The dim glow from my bedside lamp was enough light for me to see my labeling gun and the open dresser drawer in front of me. The staccato click of the gun was better than therapy, even when mixed with General Lee’s wheezing snore. I’d been awake since one thirty, reorganizing my drawers and replacing labels. I had just completed the third drawer with no sign yet of sleepiness and the oblivion that I needed to erase that last text from my brain as easily as it had disappeared from my phone.
My phone dinged with a text. I sat frozen, afraid to look at it in the dark. Not wanting to disturb General Lee, I took my phone to the bathroom, flipping on every light and making it as bright as day. I sat down on the edge of the tub, took a deep breath, and looked down at the screen.
U up?
Cold relief swept over me. With shaking fingers I typed Ued. I waited a moment for my phone to ring. There was only so much of my texting that Yvonne could endure. The opening bars to “Mamma Mia” echoed off the marble floors and I quickly slid my thumb over the screen to answer the call.
“Hello, Melanie. I’m so glad you’re awake. I know it’s a bit early, but I’m just too excited to wait before sharing what I’ve discovered.”
“Is it about the sampler in the museum?”
“Yes. And no.”
I waited for her to say more, but of course she was waiting for me to drag it out of her. I wondered if it would be impolite to shout or to threaten her, but I decided I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, so instead I said, “All right. Let’s start with the ‘yes’ part. What did you find out about the sampler?”
“Well, judging by the name and dates, I would bet my grandmama’s strand of pearls that it’s our Evangeline. Assuming I was a betting woman, which I am not. Going on that assumption and knowing her mother’s name was Lucille, I did a little more digging in places most people wouldn’t think to dig. But I’m a little better at this than most, I think.”
After a long pause, I realized she was waiting for me to respond. “Absolutely. You’re better at this than the IRS is at squeezing a drop from our last penny.”
When she didn’t respond, I said, “That’s a compliment. Nobody knows how to dig through historical archives like you do.”
“Thank you, Melanie. As I was saying, we’ve already dug through the family tree and records from Gallen Hall, which is how we know Lucille was married before she came to work at the Tradd Street home. Which is why we naturally assumed that the baby she was carrying was her husband’s.”
I sat up so suddenly that I dropped my phone in the tub. After scrambling for a moment, I held it back to my ear. “And it wasn’t?”
“No. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure I know who the father is.”
I wanted to ask her to skip the dramatic retelling of her brilliant researching and just tell me, but that would have been like asking a thundercloud to stop raining. I sighed with resignation. “So who is it, and how did you find out?” I sat on the floor, stretching my legs out in front as I leaned against the side of the tub, getting settled for the long haul.
She continued. “Just the fact that poor Evangeline was buried in the back garden got me thinking. Her mother was born into slavery, but John Vanderhorst freed her after he moved her to Charleston. Maybe the family needed a cook right then, but I had a little gnawing thought that there might be more. I couldn’t find anything in the private records, so I had to think of a source of information that we hadn’t considered yet.”
I could almost hear her held breath as she waited for me to ask.
“And what was that, Yvonne?”
“Real estate! I thought you of all people would guess that. I started with property owned by the Vanderhorst family, including the Tradd Street house and Gallen Hall and a few businesses on Meeting and Broad streets. They didn’t operate them of course, just leased them, but at one point they owned a gentlemen’s hat boutique and a confectioner’s shop. I thought you’d appreciate that last one.”
She paused, waking me up from my stupor in time for me to say, “Yes, definitely. So interesting. So, besides discovering that the Vanderhorsts had their fingers in various enterprises, what else did you find?”
“I thought you’d never ask! Well, since Lucille was born into slavery but then manumitted, I decided to look into that a bit. I was able to find her manumission certificate, which only states that she was of sound mind and body and able to support herself. No motives are given, of course, but sometimes a researcher can infer certain things just from circumstances. Like why Lucille’s daughter would have been buried in the back garden. I wondered why, knowing it was a piece of the puzzle. And of course I had to question why Lucille was manumitted in the first place. After 1820, a new law made manumission more difficult, requiring it to be allowed only by an act of the legislature.”
I sat up straighter, tiny threads beginning to weave themselves together in my brain. “Go on.”
“I decided to start examining real estate transactions beginning with 1847, the year Evangeline was born. And that’s when I found it!”
When she didn’t continue, I said, “What did you find?”
“No need to shout, Melanie. My hearing is just fine.”
“I’m sorry, Yvonne. I got a little excited.” I bit my lip and took a few deep breaths. “What did you find?”
“A deed to a house on Henrietta Street, listing the owner as Lucille Gallen.”
“Gallen? Like the plantation?”
“Exactly. Frequently, a manumitted enslaved person would take their previous owner’s last name, but Lucille chose not to. I can’t say for sure, but I think I know why. What I do know is that there was a reason why she didn’t choose the Vanderhorst name.”
I sat up, the threads winding tighter and tighter. “But where would she have gotten the money to buy the house?”
“I thought the same thing. I had to do some digging, but I found the original deed and the transfer documents. And guess who bought the house and then sold it for a single dollar to Lucille.”
“I have no idea. Who was it?”
“John Vanderhorst! Although, really, there is no need to shout. I can hear you just fine.”