Free The View from Prince Street by Mary Ellen Taylor Page B

barrel. Currency was a rarity then, so many farmers used tobacco as money.”
    â€œWhy would a man want an entire barrel of tobacco?”
    â€œHe’d have sold it back in England and made a sizable profit.” She carefully turned several more pages. “Here I see that Mr. Talbot paid for Faith the following spring. He traded two hogsheads of tobacco for her.”
    â€œHer value doubled in a year.”
    â€œVery few women in the city at that time,” Margaret said. “They were at a premium, and if she survived here a year that meant she had to be tough.”
    â€œSo what happened to this witch?”
    â€œShe later ‘married’ Talbot and bore him twin sons.”
    â€œWhy do you say ‘married’ that way?” I asked.
    â€œI’m not so sure they legally wed.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œThe women of Alexandria accused her of witchcraft after Mr. Talbot’s death, and then she and her sons vanished from the records. I’m hoping that Patience will make some kind of mention of her.”
    â€œYou’ve quite the task. There are dozens of letters along with the ledgers.”
    Margaret raised a white-gloved hand to her heart. “Letters.”
    â€œA couple of decades’ worth.”
    â€œRae, this is like historical porn.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I’m very happy to study it.”
    It was hard not to be impressed by her excitement. “Sexual fantasies are not my forte, but I’m glad you have found a distraction that’s of interest.”
    Her laughter rang clear and loud. “Rae, I think you made a joke. There might be hope for you yet.”
    â€œI didn’t realize I was hopeless.”
    â€œNot hopeless,” Margaret said. “But you did get labeled as the lady with the heart of stone. At least no one called you the Ice Queen.”
    â€œMy clients like my detachment.”
    â€œThat can’t be much fun for you. What gets your motor racing?”
    I fingered the pearl bracelet encircling my wrist. “I choose not to engage in high drama. Calm and order are needed to remain objective.”
    Margaret shook her head as if she pitied me. “Unless I’m dealing with documents like this, order drives me insane.”
    â€œTo each his own.”
    I left her hunched over the papers and returned to my computer. Without really thinking, I pulled up my e-mail, hoping for minor tasks to occupy my time. I was scrolling through my inbox when I saw his name:
Michael Holloway.
The boy.
    Sitting up in my seat, I stared at the name, stunned. I wasn’t intimidated much, but I was now scared to read his message.
    My index finger anxiously tapped the mouse button before I drew in a breath and clicked it twice. The e-mail opened.
    Dear Dr. McDonald . . .
    Dr. McDonald.
That made sense, of course. Polite. But distant.
    Dear Dr. McDonald,
    I read about you in the paper. You might not know it but you and I are related. I guess you could say I’m your son. I’m not writing to ask for anything, but I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me about the McDonald family tree. My mom was trying to help, but she doesn’t know any names other than yours and your mom’s.
    Thanks,
Michael
    I read the e-mail again slowly as the full spectrum of emotions washed over me. His request required a simple and straightforward answer. And yet, I was clueless as to how to proceed.
    Answer the boy. An e-mail took less than five minutes. So little time. But what were the right words? I didn’t want to ruin our first interaction. What if he wanted to know why I gave him away?
    â€œHoly shit!”
    Startled from my thoughts, I found Margaret standing in the doorway. A look at the clock and I realized an hour had passed.
    Margaret held a letter in her hand, her eyes dancing with excitement just as they had when she stood on my porch with that old bottle.
    Pulling off my glasses, I