The Time Heiress (29 page)

“And,” Professor Carver went on, “they want Caleb’s narrative to accompany it.”

“Caleb’s narrative—” Evie said, “I don’t understand.”

Cassandra opened her hand and aimed her palm-link at Evie’s. In a moment, Evie felt a vibration and opened her own device to find she’d received a message. When she opened the document, she found Caleb’s words, almost exactly as he’d spoken them, recounting his journey out of slavery with Samuel and Lillian.

“How did you do this?”

“I have a nearly photographic memory. It helps me to remember musical pieces easily. I remembered what Caleb told us and entered it in my computer when I got home.”

Evie read over the some of the text. “It really is almost word for word, at least as far as I remember. But why? Why aren’t you still angry with me?” She turned to Professor Carver. “Why am I being forgiven for bringing the paintings back?”

“Because after the hearing, Cassandra sent the board chairman Caleb’s narrative, and once he and the Board understood the historical value of having those illustrations of the slave experience, they decided it overcame whatever harm might have been done by bringing something from the past that, for all we know, should have been lost or destroyed.”

“And after thinking about it carefully, Evie, I’m glad they weren’t,” Cassandra said. “They should be preserved, and now they will be.”

“Who do you want to start with?” Cassandra asked Evie nervously, perching on the edge of a soft leather chair in her home office. James was there with them.

“Well, there’s no point researching Caleb’s life, there’s nothing to be found there. I looked and looked before we made our journey.”

“I hate to say it, but something could have changed in his history since we returned.”

Cassandra called up Caleb’s name in her computer but nothing was mentioned beyond his being the artist to whom the painting, “The Crossing,” was attributed around 1853.

“Just as I thought,” said Evie, her voice quivering. “He disappeared into oblivion. Perhaps he died shortly after arriving in Canada.”

“So many records of African Americans were lost, or simply not even kept back then.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Let’s look up Miss Johnston. The research I did on her before we left showed that she died in 1858, but it didn’t say how.”

Cassandra called up the name and the general time period on her computer, and the sensory net searched all references. The information was spoken in the blandly pleasing tones of a female voice: “Cassandra Imogene Johnston, born New York, New York, 1825, died New York, New York, 1858—”

“So she did return to New York before the war!” Evie’s voice caused the computer to automatically pause.

“Interesting,” said Cassandra. “Continue.”

“Daughter of Benedict and Sarah, sister to Jeremiah and James, granddaughter of abolitionist and activist Jeremiah Williams, she was an outspoken abolitionist in her own right and participant in the Underground Railroad in the early eighteen fifties. No other information is found.”

“That’s all we knew about her before we left,” Evie commented. “I just didn’t remember that she died in New York.”

“So we don’t know why she came back. Let’s check the records for Lillian Ketchum.” Cassandra gave the command, and the computer responded.

“Lillian Marguerite Ketchum, sister to Samuel, parents not known. No date of birth on record. Died St. Catherines, Ontario, May thirty-first, eighteen fifty-seven.”

“Oh my God,” Cassandra uttered. “That’s why Miss Johnston went back to New York! Miss Ketchum died!”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” said Evie. “I wonder if Miss Ketchum’s health was weakened by the illness she contracted during their escape from slavery.”

“She didn’t seem that fragile to me,” Cassandra commented. “It could have been anything.”

“Check her brother,” suggested James, “let’s see what happened to him.”

Evie spoke the command.

“Samuel Abraham Ketchum,” the computer responded, “brother to Lillian, parents not known, no date of birth on record. Married in St. Catherines, Ontario, April seventh, eighteen fifty-four to Jessame Matthews—”

“Wow, he didn’t waste any time,” remarked Evie.

The computer continued blithely, “Father to Anna, Caleb—”

“He named his son after Caleb!” Evie cried.

The computer went on, “…Evelyn,”

Evie gasped.

“…Sarah, Lillian, Jeremiah, Cassandra, Samuel Jr., Nate, Thaddeus, and Sharla.”

“Dear God!” Cassandra exclaimed. “He had a pack of kids!”

“And the names he chose are a tribute to all the people that he loved,” James observed.

“Amazing!” said Evie. “How many of Samuel Ketchum’s children survived to adulthood and how many had offspring?” she asked the computer.

