At the Corner of King Street (18 page)

“A million and six, I think. But I don't care. It's Saturday and everyone deserves a day off.”

I couldn't remember the last Saturday I took off. There was always work to be done in the vineyard. If my office work was done, then I headed into the fields to help Scott. We both loved the vineyard, so the work never really felt like work. Feeling a little guilty that I wasn't there to enjoy last night's success with him, I bit into the cookie. “Amazing.”

“Rachel can cook anything. Anything.”

“I believe it. Her cookies would have been a hit at the party.”

“They do some catering. Mostly mail-order stuff now. They're only open to the public on Thursdays and Fridays.”

“Small retail shops are struggling these days. How are they doing?”

“Storefront does okay,” Margaret said. “We have devoted customers. The mail-order business is booming.”

“Good for them. Scott and I hope to set up mail order for the vineyard, but that's at least a season or two away.” I sipped my coffee. “Did you bring the bottle?”

“I did.” She gobbled the last of her cookie, wiped her fingertips on her jeans, and dug an object wrapped in a thick blue-and-yellow-checked towel from her bag. Carefully, she unwrapped the folds until she reached the bottle. She set it on the table.

Without the distraction of the stone removal and the baby, I could see that the bottle was indeed interesting. The wavy surface suggested a handblown glass that was several hundred years old. The bottle's corked neck was three inches tall and the base of the bottle wide and sturdy. “It's kind of amazing that the glass isn't broken.”

“Beyond amazing. I can think of only two like this that aren't broken.”

“How old?”

“I'd say 1750.”

“That's fairly precise.”

“I can make several assumptions on the bottle's age based on the glass, shape, and cork, but what zeroed in the time for me was the hearth that belonged to the house on the property.”

“According to Dr. McDonald, the land has been in her family for hundreds of years.”

“Try 1748,” Margaret said.

“That's exact.”

“Her family owned a small tobacco plantation along the Potomac. According to a few house accounts of Patience and Michael McDonald we have on record, it did well enough. They didn't get rich but they weren't dirt farmers either.”

“They lived in the house with the stone hearth?”

“Yes.” Margaret settled back in her chair, her hand resting on her coffee cup. She reminded me of a professor addressing her class.

“Was there mention of Faith in any of your research?”

“Like I said before, the McDonalds bought Faith's servant contract from a ship's captain but some time around 1749 they sold it. Still searching for the buyer.”

“Why would they sell her contract?”

Margaret arched a brow. “Maybe they figured out they lived with a real witch under their roof.”

Remembering Grace's bottle, I set down my coffee. I hurried into the living room and carefully removed the old green bottle from the mantel. I set it next to the other. They could have been twins. “Remember I said Grace owns a witch bottle, too.”

Margaret's brow knotted as she inspected the bottle. “Wow.”

“Grace said her mother found it years ago. My Grandmother Shire had an obsession with collecting.”

“Did she remember where the bottle was found?”

“No.”

Margaret held the bottle to the sun. Light caught the glass and shone into the interior, revealing what looked like metal pins. “Two nearly identical witch bottles.”

“Kinda odd.”

Margaret shook her head studying the two bottles. “Kinda super, super rare.”

After this long week the last thing I ever imagined discussing today would have been a witch bottle. Laughter born of fatigue and frustration more than humor bubbled inside me. “Just what I need in my life, a little black magic.”

“To be clear,” Margaret said. “The witch bottles are white magic. Not the scary kind.”

Amused, I leaned back in my chair. “Right. I forgot. I don't need any more bad luck in my life.”

Margaret stilled, her brow arched. “Am I losing my audience?”

“Not at all.” I bit my lower lip. “I'm a little tired.”

“In the 1750s, any woman found doing magic could be sent to prison. Even protection spells were a no-no. If claims of witchcraft followed Faith to America she could have been in serious danger.”

“So why would these two ladies make the bottles if they feared imprisonment?”

