The House Girl (33 page)

Lina felt for a moment displaced. The still heat of the morning, the sweat beginning already to dampen the nape of her neck, under her arms, and the familiarity of this house, the gray-scale photo she had studied so many times now suddenly made full-color real.

It was 8:20
A.M
.; the museum opened at 9:00. There seemed to be no one else around, only the twitter of birds, a crow’s call, the occasional drone of a passing car. Sticking to the gravel paths, Lina circled west toward the rear of the house. The backyard was carefully clipped and verdant green with a plotted vegetable garden, a pretty little old-fashioned well painted a bright white, and some artfully arranged old farming implements—a rusty plow, a red tractor with weeds sprouting up through the engine box. Lina heard the dull rush of water flowing but she could not see the river. The back lawn stretched fifty feet or so until dense vegetation and a row of trees—some willows and others, older and taller—blocked the view.

A twisting gravel path led to the tumbled remains of various outbuildings, and Lina followed it, stopping to read the plastic plaques, warped and buckled by weather, that identified each site.
Here stood the old curing barn, destroyed by fire in 1851
.
The meat house, used for smoking and storing dried meats. The dairy, where milk, cheese, and butter were made and stored
.
These iron pots were used to launder clothes
.

Completing her circle around the house, Lina again found herself standing before the porch. She now noticed the two wooden rockers placed there, angled together, and she wondered if these were the same chairs—had Lu Anne and Josephine posed here, so long ago, for the photographer?

And Lina realized then that nowhere did she see evidence of the cabins that must have housed the slaves of Bell Creek, or any signs at all referencing the others who had once lived here side by side with Lu Anne and Robert Bell, plowing the fields, reaping the harvest, grinding the wheat, cleaning the clothes, picking the blooms. The Bell Center documented these tasks now only in the passive voice: Clothing was laundered. Cheese was made. Meat was smoked.

Just then a youngish woman wearing a red dress exited the house and propped open the front door.

“Morning,” Lina called to her. “I’m looking for the Bell family archives.”

The woman looked at her watch. “Nora should just be opening the doors now,” she said and directed Lina away from the main house, along another path that led east toward the parking lot.

“It’s a five-minute walk,” the woman said. “I’m sure our archivist, Nora Lewis, will be able to help you. Nora knows everything there is to know about the Bells.”

Lina followed the path the woman had indicated back toward the parking lot and then up a steep hill. At its crest, she stopped and saw below her a one-story, largely windowless rectangular building. It had the look of a modern prison or hastily constructed temporary classroom at a community college, though the paint was the same bucolic shade of white as the main house. The building seemed to float atop the lawn, no person visible inside or out, but the front door was propped open and Lina thought she could see a light inside.
THE BELL CENTER HISTORICAL ARCHIVES,
a sign read.

Lina made her way down the hill and entered cautiously. An electronic bell pinged.

“Hello?” she called.

An expanse of dark, dirt-concealing carpet stretched before her. A few chairs, a full bookshelf, and a round table stacked neatly with art books and paper pamphlets were to Lina’s left;
PUBLIC REFERENCE AREA
read a sign on the wall. In front of Lina stood a long chest-high counter constructed of an old, honey-colored wood that seemed lifted from another building completely. From behind this artifact now popped a woman, her eyes a pale blue, her gray-blond hair fastened in a long braid that fell over one shoulder like a pet python.

“Why, good morning!” she said with significant cheer. She was stout, but not fat, with an ample bosom and an armful of bracelets that chimed faintly as she moved. The woman’s voice lilted with an accent Lina had not heard before—it was not TV southern, more soft roll, less twang.

“Good morning,” Lina said. “Nora Lewis?”

“Guilty as charged.” A loose, sleeveless maroon top flowed from her shoulders and gold-colored disks hung from her ears. Nora Lewis was the closest thing to a hippie that Lina had seen since entering the state of Virginia.

“My name is Carolina Sparrow. I was hoping you could help me. I’m a lawyer involved in a class action lawsuit,” Lina began, wincing at the practiced formality of her own voice. “I’m looking for information about Josephine Bell, specifically if she had any children. I’m working under a tight deadline and was hoping I might consult some of your documents.”

“Oh dear, are you with the Stanmore Foundation? They’ve already come by for all the relevant materials.”

