An Ever Fixéd Mark (21 page)

“Is it?” Lizzie looked up from her computer
screen.

“I hope you aren’t running in this
weather.”

“I got up at five this morning. Soupy air,
but I kind of like it,” Lizzie smiled at her boss. “It’s quiet in
the morning, before the rest of the world starts going.”

“That’s devotion,” Richard sighed. “Good for
you.”

“Good for my heart,” Lizzie took up a piece
of her apple to show she was eating lunch and not interested in
talking. Richard took the hint and went back to his office.

Lizzie returned to Google and changed
vampire clinic to blood clinic, keeping Ben’s full name in the
line. There were still a number of gothic fan sites, but halfway
down the page there was a site with the words “to ensure safety,
health, and well-being.” Followed by Dr. Benjamin Cottingham.

Lizzie clicked on the site and found herself
helpless at a login. There wasn’t an option to create a login, just
a generic email to which one could write and request information
about hematological health. Lizzie entertained the thought of
creating an alias and email, but quickly talked herself out of it.
It was dishonest. And whoever screened her alias probably knew
Ben.

She went back to Google once again and typed
“wool mill Raleigh MA.”

The first few options were links to tourist
sites. She scrolled through a couple genealogies of people from
Raleigh and a few newspaper articles about strikes. She went back
to the top and clicked on the tourist site. There were a few color
photographs of brick buildings along a river framed with the golden
leaves of autumn. It could be any mill in Massachusetts, really.
They were modern photos. The mill was no longer active, but
appeared to have some recently abandoned businesses.

She scrolled down the page and saw a black
and white photo dated from 1891. There were a few women with long
skirts and serious expressions, but none with blond hair. Why was
she convinced Maria had blond hair? Raleigh had a lot of Eastern
European immigrants. Wouldn’t it make more sense if she was one of
those dark haired women? Lizzie doubted any of them was the owner’s
secretary.

She clicked back to the search page and
selected an article about a strike. The words blurred in her mind,
not really appealing to her curiosity… until her eye caught the
phrase “negotiated with owner, Oliver Thomas.”

The name echoed in her brain as though
someone just said it aloud to her. Ben and Oliver’s surname was
Cottingham. It sounded so familiar. Was there someone connected to
the Fulton house by that name? Oliver Thomas. Lizzie couldn’t find
it in her memory.

She went back and searched for Oliver Thomas
Raleigh Woolen Mill.

Again, there were a number
of irrelevant results, including a link to a theater for an
upcoming production of the musical,
Oliver!
She clicked through several
pages until she found an article from the Raleigh Historical
Society. Lizzie scanned through the article, which was basically a
general survey of Raleigh history. Nothing seemed to justify its
inclusion on search results. Then halfway through, she found a few
sentences that grabbed her attention.

“The Thomas Bros. Woolen Mills operated from
1885 until 1905. The founder and original owner, Oliver Thomas,
opened the mill to manufacture textiles and yarns. His brother and
co-investor, Benjamin Thomas, took over management of the mill in
1890. Raw materials were supplied from local farms throughout the
Connecticut River Valley all the way up to Canada. Thomas Bros.
Woolen Mills employed many immigrants, primarily young women, who
settled in Raleigh and surrounding towns. The mill was highly
successful, due principally to a contract with the government to
provide blankets to military hospitals. In spite of the success of
the factory, Benjamin Thomas chose to sell the business to
Pennsylvania businessman Edward Stapen.

“The mill brought a
moderate amount of fame to Raleigh in the fall of 1889. Fourteen
year-old Eloise Hutchins was employed at the factory. After a
factory picnic on June 5
^th
, she did not return home.
Her body was found several months later not far from the mill.
There were several accusations and suspects for her murder. Two
years later, family friend, Luigi Parinoli, hanged himself and left
a confession for the murder.

“Lizzie, can you run a report on the Capital
Campaign to date?” Richard reappeared at her desk.

Lizzie slowly lifted up her eyes, not quite
digesting all of what she had read. “For this fiscal year or years
prior?” she hoped her questions hid the flush that had risen to her
cheeks.