“Maybe they feared this woman Faith or some other witch more than the authorities.”

I stifled a yawn, wishing I weren't so tired. “So you think the gals who made these bottles feared the same person?”

“I would say these gals knew a woman in their community that aroused suspicion. These witch bottles cast a protection spell. They keep evil away. And my money is on this woman Faith.”

“Do you know anything about Faith?”

“Her contract said she hailed from Aberdeen. I contacted a friend of mine at the university there and he's doing a little digging. We might know more in a day or two.”

“So they feared for their lives?”

“Most likely.”

I glanced in the jars, feeling a sudden affinity for the women who might have been alone and overwhelmed. Darkness, death, solitude . . . they could all stir up a little madness. “What's inside?”

“The one from the McDonald house has four nails, hair, a couple of buttons, and what looks like a scroll.”

“How do you know there are four nails?”

“A friend x-rayed it.”

“Where?”

“Friend at an orthopedic practice. She slipped it under the machine for me in trade for one of Rachel's pies.”

I traced the seated neck of Grace's bottle. “Grace said there could be blood inside.”

“Or urine.”

“Gross.”

“Hey, I don't write the spells.” Margaret reached for another cookie and took a bite. “Is Grace around?”

“Let me check her room.” I knocked gently on her open door. When I didn't get an answer, I glanced inside and found only her neatly made bed. “She's gone. I thought she was sleeping after last night but I guess she's off enjoying some downtime.”

“She'll turn up.”

As I passed my room I spotted the portrait of Sarah Goodwin. “Have a look at this picture.”

Margaret rose and looked in my room. “Who is this?”

“Sarah Goodwin. One of the first in our clan to arrive on these shores.”

Margaret crossed to the picture, studied it closely. “I don't know much about her but I could find out.”

“I've got to admit I am interested.”

She reached for her cell and snapped a picture of the portrait. “Do you know where she came from originally?”

“Grace said Scotland.”

“This gets more interesting by the minute.”

I made a couple more cups of coffee and set both on the table. “So what else do you know about all this magic stuff?”

“Around 1750ish, the area was in flux. Tobacco was booming and the lands were being worked by African slaves as well as indentured servants. The land in the area was subdivided into lots and new landowners were feverishly building their homes.”

“Didn't the indentured servants get their freedom after seven years?”

“If they survived. Most didn't live through the indenture. In fact, only about ten percent got out of bondage with freedom and land.”

“They came from England?”

“Scotland, a few from Ireland. You know, Faith was lucky in some respects to be transported. The Scots and Brits burned their share of witches back in the day.”

“So she's sent here, but how could trouble follow?”

“Someone from the old country might have recognized her or she kept doing what got her into trouble in Scotland.”

“Such as?”

“Remember the witch in Chesapeake. She got into trouble for growing medicinal herbs and refusing marriage offers.”

“So how do we find out more about Faith?”

“I think the answer to our mystery might lie with the McDonald
family. I was thinking I'd ask Dr. McDonald about those family papers she mentioned before.”

“Dr. McDonald didn't seem thrilled with us.”

Margaret grinned. “I can be persistent.”

“No offense, but you rubbed her the wrong way.”

“More the reason for her to give me my answers—so I'll leave her alone.”

I laughed. “Or you could make her so mad that she calls the cops.”

“She wouldn't do that.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“Would you come with me?”

“Me?”

Her eyes brightened. “You can bring the kid along. Might do you some good to get out of here.”

“I've got work.”

“What kind?”

“Vineyard. Followup calls.”

“It's Saturday afternoon, Addie. No one wants to talk to you about buying wine. Believe me, if it was a success, they're tired and hungover. And tomorrow's Sunday.”

“I have those stones to unload and sell.”

“Really, you'd rather unload stones than talk history?”

Temptation stirred.
Go. Take the day.
“They've got to be sold.”

“Is all your life to-do lists?”