“All survived past the age of twenty-one, and all produced offspring,” replied the computer.

“In that time period,” remarked James, “that was amazing.”

“It’s incredible to think that so many of Samuel’s descendents survived and are probably populating a decent percentage of the planet as we speak!” Cassandra said. Evie and James laughed.

As they continued to enter names into the computer, they discovered that Reverend Williams lived many years longer, long enough to see the slaves emancipated. His daughter, Sarah, lived another ten years beyond that. Jerry lived to the age of seventy and had three children, two girls, and a boy who would have been Evie’s ancestor. Jerry’s brother, James, lived to the age of sixty-five, and had two more children with Isabelle, making a total of four.

Cassandra was sobered to think of Sarah losing her daughter, even though her sons went on to live long lives. She couldn’t imagine losing a child, no matter what their age. She found herself wondering if Cassandra Johnston had died of a broken heart. Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum had risked much to be together and, sadly, their time together was all too short.

They found that Reverend Williams had bequeathed some money both to Anna Mae and Caroline, and thus found their last names, and could search their histories. However, there was no further mention of Anna Mae. Evie and Cassandra were left not knowing if she were also a runaway slave. They were happy to see that Caroline eventually married and had children.

They had searched everyone now, except Thaddeus Evans. Evie gave Cassandra a look that said: Now is the time.

Cassandra took a breath and entered the name. She could not recall reading anything about the year of his death before they’d left, or how he died, because his name was not well-known and she’d had no way to know that she’d meet him. She only thought she recalled seeing the one pamphlet of his antislavery writings, which now popped up and was displayed in the holographic image. In addition, there was a newspaper clipping alongside the pamphlet, as well as another document. The newspaper article was a brief account of his death at the hands of Jack Vanderhoff, in the town of Albany in August of 1853.

Cassandra gasped. “They found him! They killed him! Oh my God!”

The article related that the killer had gunned down abolitionist Thaddeus Evans as was out walking in the garden of his brother’s house. Jack Vanderhoff was caught and confessed, and was sentenced to hang. Cassandra put her hands to her face and wept.

Evie knelt down next to her and put her arms around her, while James continued to look at the information on the hologram.

“Wait, what’s this?” It was a letter, accompanying the other documents, enlarged and floating in the air before them. James scanned it quickly. “Your name’s here, Mom, and something about…Nick?”

“What? No, that can’t be right.” Cassandra swallowed, dried her face with her hand, and took a breath. She briefly looked at the addressee and noticed the name Jonathan Evans. At the bottom, it was signed Cecil. “This must be a letter from Cecil Evans to one of their other brothers. C65, will you please display and read the entire contents of the letter from Cecil Evans to Jonathan Evans, dated November twenty-fourth, eighteen fifty-three?”

Evie stood. The computer did as commanded. The letter read as such:

Dear Jonathan,

I am writing to give you further details related to the death of our brother Thaddeus. After the funeral, the court proceedings began, and some odd details surfaced. It turns out that in the confession of Jack Vanderhoff, he claimed that he had been paid to kill Thad by a man he called Nicholas Stockard. Naturally, based on this testimony, the police searched extensively for this person but found no record of anyone by that name. It is presumed that this was nothing more than a ruse concocted by Vanderhoff in an attempt to divert attention from his own crimes, and to perhaps gain sympathy by laying the blame at another’s feet. He said that this Stockard fellow tipped them off to the fact that Thad was hiding here at my house in Albany, and paid him to make sure the job was finished. We still don’t know who this person is, if he exists, and if so, why he had a vendetta against our brother. Perhaps Vanderhoff thought that if he mentioned an accomplice, he would get off easier.

“Oh, I never would have thought he could do something like this!” Cassandra sobbed.

“I swear to God, I’d like to get a hold of him!” growled James.

Cassandra put her hands to her face. Evie returned to her side. “Cassandra, I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, are you all right? Did you have feelings for this Evans guy?”

Evie’s arm went around Cassandra’s shoulder. “Don’t question her right now, James.”

“No, it’s all right,” Cassandra said, wiping away tears. “Let’s continue. I want to know what else happened.” She ordered the computer to resume reading the letter.

