When the day comes, p.32
When the Day Comes, page 32
“Our acquaintance was brief, only a meeting or two.” He nodded at the waiter who placed a bowl of tomato soup in front of him. “How is Lord Cumberland?”
I pressed my lips together for a moment. “I’m afraid he was killed in battle.”
“Oh, my dear.” His voice was stricken as he gently touched my hand. “I’m so very sorry.”
“You have no need to be.”
“That must be the reason you’ve returned to America.”
I nodded.
“Have you been to Williamsburg before?”
“I have,” I said, relieved that he had changed the subject. “But it’s been many years, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah.” He nodded with understanding. “I do, indeed.”
I dipped my spoon into my steaming bowl of soup and smiled, unable to contain my excitement at the idea of sharing more with him.
“It’s wonderful that you’ve taken an interest.” The congressman’s blue eyes were admiring, though in the same fatherly way he had regarded me on the Olympic. “I imagine this project is very dear to your heart.”
“Very much so.” I took a sip of my soup. It was thick and creamy with a bit of a tanginess to it. “How did you get involved?”
“My son is a professor here at William and Mary, and he’s good friends with Dr. Goodwin. He was the first to tell me about the idea that Dr. Goodwin and Mr. Rockefeller have hatched.”
“I’m eager to hear more of their plan.” I longed to share Williamsburg with the world.
When we were done with luncheon, Dr. Goodwin suggested we walk into town, and my heart began to pound with anticipation. Congressman Hollingsworth walked beside me, his interest in Williamsburg almost as keen as mine.
“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 the Virginia 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 at great 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 look toward the back of the property where a man walked down the narrow path from the old, broken gate.
There was something familiar in the cut of his shoulders and the confidence in his stride. He was tall, with dark brown hair under his grey fedora. His shoulders were broad, and his figure was trim. He wore a grey suit and carried a briefcase in one hand.
The closer he drew, the more my heart pounded and the less I believed what I was seeing.
At the edge of the backyard, he came to a sudden halt, and his brilliant blue eyes met mine with a stunned expression.
I was looking at Henry Montgomery, and he was looking back at me.
30
We stared at each other for a long time. The wind blew against me like a gentle kiss, but it all seemed like a dream. This couldn’t be Henry. Henry was long gone.
But he looked just like Henry, and the way he studied me, as if he were seeing an apparition, told me that he recognized me too.
We moved toward each other, seemingly drawn together by an invisible string. We met near the trunk of the elm tree, and I held my breath.
“Libby?” His voice sounded so much like Henry’s—and he knew my name. A frown tilted his brow as he shook his head. “Is it you?”
I couldn’t seem to find my voice, but I nodded.
“How? Am I dreaming?” He looked around the backyard and then turned his beautiful blue eyes on me again. “Are you truly here?”
“Henry.” His name finally released from my mouth on a breath, and I rushed into his arms.
He dropped his briefcase and wrapped me in an embrace so powerful, it took my breath away. I didn’t know why or how he was standing here, but I didn’t care. It was Henry, and he was alive and well.
“Libby,” he said again as he pulled back and put his hands on my face. “My dear, sweet, beautiful Libby.”
“What is happening?” I asked him with a disbelieving laugh. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to join a tour group with my father and the Rockefellers.”
“Your father?” I was so confused.
“Congressman Hollingsworth.”
“Congressman Hollingsworth?” I asked on a hushed breath. Did that mean . . . ? “You’re a time-crosser?”
His gaze was incredulous. “How do you—? Are—are you a time-crosser?”
All I could do was nod.
“Until a year ago,” he said, “I lived both here and in 1775.”
“Until your death, you mean. You died in 1775.”
His eyes filled with an aching sadness. “You died in 1775, as well, Libby. I thought you were gone forever. I had no idea you were here too.”
I put my shaking hand to my head as I tried to make sense of this miracle.
He studied me, disbelief in his voice and gaze. “All this time, we were both crossing between the same years.”
“And we never knew.” I thought back to the first time I’d met Henry and how I’d felt drawn to him from the start. Our bond had been inexplicable, and now I knew why.
He drew closer to me. “I thought I lost you forever, Libby. You don’t know how I’ve mourned this past year. Your mother wrote a diary for you, but I’ve kept myself from reading it for years, not wanting to know what happened to you, afraid I would try to change history. But since you died, I have spent the past year reading every page, over and over again. I keep it in my office.”
“Your office?” I blinked several times. “You’re Dr. Hollingsworth—the professor who works at the College of William and Mary.”
He nodded.
Everything was happening so fast, and I struggled to fully grasp it all—but one question rose above the others. “Why did you go to Boston when I told you not to?”
“How did you know I shouldn’t go?”
“I read about your death in a history book. I forfeited my path three weeks early to try to stop you.”
