Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (19 page)

We did recently build a pavilion. It’s beautiful and just right off the tavern. It will be glorious next summer when we can have music there and guests can enjoy the warm evenings in it. We use it now on nights that aren’t too chilly.

Please remember to say a prayer for me and my child when the time comes.

Love truly,

Permelia

November 8, 1841

Dear Lucy,

I have more respect now for our mother, and all mothers, than ever before. Birthing was an ordeal I’d wish to forget. I knew I was dying at one moment, although the women around me said all women think that. I did deliver a healthy baby girl, however, and that is the important thing. We named her Hannah Rachel. She is an absolute angel and rarely makes a peep. I am completely in love with her, as is James. She is the light of the tavern and all the guests wish to make her acquaintance on a nightly basis. Oh, how I wish you could see her! And I wish I could have been in attendance at your wedding. Mother said Father didn’t want me there at all. I am afraid he still feels shame about my departure. I did so hope he was come around in time.

Do know I love you and think about you daily.

Yours,

Permelia

April 16, 1842

Dear Mother,

I hoped to write sooner, but was quite unable. I trust you received the letter from James himself. He read me aloud the words he wrote to you and I felt them adequate, although no words can ever describe our true grief.

The preacher said our Hannah was too good for this world, too pure. We had more than one hundred souls in attendance for her small, sad funeral. The inn was shut down for almost an entire week, although visitors still came and brought food, drinks, and other items of comfort. One young woman made me a beautiful quilt and another brought me a wreath she made of dried flowers and berries. We still have it hanging on our door. I am blessed beyond compare to live in such a place where people are kind, attentive.

Hannah was not ill. She simply passed on as she slept. When I awoke the morning felt too late. I realized she had slept through her feeding and changing. The cold dread that ran through my veins was perhaps mother’s intuition. I knew she was gone before I approached her bed. Still, I hoped.

Her little mouth was drawn in a smile, her cheeks still flushed as though she was merely sleeping. Her tiny hands curled around the blanket you sent her. But she was cold, oh so cold. I held her and wept until James pried her out of my arms and took her away. His grief is insurmountable. She was his angel. I mourn as well, but Lydia has proven to be a rock for me in this time. James, I fear, has no one. He will not speak to me about it.

The doctor says we will have more. I am not sure I will be able to carry another; the burden in my heart is too heavy.

Permelia

December 10, 1842

Dear Lucy,

Here is wishing you and your family a wonderful Merry Christmas. I hope it is filled with love and laughter. The inn is alive with wonderment. We invite the local children to meet St. Nicholas
here. James is busy giving away sweets. He’s even bought toys to hand out to everyone. It is a festive atmosphere and I am trying my very best to stay happy and merry for everyone.

Please pass on my love to Father.

Yours truly,

Permelia

October 21, 1846

Dear Lucy,

Another tragedy has struck us. Sometimes it feels as though grief and hurt will never leave. My beloved James was killed last week when his horse threw him to the ground. We buried him two days later. I am a widow now and do not quite know what to do with myself. James was more than just my husband, he was my friend. I was connected to him in ways I never thought imaginable. He was the light of this inn, a beautiful soul. I could not have asked for anyone to be better to me, or to love me more.

My bed is so cold now; cold and lonesome. I have sent word to Mother to inquire about coming home. I don’t wish to stay here any longer. How can I without my love?

Permelia

December 1, 1846

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your generous offer. I do not think any household is large enough for two families, however, and with your husband and dear children already in yours I fear I would only be in the way. It is unfortunate Father won’t welcome me back into his home. I will find a way to survive here, never fear. It breaks my heart but I am strong and will find a way to become stronger. I have difficult decisions to make ahead, but I will make them, even if they break my heart.

Take care my dear,

Permelia

T
here were no more letters. They’d either been lost through the years or Permelia had simply stopped writing. When she was finished reading them she’d gone for a walk. Now she sat back in her rocking chair on the porch and gazed out into the yard. The reading had left her emotionally drained. Before, Permelia had simply been a character in history, a name. And a face. But now she was a real living and breathing person. She’d been someone who enjoyed her work, had loved her husband, had yearned for a child and then lost one. She hadn’t gone back to her family in Boston because they didn’t want her. She stayed here not out of love but because she had no other viable option. It had, perhaps, been desperation that made the tavern and inn so successful after her husband’s death; failure simply wasn’t an option for Permelia.