“No, I’m not. I’m with a law firm in New York City, Clifton & Harp.”

Lina fished out a business card from her purse and held out the creamy tab of heavyweight card embossed in royal blue to Nora Lewis, who glanced at it with disinterest.

“And have you tried the Historical Society, in Richmond?” Nora said without taking the card. “They have just reams of information about Charlotte County. You might find something there about Josephine Bell.”

Lina got the distinct impression that Nora Lewis was trying to put her off.

“Yes, I’ve already been there,” Lina replied. “I’m afraid I didn’t find anything helpful. They actually directed me here. To you.” Lina’s hand, still holding the business card, hovered over the counter. With a deep sigh, Nora Lewis reached out and took it. At first she read the card with narrowed eyes and a scrunched-up look of physical pain but then her features relaxed, her eyebrows lifted.

“
Sparrow,
” she said in a different voice altogether, something almost approaching congeniality. “Now
that’s
an unusual name. You’re not related to Oscar Sparrow, the artist, are you?”

“Well, he’s my father, actually,” Lina said weakly. Oscar’s fame still surprised her and invariably made her uncomfortable, as though to admit his paternity was an act of arrogance on her part. But she saw now an openness on the face of Nora Lewis that had been lacking just a moment before. Lina smiled. “He’ll be thrilled to hear he has a fan in Lynnhurst.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I do enjoy his work.” A pause, and Nora Lewis looked again at Lina’s card, studying it with a concentration that seemed directed at something more than Lina’s credentials. She was deciding, Lina realized, how best to exercise her small but determinative power. “Well, we do have a procedure for use of the archives—an advance written request is usually required. We’ve been
very
strict recently, what with all this authorship brouhaha.” Nora Lewis rolled her eyes. “But most everything relating to Lu Anne was taken away last week by the Foundation, so I can’t imagine what the harm would be … May I ask what specifically you’re looking for?” Nora Lewis held Lina’s eyes, and she was sweet and steely at the same time.

Lina hesitated before answering. Should she tell her about the slavery reparations case? This was the South after all, a region as unfamiliar and exotic to Lina as a foreign country. Literature, history, and politics had prepared her for a certain kind of lush landscape peopled with hard-bitten men and carefully demure women, but Nora Lewis, with her braid and bracelets, had already fallen well outside these expectations. For the briefest moment Lina considered concocting a story, but it seemed certain that Nora’s unflinching gaze would see through any attempt at fabrication. And so Lina told her the truth. She explained about the reparations case, the premise that a descendant of Josephine’s might serve as lead plaintiff, Dorothea’s letters, Lina’s hope and belief that Josephine had given birth to a child at Bell Creek, that her bloodline had continued. But the crucial next step was discovering what had happened to Josephine’s child.

Lina stopped. Her hands had been in motion as she spoke and she let them drop now to her sides. Nora was seated behind the counter, looking up at Lina.

“My. How interesting,” Nora said. “That is certainly a new one. The Stanmore folks, they’re interested in
losing
Josephine Bell, not in finding her, if you catch my drift.” She smiled grimly. “I may be able to help you,” she said. “There are some documents related to the farm and the slave holdings that might be of interest. If you come back in an hour or two, I’ll pull some materials together for you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Lewis. I appreciate it immensely,” Lina said. She felt the sweet rush of success.

“Call me Nora. Everybody does.” She gave a little shake of her head and the earrings sparkled.

A
T ELEVEN THIRTY
L
INA RETURNED
to the Bell Center, which now bustled with visitors, the parking lot nearly full with tourist buses and vans, the paths dotted with women walking slowly, pausing to read a plaque, smell a flower. Only the archives building remained empty, the light dim, the air conditioner steadily humming. Nora was seated before a large black electric typewriter, typing as a hen pecks its feed, slow but efficient.

“Oh hello, dear,” Nora said. Bracelets jangling, she emerged from behind the counter. Nora wore open-toed strappy sandals, her toenails painted a brilliant blue. “Follow me,” she said.

Lina trooped behind Nora, down a narrow passageway cut between tall shelving units, each stocked with rectangular boxes, typewritten labels affixed to the ends. At the far end of the building, Nora pulled open a heavy door. Fluorescent strips flickered overhead and they stood in a gray room that reminded Lina of the large internal conference rooms at Clifton & Harp, bleakly vast and devoid of any decoration. The room was empty save for a rectangular table surrounded by metal chairs and, on top of the table, an open cardboard box. Beside the box sat a thick leather-bound book that looked fragile and ancient.