“Oh, Libby.” He brought his hand up to my cheek, caressing it with his thumb. His eyes were shadowed under the brim of his hat. “I had to go. I had foreknowledge about my death and knew I could not change my fate—and the truth is, I didn’t want to. Not after you died that very next day. I learned about my death while attending college at William and Mary. It’s why I fought my love for you so strongly. I knew I would die and you’d be left to grieve me, and it wouldn’t have been fair to you. But I couldn’t deny my love for you, Libby. It was eating away at me, and I knew if I didn’t tell you, I’d regret it for the rest of my existence.”
“I knew I was leaving, too. I had planned to stay—wanted to stay, but—” How could I tell him about Teddy? Would he understand? “I was forced to marry in this path, and I discovered I was going to have a baby.”
Henry stiffened and lowered his hand, his eyes filling with anguish. “You’re married?”
I swallowed and quickly said, “I’m widowed. I didn’t want to marry Lord Cumberland, but I had no choice. I was going to leave him on my twenty-first birthday so I could stay in 1775, but then I learned about my son, Teddy, and knew I couldn’t. My husband died last year, fighting in France.” The words tumbled out in a rush. I wanted desperately for Henry to understand.
He took a step away from me, appearing to grapple with the information.
“I didn’t love Reggie. I didn’t even really know him.” Frustration at the whole situation boiled up within me. “My mother forced the union, and we were parted just days after our wedding when the war broke out.” I licked my lips, suddenly feeling parched and desolate. I had caused that pain in Henry’s eyes. Pain and disappointment. For the first time, I understood why he hated disappointing me. It was a dreadful feeling. “I didn’t want the marriage, or to get pregnant.” Memories of Reggie’s misuse of me threatened to swallow me again. Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I whispered, “It wasn’t by my choice.”
“Oh, Libby.” Henry returned to me, gathering me in his arms.
I pressed my cheek against his chest, hoping he could forgive me, though I had not been at fault. At least, not for my marriage or pregnancy.
But another thought made my heart stop. “Are you . . . married?”
“Nay.” He hugged me tighter. “I have never loved another, and I was content to remain a bachelor for the rest of my life.”
“I have a son,” I said, love for Teddy filling up the void Reggie had created. “His name is Henry Theodore Reginald Fairhaven.”
“You named him after me?” He pulled back, his voice filled with wonder.
“I did. I call him Teddy. He’s ten months old and is in New York with my parents. When my husband died, I was left with a fortune, which I’m managing for my son until he comes of age, but I want to invest some of that money here, in Williamsburg. That’s why I’ve come.”
“Your husband’s name was Lord Cumberland?”
I nodded.
“I remember reading about your wedding in the newspapers. I can hardly believe that was you.”
“And I can hardly believe you’re you.” I smiled as the full understanding finally hit me. “And we’re here, together, with nothing standing in our way.”
He cradled my face in his hands and kissed me there, under the elm tree in my mama’s backyard. For a moment, it felt as if we were in 1775 once again—but we weren’t. We were in Williamsburg in 1916, and we were both free. Free to love, to marry, and to spend the rest of our days together.
“Just think,” Henry said. “If you had not become pregnant, you would have remained in 1775, and I would have died, and we would have never found each other again. Or if I had listened to you and avoided the path God ordained for me, I would have remained there, and you would be here.”
The truth was overwhelming. I thought back to all those hours of grief and mourning when I had railed at God and cried out to Him in my agony, asking why those events had transpired. He had been faithful to listen to me and to hear my cries, yet He had known the end from the beginning. He had known Henry and I would one day cross paths again and that we would do it here, in a time and place where both of us were free to be together.
And in the process, I had been blessed with Teddy.
“God is good,” I whispered to Henry. “So very, very good.”
He took my hand and drew me along with him. “I want you to meet my father,” he said. “He’ll never believe I’ve found my Libby.”
“I’ve met your father, and I have a feeling he knew more than I realized.”
****
Henry didn’t let go of my hand as we stepped onto Duke of Gloucester Street. We’d never walked down this road hand in hand, yet it felt as natural as if we’d been doing it all our lives.
I still had so many questions for Henry, but there would be time enough to answer them all. I especially wanted to ask him about Mama’s diary, but he had other plans at the moment.
Congressman Hollingsworth was standing in front of the Magazine’s brick walls, looking over the structure that had already been turned into a small museum, while the others stepped inside.
“Father!” Henry called.
Congressman Hollingsworth turned, and a wide grin lit his face. “I see you’ve found Libby.”
I couldn’t suppress my grin, nor did I want to. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“I had my suspicions when we met on the Olympic,” he conceded, joy in his blue eyes—eyes that were remarkably like Henry’s. How hadn’t I noticed before?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“It wasn’t my place.” He lifted his hands. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that we must not try to usurp God’s plans. Had I told you about Henry, it might have caused both of you to seek your own paths. I knew that if God intended for you to meet again, you would.”
