walked by pushing a pram, followed by a group of adolescents with their heads pushed together, hair stuffed under caps and laughter on their lips. Going the opposite way was amelancholy fellow, shoulders hunched, lips downturned, hole over the left knee of his trousers.
Merritt got an idea. “Hey! Hey, you!”
The man paused and glanced around, taking a few seconds to find the window.
Merritt waved. “I need help scribing something in here, and it’s going to take me until midnight if I do it on my own. Can you write?”
The man hesitantly nodded.
“I’ll pay you.”
The man considered for a moment. Pointed ahead, toward the closest doors. Merritt nodded, and the fellow left, appearing minutes later in the vast records room. He was much taller and broader than he’d appeared out the window.
Merritt waved him over, then shook his hand. “Thank you, my good chum. I need to make copies of all of this.” He moved the stack between them as the stranger sat down. “Merritt Fernsby. What’s your name?”
“Baptiste,” he said, the name spoken in a heavy French accent.
Worried perhaps that he’d called over someone who was only literate in a foreign language, Merritt pressed, “Where are you from, Baptiste? What brings you to Portsmouth?”
Baptiste bent his neck one way, then the other, and it popped loudly. “I am from Nice in France. Been here three months. Had bad luck back home.” He shrugged.
Relieved, Merritt said, “Well, hopefully this is good luck today. You take this half”—he handed him several papers—“and I’ll take this half.” He pulled a second pencil from his shirt pocket. “The quicker and neater you copy them, the more I’ll compensate you. Sound fair?”
Baptiste nodded and got to work. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but it was legible, so Merritt set to copying his own papers, drawing out the forks of genealogy and squinting to read smudged names alongthe tines. He was on his third page when he said, “What do you do for a living?”