“Both. Can you run them in separate
reports?”

“Sure,” Lizzie nodded and looked back to her
computer. She waited for the door to Richard’s office to close. She
read the two paragraphs three more times. Benjamin Thomas. He
changed his name. That wasn’t startling. Not… too startling. Not so
startling as the murder of a young girl so close to the time that
Oliver decided to leave the mill. Lizzie closed her eyes and did
her best to push the information out of her brain as she pulled the
data for her reports.

*****

Lizzie led her group up the stairs and into
the master bedroom. She smiled graciously as she waited for the
stragglers to enter the room and quiet their comments about how
small the beds seemed. She shook her head as two middle-aged women
from Texas explained to each other that everyone was shorter
because they didn’t eat enough meat. Lizzie thought about
challenging them, but decided to tell how John Fulton married
Margaret, two years after losing his first wife to consumption. She
described the abbreviated details of their wedding in Boston and
the names of their children. Only Harriet and Peter grew to adults.
She pointed out the bed that really wasn’t that much smaller than
her own, as well as the intricate hooked rug beneath their
feet.

She paused barely long enough to allow her
visitors breath to process a question. She went back across the
hallway into Harriet’s room. As the two Texan women straggled
across, she looked at the young woman’s glassy stare and then at
the faded upholstery of the infamous chair.

She still didn’t understand what made that
chair so impressive. It was three hundred years old. Well, closer
to two hundred and fifty. It looked three hundred. The fabric was
faded. Gerard Fulton had a legitimate point. The sun was brutal
against the dark brocade. The walnut frame dried out and lost its
sheen. The stuffing of the cushion was beyond uncomfortable. She
supposed even the mice found no delight resting there. It was
French. She knew that, but was unimpressed. The material wasn’t
likely original. She couldn’t imagine the glassy eyed Harriet
sitting in that chair. Maybe her sister-in-law Charlotte sat there
and listened to Harriet swoon over Mr. Chester as she got dressed
or ready for bed.

She suddenly remembered a dream. Something
about a vampire biting her in that chair. When did she dream that?
Did she know what Ben was? Or was that Meg’s influence? She shook
the thought out of her mind as she focused on her Texan tourists
and began her discussion of Harriet’s short-lived history. She felt
a cool draft fall against her shoulders as she left the chair
behind and took her small party into the guest bedroom. Was it a
breeze pushing through the leaky windows? Or had something… Lizzie
shut her eyes, trying to wrestle between reason and her distracted
mind. It was a hot July afternoon. Maybe the pocket of cool air
startled her because of the warmth throughout the house.

She discussed the dresser and the few
objects displayed on top of it. She listed some of the famous
visitors to the Fulton House. She concluded her tour by bringing
them down the servant stairs and back into the gift shop. The image
of the vampire biting her floated back into her mind. The chill had
nothing to do with ghosts or cool air. She was anticipating her
date with Ben later that evening when the dream would be real.

“
How’d it go?” Paula
asked.

“Pretty good,” Lizzie reached for her water
bottle and offered a pleasant smile. One of the Texan women
approached with a pile of postcards, which Lizzie put in a bag as
Paula rang them up. Within ten minutes the shop was empty.

“So when are you going to bring Ben here so
we can meet him?” Andrew appeared from behind one of the
bookshelves. Lizzie was sure her cheeks burned with the memory of
the thoughts she indulged while giving her tour.

“
I don’t think he’s
interested in taking a tour.”

“Why not?” Paula left the desk to straighten
the books on antique French furnishings.

“He’s more of a scientist,” Lizzie shrugged
and took the seat behind the desk.

“Yeah, but I want to meet him,” Andrew
persisted.

“We should go out some time,” Lizzie
suggested. “Ask Davis when he’s available.”

“He’s available next Friday,” Andrew
concluded. “I’ll cook dinner.”

“Ben works late on Fridays,” Lizzie stopped
herself from accepting. “What if we did cocktails and nibbles?”

“We’ll do a late dinner. Paula, are you
in?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your loss. What does he eat?”

“Actually, he has food allergies.”