With a grating scrape, Lina pulled out a chair and sat. Her hands were shaking. She felt heat in her belly, and then cold, the feeling she always got just as a plane took off: the rush of acceleration, the anticipation of liftoff and then the sinking sensation as the nose tipped up and, in that exact instant, you were airborne.

Nora gestured toward the book. “That there is Robert Bell’s farm book. It’s got most everything to do with any of the slaves, including Josephine. I’ve picked out some other things for you too, papers to do with the farm mostly.” Nora patted the top of the box. “I sincerely hope you find something for your case. I don’t suppose that would be a popular position around here, but I wish you the best of luck with it.”

“Thank you, Nora.”

“And there’s one last thing. Remember to wear these when you’re handling the materials.” She handed Lina a pair of thin white cotton gloves. “Your fingers are like little death rays when it comes to these old papers. Oily and dirty, even if they don’t look it.”

“I understand,” Lina said solemnly as she slipped on the cotton gloves.

With a wink, Nora left the room.

Lina pulled the first pages from the box and began to read.

Lists: lists of kitchen utensils; furniture; types of fabric and what each covered (blue chintz—curtains, brown damask—settee); flowers; foodstuffs; first names (Clara, Charlotte); colors (indigo, red); birds and their calls; insects; vegetables; book titles and their authors. Tables of figures, sums added. Household expenses, the price of tobacco, number of bushels picked and by whom.

Receipts: for sale of thirteen head of cattle; chickens; a plow; ten cords of wood; sugar, tea, and salt; Otis, a mulatto slave of good physique.

The pages, it seemed, had belonged to a number of different people; Lina noticed several varied handwritings. One was heavy, hard to read, the ink often blurring across the page as though the author had not waited for it to dry before placing the page into a desk drawer or folding it in half. Another was distinctly feminine, the letters angled far to the left so they appeared to lie down across the page, the ink fine and pale. And a third hand, or perhaps more, it was difficult to tell. A hand that was at times childish, uncertain, but other times confident and bold: the list of books and authors looked as though written hastily, but the vegetable list seemed labored, each letter formed slowly, blotches running darkly across the paper where the ink had pooled.

Lina turned next to the leather-covered book, the top swollen, the edges of the thick pages uneven and frayed. The inside front cover read,
The Farm Book of Bell Creek, Virginia, 1830—Mr. Robert Bell, Proprietor
. The first pages catalogued the number of acres, acres planted and with what (tobacco, corn, wheat), planting dates, harvest dates, livestock owned. Following was a section titled “Slaves.” A list of first names, with a date listed beside them. Was this the date of birth? Date of purchase? Lina could not be sure. The names: Therese, Winton, Lottie, Rebecca, Josephine, Hap, Otis, Josiah, Jonas, Nora, Louis, Annie, Constance, David, Henry, Jackson, Nellie, Calla, May, James, Solomon, Harriet, Sue, Nathan. Each had an additional notation by the name, a date alone or a date plus a dollar amount: death or sale, Lina realized.

Lina flipped the page and there was another list, this one without names or title. Only: Boy, Girl, x, Boy, Boy, x, x, Girl, x, Girl, x, x, x, Boy, Boy, Girl, x. And beside each listing, the same date written twice, separated by a dash. Birth and death. The same day. A span of thirteen years was represented here, and Lina counted the children born without a name to Lu Anne Bell: seventeen. Seventeen miscarriages and stillbirths. Seventeen pregnancies. And then, the last listing, “Boy, August 28, 1848–” with no date listed for death.

Lina looked again at the notation. It must have been Robert Bell’s writing; all entries in this book were in the same hand, the heavy pen strokes. It was well documented that the Bells had had no children who’d lived more than a few moments past birth. Had Robert Bell simply forgotten to write the date of death? Had he been too distraught? That child had come when Lu Anne was thirty-nine years old, two years after the previous notation, probably an unexpected, surprise pregnancy. Perhaps they had thought, hoped that this last one, with so many behind them, would survive. That a Bell child would be born.