She’d been a fairly young woman when her husband was killed. And she’d lived to be almost ninety. All those years running the tavern alone…

Maybe this was what she wanted, Taryn thought. Maybe she just wanted to be known. LeRoy had mentioned a baby. Hannah had only lived a few months by Taryn’s estimation. History hadn’t deemed her important. She could find her grave, place flowers on it. Maybe that’s what Permelia needed; she needed her story known and had chosen Taryn to tell it. Now, at least, the tavern might be demolished but Permelia and her family wouldn’t be forgotten.

Maybe that was enough, Taryn closed her eyes and gently rocked; maybe it was enough.

T
aryn called Miranda later that afternoon.

“Oh, honey, it’s just awful what happened out there,” Miranda fretted. “Just awful. I bet it was somebody on drugs.”

Taryn didn’t feel like pointing out that arsonists weren’t normally addicts, but she hadn’t made the phone call to show off her mad profiling skills. “It is terrible,” she agreed instead. “The Friends of Griffith Tavern are disappointed.”

“Well I’d say they are!” Miranda squealed. “I’m so glad it wasn’t one of our beautiful historical homes here in town. At least that’s something to be thankful for.”

It angered Taryn that one of the “historical homes,” which wasn’t nearly as old as the tavern but was undoubtedly better maintained and pretty, was valued more. “I guess that’s something anyway…” she replied philosophically.

“Have you had any luck tracking down any of the family members?”

Taryn briefly filled her in on Matt’s success and Eve’s correspondence, as well as the content of Permelia’s letters. “I’ll send you the email, too,” she said. “It has all the letters attached to it.”

“That poor thing,” Miranda sighed. “Of course, we didn’t know she’d lost a child.”

“Where do you think her baby is buried?” Taryn asked. “I’ve walked around the property, but haven’t seen any graves.”

“More than likely in the city cemetery then,” Miranda explained. “That’s where Permelia and James are buried. My guess is her little grave is somewhere close by. There are many infants buried there. Some don’t have names so we can’t be sure who they are. Some don’t have any markings at all and we can only guess they’re children by the size of their headstones.”

Taryn received directions for the cemetery and hung up. She’d find it then.

“If you’re listening, P, I just wanted to let you know I’m going to go look for your baby’s grave and decorate it. Hope that’s okay.”

The lamp on her nightstand flickered once, then again, and then all was still.

T
aryn technically didn’t
have
to drive to the cemetery, since it was only a few blocks away, but she did because the only place that sold flowers was on the other side of town. Their arrangements were all pricey but she was pretty handy when it came to making her own so she bought some Styrofoam, a spool of wire, wire cutters, and several loose flowers for half the price a pre-made arrangement cost. Taryn believed in being industrious and thrifty when the situation called for it.

Despite the town’s small size, the cemetery was enormous. Two big wrought iron gates flanked the wide entrance with stone lions on either side. Their great mouths were open in a yawn, baring great teeth. The lions were turning green with age and one of the gates was almost off its hinges, dangling a little in the wind. The road inside was sparkling white gravel and wove through the rows in curves and circles. Permelia and James were buried at the front, near the entrance, so she didn’t have far to go. With her bag of goodies in hand, she got out and began walking around, studying the headstones.

It was easy enough to find James and Permelia. They were in the second row with only one grave separating them from the end. Their headstone was modest in size, but boasted their names in large letters. Under their names were the words “Together in life, together in death.” Like most of the graves in the cemetery, it was without flowers or any kind of adornment. The stone was weathered with age and chipped in a few places. The grass was getting tall, too, a little above her ankles. She assumed the city maintained it, but with trash blowing around and the overall shabbiness, it didn’t look like it was high on their list of priorities.