In the end, it made no difference and the scoundrel was sentenced to hang. I fear I will never know who, besides the Vanderhoffs, wanted our brother dead, but I suppose he’d made himself some enemies along the way, what with his radical ideas. I do know, however, that he was also very much loved. The people who came to stay with us last June, the details of which I cannot reveal, certainly saw him as a hero, so we can be comforted knowing that he did great good in the world.

I do feel it is safe to mention a woman that he had fallen in love with; he told me so himself. She was among those who stayed here with us those few days, and I found her most fetching. Her name was Cassandra Reilly, a great beauty, I must say, and a genuine lady, except for the fact that she was mixed up with our brother (I speak in jest). She did not exactly uphold my own personal moral standards, in that I believe they had a physical relationship, but otherwise, she is just the kind of woman I would have wanted Thad to be with. Sadly, after she left, she never communicated with him, probably out of fear of giving away his whereabouts, and, for the same reason, he did not write to her before his death, though I found her address among his things. Perhaps I will try to contact her and tell her the sad news, though she’s probably read about it in the papers.

James looked as his mother; the computer read on.

Speaking of his effects, Thad did not leave many behind. He had a satchel of clothing and some books, including a lovely signed copy of Moby Dick. He had a bank account with $427.00 in it, $105.00 of which I am enclosing here to you, dividing it up pretty much equally between you and me, brother Charles, and Mother and Father.

Well, that is all. I just wanted to let you know, in case it might give you any peace, that our brother died with love in his heart. You and I both know that he didn’t die in vain, for his work lives, and he helped the cause of abolition considerably—helped many to freedom as well. I hope you are as proud of him as I am.

Your loving brother,

Cecil

*****

The exhibition of paintings by Caleb Stone, accompanied by his narrative, opened in an exhibition hall on the MIT campus, built especially for that purpose with funds supplied by Evie in the early spring of 2123. It was free to the public, but tickets were impossible to obtain for the first several months. The name of Caleb Stone saturated the media and bowled over the art world. For a while, Evie was considered the only expert on his work and was pressed into myriad interviews and lectures on the subject. One afternoon in May, nearly a year after Cassandra and Evie had embarked on their time journey, Cassandra received a call from her. She was breathless and sounded agitated.

“I need your help, Cassie,” the young woman gasped.

“What’s going on?”

“I was contacted by a woman who says she has one of Caleb’s paintings.”

“What do you mean? One that you didn’t bring back?”

“Yes.”

“How can that be?”

“I don’t know, but I want you to meet her with me. I feel shaky. She’s here in Boston. She came especially to see the exhibit. She said she wanted me to authenticate the painting. It’s supposedly signed with his name.”

“Whew.” Cassandra breathed. “Okay, let’s meet her.”

“She asked if she could bring the painting to us. Can we meet at your place?"

“Sure. Whenever you like.”

Two hours later, Evie knocked at Cassandra’s door, and in another fifteen minutes the visitor arrived. Cassandra ushered the sedate older woman into her living room where Evie was poised nervously on the edge of the sofa. She sprang up as the woman entered with a large, framed canvas wrapped in brown paper.

Introductions were briefly made, while the woman, an Ingrid Klein, stared at Evie. She then ceremoniously removed the paper from the painting. Cassandra and Evie gasped. It was a portrait of Evie, sitting demurely on a wooden chair. Her clothing reflected the style of the late 1850s—a subtle evolution in fashion from the clothing the two women had worn in 1853. There was a slim streak of white in the front of her hair. If one looked closely, a delicate ruby ring could be detected on the fourth finger of her right hand, a slim gold band on the left. She was smiling at a reflection of the artist in a mirror. It was Caleb.

Evie swayed and Cassandra led her back to the sofa.

“Cassandra, what does this mean?” the young woman whispered.

“Is this you, Ms. Johnston?” asked Ingrid Klein.

“Yes,” Evie uttered.

Cassandra said slowly, “I think it means you went back.”

*****

Evie stood at the entrance of the portal exit, one suitcase in hand, dressed in the clothing style of the mid-1850s. Gathered in the lab in St. Catherines, Ontario were Cassandra, Jake and Professor Carver. The temporary set-up was cramped, with only the bare necessities required for Evie’s one-way trip. All her affairs had been put in order, her farewells to her family made, the final good-byes to friends said.