“No.” I pushed aside the mental list that ran like ticker tape. “I have fun.”

“Like when?” She folded her arms and her eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you did something fun?”

“You sound like a cop doing an interrogation.”

“Don't evade.”

“I don't know the date.”

“I can tell you the date I last had fun. I was at O'Malley's tavern last week having a beer with friends and we laughed until my sides hurt.”

Envy jerked at my shirtsleeve. When was the last time I really laughed? Surely I shared the moment with Scott. We laughed a lot. Didn't we?

“You can't remember?”

“It's not that. I've been busy lately.”

“Like for the past decade or two.”

A sigh shuddered through my teeth. I grew up knowing if I didn't work, the family would sink. Work was safe. Work kept me alive. But for now, I didn't want to work. I wanted to play. “I'm in.”

*   *   *

Two hours later Margaret and I were in the front seat of the Shire Architectural Salvage truck and Carrie was settled in the backseat. She wasn't sleeping but seemed content to stare out the window. The kid loved going places.

“Let me do the talking,” I said.

“What did she say on the phone?”

“Like I said, she's not open to sharing family papers, but she did say we could see the family Bible. It dates back to sixteen hundredish.”

Margaret groaned. “Dates. I need specific dates!”

Grinning, I settled into the seat as the truck rattled toward the McDonald's home. When I pulled into the driveway, Margaret was ready to jump out of the truck and run up to the doorbell . Carrie was sleeping.

I got out, pulled on the baby sling, and carefully slid Carrie into the pouch. She yawned and relaxed back into a deep sleep. “Must be nice to sleep,” I said. “I think I have forgotten what it feels like.”

Margaret waved her hand. “Sleep is overrated.”

“Unless you're not getting it.”

We walked up the path and I rang the doorbell. “Remain calm.”

Margaret folded her arms and then quickly undid them and slid her hands into her pockets. “Right.”

The clip-clop of heels reverberated in the house. “Heels on a Saturday,” I said. “Oh, my.”

“I'd have worn heels, if I knew it was a party.”

I laughed. “You own heels?”

“No.”

When the door snapped open to the very crisply dressed Dr. McDonald, we stood smiling like schoolgirls. She wore creased khakis, a white button-down shirt, and, of course, tan pumps. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun and her glasses reflected her green eyes. “Ms. Morgan and Ms. McCrae. I was surprised by your call.”

“The bottle we found on your property is turning out to be very interesting,” I said. “I discovered that my family owns a similar one and we're trying to find a connection.”

She nodded. “Come in, please. I've a little information for you.”

“Great.”

Margaret smiled. “Thank you for having us.”

The very proper response belied everything about Margaret, but to her credit, she sounded very genuine.

Dr. McDonald escorted us into a parlor, which was as tastefully decorated as you'd expect. A handmade Oriental rug warmed the floor, oil landscapes hung on the walls, and the fabric covering the Chippendale sofa cost hundreds of dollars per yard. “I pulled up images of the family Bible on my computer. It's two hundred and seventy years old and getting more and more fragile. I thought it best to save what I could.”

“Very wise,” Margaret said.

Dr. McDonald went to her desk and retrieved two pages stapled together. “These are the first few pages of the Bible. It was given as a
wedding present to my ancestors, Dr. Michael McDonald and his bride, Patience. They were married in 1745 and sailed to this country a year later. He owned one hundred acres right in this area, and I believe the stone hearth you removed must have been theirs.”

She handed me the paper, which I accepted and gave to Margaret. She scanned the page. “Mrs. McDonald gave birth to eight children, but only two survived past the age of ten.”

Without really thinking, I patted Carrie on the bottom. “How sad.”

“And all too common,” Margaret said.

Dr. McDonald nodded as she turned back toward her desk. “And sensing you'd be curious, I also printed a letter that Mrs. McDonald wrote to her mother, but for whatever reason, she didn't send it. It's dated January 1750.”