The graves surrounding Permelia and James were dated in the mid to late 19
th
century and early 20
th
century. They varied in sizes and designs, but were definitely all adults. She slowly walked back and forth, taking care to read the dates and names, but couldn’t see an infant’s grave on the row in front or behind them. Soon, she came to a clump of graves with death dates all within the same year or two. They had to be from the war, Taryn figured, since the time period was right. The Civil War hadn’t touched this place in terms of battle but of course men would’ve gone off to fight. There were at least a dozen headstones of young men, standing in a row together like the soldiers they were in real life.

Hannah had to be buried somewhere.  Of course, it was possible she’d been buried on the tavern’s property and the headstone had merely been moved or destroyed over the years. If that were true, she’d never find it.

Taryn was about to give up when she took one last look around, just in case she’d missed something. A weeping willow tree grew several rows behind Permelia and James and the long, dried-up branches brushed at the ground. It was under the tree, up against the trunk, that she found what she was looking for. It was only about a foot and a half tall and had a small stone lamb atop. The headstone read:

H.R.B.

Not dead, just sleeping

She wasn’t prepared to feel the sharp pang, seeing this grave of a baby who would be dead by now even if she had survived her infancy. But a heaviness filled her chest and she could feel tingling in her nose, something she referred to as “the nose stage” which signified an impending onslaught of tears. She quickly sat down on the ground beside the little headstone and got out her materials. She’d chosen bright yellow daises and soft pink roses for the arrangements. The flowers themselves might not go together, but they were her two favorite and she wanted something happy and sunny for little Hannah.

While she worked, she talked to the grave.

“I didn’t know you or your mama, of course, but I’ve gotten to know her a little. I can’t tell you what happened when you went to sleep that night and didn’t wake up but I can assure you that you were wanted and your parents loved you very much. I guess you knew that, though. You would’ve felt it.”

The cemetery was quiet; the only sound was the crinkling of paper trash as it hit up against the side of the fence.

“I’m making you an arrangement because, well, I’m a little broke and also because I think it’s more personal. Now, I know a professional would probably look at this and be appalled but I think it turned out pretty well.”

She sat back and admired her handy work before placing the arrangement in the container and sticking it in the ground. At least now Hannah’s grave looked a little cheerier.

Taryn got up, dusted off her pants, and walked back to Permelia’s gravesite. She had three red live roses for her and these she placed atop the stone. “I want you to know your child has been acknowledged. The historical society knows about her, I know about her, and we won’t forget. Your letters will go on display and anyone who wants to read them will know more about your life. So maybe this will give you a little bit of peace.”

Taking a deep breath, she continued. “And I know about what happened with the man. I am so sorry. If you lived today you’d see all kinds of pamphlets and articles and stuff telling you it wasn’t your fault, that you didn’t provoke it, and that there’s help available for you. But I’m guessing you didn’t get that so much back then. So I’ll have to tell you that myself: It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t provoke it, and I am sorry. I am angry and hurt for you. But it’s over now. It’s time for you to move on.”

A strong gust of wind flew around the headstone and Taryn’s hair whipped back from her face, streaming out behind her, the curls bouncing against her back. One of the red roses gently lifted from the headstone and when Taryn reached over to stop it from blowing off, it merely laid itself back down to rest. The wind stopped.

Taking that as a cue, Taryn turned and left.

W
hen she reached Matt around suppertime he was more subdued than usual. “I’m sorry,” he finally said at last. “I guess I panicked.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “For almost all of my life you were mine, and then you were Andrew’s. When Andrew died you and I were, you know… I didn’t see you. And then I got you back and it felt like you were mine again. Knowing you’re seeing other people makes me feel like I’m losing you again.”

The idea made her sad and she didn’t know how to begin making either one of them feel better. “Well, first of all, no matter what I do you can’t lose me. Even if we go years without talking, which we have, you’re still a part of me. And secondly, you know I don’t
belong
to anyone. It doesn’t matter if I’m married, single, dating, or join a convent.”

“I know that,” he mumbled. “And that hurts in a different way.”

“For God’s sake, how?” she demanded.

But he changed the subject.

“I’m sorry about the tavern. I would’ve texted back but I was in the middle of a meeting.” Matt worked for NASA, her own rocket scientist, but they communicated so frequently it was hard for her to remember sometimes he had a job. He worked all hours of the day and night, sometimes even from home, and she had never truly been sure of what it was he actually
did
.