Read Online Faye Longchamp 01 - Artifacts by Mary Anna Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Anna Evans
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Whitehall was. Finding his journal at Joyeuse suggested that he had some connection to her family, but she knew nothing about her ancestors prior to the Civil War, and two generations or more separated William from that period. Perhaps he was a friend of her ancestors or a business associate. She would not allow herself to assume that she was reading the words of her own flesh and blood until she knew it for certain.
She was scientist enough to ignore her romanticism—most of the time—but the act of reading a man’s heartfelt thoughts recorded while Florida was still a pawn in the hands of the British, the Spanish, and the upstart Americans charmed both the scientist and the romantic in her.
***
Excerpt from the diary of William Whitehall, 29 May, 1798
My Daughter Mariah has flourish’d these sixteen Years—her gracefull hands & expressive eyes would speak for her if she had not such skill at speaking for herself. God in Heaven forgive me, but she is the charming Woman that my Susan once was. Susan’s step has grown heavy. She looks at me so seldom that it is clear she would prefer not to see my face at all.
Failure at love is not the same thing as failure at Marriage. We have a good, compleat life. Most days, the daylight outlasts the chores. This is a wellcome happenstance, for at day’s end, we can rest while Susan stitches & I attend to Mariah’s lessons.
How I chafed at my own lessons! Mariah drinks hers up. As the fifth son of an English gentleman of reduced circumstance, I saw my future in America; I found booklearning superfluous. Father insisted, so study I did and, as is commonly the case, on achieving his age I found him to be right. In the hard years, reading to Susan was our only pleasure between getting up & going to bed and now, in better times, I share my learning with my daughter. Susan never joins us, but when I tell Mariah a funny story in French, my Susan laughs.
My greatest concern at the present revolves around Mariah’s future. She is in the peculiar position of being far better bred & educated than the few eligible young men in the area, yet they find her unsuitable because of her Creek blood. Susan has never once suggested that Mariah might marry a Creek man, but I see it in her eyes & there is contempt there, too. I cannot justify my preference for a White husband for Mariah. I wager there is no justification, but I desire it anyway. God has provided well for me in this life—I can only hope that He is as bountifull with my Daughter.
I have always believed in Divine Providence, because I was taught to believe in it. A fine man, educated & polish’d, knock’d at my door two weeks past, asking water for his horses & his servants. His name is Henri LaFourche & he says he is a Natural Scientist, who has come with a group of men to map the rivers & creeks in this Wilderness, while cataloguing the wilde beasts here. They seemed disappointed to see us, for I think they thought to find the land desolate of Humanity. Perhaps they forgot that the Indians live here & have done so for time out of mind.
I invited Henri LaFourche & his men to stay with us. I did not consult Susan before offering the invitation, but I knew without looking at her that she wish’d I had not. I do not comprehend her attitude. Hospitality is the unwritten Law in these wilde lands, for one who refuses to shelter a Stranger might someday find himself without shelter. Providence tends to repay a man in the coin that he hands to others.
After each meal, Susan persists in enumerating every bite that Henri and his men have consumed. Their rate of consumption is indeed prodigious, but there are weightier matters afoot. Henri and Mariah leave each morning on long walks with the ostensible purpose of furthering Henri’s knowledge of this Wilderness. He could have no better tutor than my Daughter.
No fool would believe that Nature is Henri’s only interest. I too was once a young man, & I am not blind. Susan says his
She was scientist enough to ignore her romanticism—most of the time—but the act of reading a man’s heartfelt thoughts recorded while Florida was still a pawn in the hands of the British, the Spanish, and the upstart Americans charmed both the scientist and the romantic in her.
***
Excerpt from the diary of William Whitehall, 29 May, 1798
My Daughter Mariah has flourish’d these sixteen Years—her gracefull hands & expressive eyes would speak for her if she had not such skill at speaking for herself. God in Heaven forgive me, but she is the charming Woman that my Susan once was. Susan’s step has grown heavy. She looks at me so seldom that it is clear she would prefer not to see my face at all.
Failure at love is not the same thing as failure at Marriage. We have a good, compleat life. Most days, the daylight outlasts the chores. This is a wellcome happenstance, for at day’s end, we can rest while Susan stitches & I attend to Mariah’s lessons.
How I chafed at my own lessons! Mariah drinks hers up. As the fifth son of an English gentleman of reduced circumstance, I saw my future in America; I found booklearning superfluous. Father insisted, so study I did and, as is commonly the case, on achieving his age I found him to be right. In the hard years, reading to Susan was our only pleasure between getting up & going to bed and now, in better times, I share my learning with my daughter. Susan never joins us, but when I tell Mariah a funny story in French, my Susan laughs.
My greatest concern at the present revolves around Mariah’s future. She is in the peculiar position of being far better bred & educated than the few eligible young men in the area, yet they find her unsuitable because of her Creek blood. Susan has never once suggested that Mariah might marry a Creek man, but I see it in her eyes & there is contempt there, too. I cannot justify my preference for a White husband for Mariah. I wager there is no justification, but I desire it anyway. God has provided well for me in this life—I can only hope that He is as bountifull with my Daughter.
I have always believed in Divine Providence, because I was taught to believe in it. A fine man, educated & polish’d, knock’d at my door two weeks past, asking water for his horses & his servants. His name is Henri LaFourche & he says he is a Natural Scientist, who has come with a group of men to map the rivers & creeks in this Wilderness, while cataloguing the wilde beasts here. They seemed disappointed to see us, for I think they thought to find the land desolate of Humanity. Perhaps they forgot that the Indians live here & have done so for time out of mind.
I invited Henri LaFourche & his men to stay with us. I did not consult Susan before offering the invitation, but I knew without looking at her that she wish’d I had not. I do not comprehend her attitude. Hospitality is the unwritten Law in these wilde lands, for one who refuses to shelter a Stranger might someday find himself without shelter. Providence tends to repay a man in the coin that he hands to others.
After each meal, Susan persists in enumerating every bite that Henri and his men have consumed. Their rate of consumption is indeed prodigious, but there are weightier matters afoot. Henri and Mariah leave each morning on long walks with the ostensible purpose of furthering Henri’s knowledge of this Wilderness. He could have no better tutor than my Daughter.
No fool would believe that Nature is Henri’s only interest. I too was once a young man, & I am not blind. Susan says his
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