“What?” Andrew’s eyes lit up. It was a
challenge, not an impediment. “Does he eat meat?”

“Kind of,” Lizzie saw Paula look up.

“I’ll think of something brilliant,” Andrew
beamed, obviously not concerned. “And a fabulous cocktail.”

“Of course,” Lizzie smiled.

“Maybe you can inspire yourself by dusting
the kitchen,” Paula smirked suddenly. “You were supposed to do that
an hour ago.”

“Of course, lovely,” Andrew sneered and
disappeared down the corridor.

Lizzie let the quiet fall between herself
and Paula. Lizzie looked away and noticed an open newsletter of the
American Museum Association. A small grayscale photograph caught
her attention. It was… Oliver. She picked up the newsletter and
read how Oliver Cottingham, known as Professor Ol to his students,
had finished a summer workshop with a California science museum
about the repercussions of campsites in reserve lands. A group of
students and museum staffers spent several weeks in a local state
forest evaluating carbons released into the air by RVs and cars
brought into the park. They also measured the number of
non-degradable objects left behind by campers and the effect on the
water. The study was profiled by local news stations and furthered
the partnership between the science museum and the college.
Professor Ol and his group were already busy planning to expand the
project to research the environmental impact of other tourist
sites.

“
Hey… Paula, weren’t you
at a museum in Pioneer Valley before this?” Lizzie disturbed the
quiet as her mind wrestled between the article she just read and
the searches on Google.

“Yeah, I worked at a local historical
society while I was in college.”

“Did you ever hear about a wool mill in
Raleigh?”

“There were a lot of mills on the
Connecticut River.”

“Yeah, but there was a murder of a girl at
this one. Oliver Thomas was the owner. Does that ring any
bells?”

Paul looked at her and squinted as though it
would prompt her memory. “That sounds vaguely familiar. The victim
was young, right? And they blamed it on an Italian. Very Sacco and
Vanzetti.”

“So the Italian didn’t do it?”

“I don’t remember the details. I think a
friend of mine did a paper on the prejudices against immigrants in
the area. He works at a museum in New York right now. I can shoot
him an email and ask him if you’d like.”

“Yeah,” Lizzie offered her smile again.
“Someone I know might be related to the owner.”

“Huh,” Paula gazed at her.

“If your friend has any pictures, that would
be a nice present for my friend.”

“I’ll email him today.”

“Thanks,” Lizzie folded the newsletter shut.
She lifted her eyes when the bell sounded the door opening. “Hey!”
she exclaimed happily as Jen and Jack walked in.

“Hi Lizzie!” Jen greeted her with a hug.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“We came to see a friend perform in Porter
Square tonight. Jen made me come early so we could take one of your
tours,” Jack explained.

“We were hoping we could convince you to
join us for dinner when you are done?” Jen asked. “That is if you
don’t have plans?”

Lizzie paused, torn between her dinner and
Ben’s. “I am supposed to meet up with Ben,” Lizzie caught the look
of satisfaction from both of them. “He might not be able to join us
for dinner, but maybe he can come hear some music.”

“Don’t let us ruin your plans,” Jen
argued.

“No,” Lizzie shook her head. “Ben will be
glad to hear you are in town.”

“Great,” Jack looked at his wife. “Let’s do
it.”

*****

“Lizzie gave us a great tour,” Jen smiled.
“I’m surprised you haven’t gone on one yet, Ben.”

“It is a terrible faux pas, I admit,” Ben
looked at Lizzie.

“I think he would make me self conscious,”
Lizzie avoided his eyes.

“Yes, but you are passionate about the
history of that place and the people who lived there,” Jen argued.
“I think you would enjoy sharing it with this guy.”

“Yeah, even I found it interesting,” Jack
grinned.

“And that is a remarkable thing,” Jen
laughed. “It’s okay, Lizzie. It took Jack two months to recognize
the fact I painted the bathroom. The one that we use every
day.”

“I’m not thinking about walls when I do,”
Jack scowled at his wife.

“I really liked that fireplace in the master
bedroom,” Jen ignored her husband. “I wish I could do something
like that in our house.”