The Roswell Legacy by Frances Statham (ebook pdf reader for pc .TXT) 📕

“Yes, Papa.”

Upstairs, Araminta waited behind the curtains of her bedroom window until the carriage disappeared beyond the streetlight. Then she tiptoed down the hall to the narrow staircase leading upward to the attic studio set aside for Ginna.

The stairs creaked under Araminta’s weight. Halfway up, she stopped to listen. She didn’t want to alert Nathan. But then she heard his excited voice floating up from the kitchen. Clara would keep him occupied for a while. She needn’t worry.

Through the studio skylight the new moon cast a glow, its gossamer streaks of yellow touching the easel and the chair directly beneath. Hanging on the peg near the closed dormer window was Ginna’s artist’s bag; various shapes of paint pots were arranged along the shelves. And on a small table an old brown earthenware jug held an assortment of brushes jutting in all directions, like some futuristic, leafless flower arrangement.

The air was stifling hot, causing Araminta discomfort. She walked to the window and flung it open for some fresh air before pursuing her evening’s work. Then, without turning on a light, she began to open the paint pots and dribble their contents on Ginna’s works.

The large canvas of horse and rider rested on the easel—Ginna’s secret oil painting that was to be her wedding present to Jonathan. With particular satisfaction, Araminta chose a paintbrush from the earthenware jug. And taking the small jar of India ink, she plunged the brush into the indelible black liquid and set to work on the oil canvas, completely obliterating the painting.

Araminta smiled as she finally left the studio. The slight summer breeze coming through the window deliberately left open was the only witness to the carnage done that night.

As Araminta made ready for bed, she frowned at the black stain on her thumb. Despite her scrubbing vigorously with soap, the mark remained.

Finally giving up, she brushed her hair and then climbed into bed. For Araminta, bedtime had an unvarying nightly ritual. Propped up by pillows, she took the latest fashion book from her bedside table, opened the tin of chocolates, and then settled down for a pleasant hour before drifting off to sleep.

Ford’s Theatre held a powerful fascination for Ginna. Lincoln’s assassination in the president’s box was every bit as dramatic as anything that had ever happened onstage.

Sitting only two boxes away from the presidential box, she glanced quickly to see if Mr. Cleveland or any of his family was present that night. But the box was empty.

There was a certain noisiness in the theater. The bustling and chattering of the people taking their seats in the audience vied with the backstage sounds as props were put into place. The Lady of the Camellias was to be given that night. It had been made famous by Sarah Bernhardt, the great French actress. But Washington would have to be satisfied with the American actress, Mrs. Pelligrew, instead. Ginna decided that she would be more than content to see Mrs. Pelligrew in the title role, for she had been fearful that she might miss seeing the play altogether.

Shortly before the houselights grew dim, Ginna saw Rad Meadors and a beautiful woman take their places in the private box to the right of theirs.

“Papa,” Ginna whispered, “is that Mrs. Meadors with the senator?”

Charles looked up from his program. “Yes, it is.”

He and Rad nodded to each other while a shy Ginna tried to get a good look at Jonathan’s mother without being too obvious. Their eyes met, and when Allison smiled, Ginna brightened and returned the smile.

Already, Mrs. Pelligrew’s performance took second place in Ginna’s mind. But once the curtain opened, her attention turned to the play being enacted onstage.

It was all she had hoped for and more. Caught up in the tragic love story taking shape before her eyes, Ginna was visibly moved. But then she bit her lip to keep back the tears. It was only a play, after all, she reminded herself. And she shouldn’t risk being thought too maudlin, especially in front of Mrs. Meadors. She reached into her purse for a linen handkerchief at the moment that the first act ended and the houselights came on, signaling intermission.

“I needn’t ask you how you liked it, Ginna,” Charles teased. “I see from the tear on your cheek that Mrs. Pelligrew has woven her spell over you.”

“Oh, Papa, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“It’s all right, Ginna. There’s no need to be ashamed of tears shed over the human condition. Would you like to get up and walk around a bit? The next act is quite long.”

The red curtain at the back of the box opened. “Dr. Forsyte?”

Charles stood. “Senator Meadors. Mrs. Meadors. May I present my daughter, Ginna.”

“I’m happy to see you again, Ginna,” Rad said. “But I don’t believe you’ve met your future mother-in-law. This is my wife, Allison.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Meadors.”

Allison’s face was kind. “You’re even lovelier than Jonathan led me to believe.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Meadors. And I think you’re beautiful.”

Again Allison smiled. She turned to Rad. “Do you mind if I stay to get acquainted with our new daughter, Rad?”

“Not if I can interest Dr. Forsyte in joining me for a brandy.”

“I’d be delighted.”

The two men left Ginna and Allison together. The older woman quickly asked, “Would you like to stroll along the mezzanine?”

“Not unless you wish to do so.”

“Then we’ll stay here in the box.”

Ginna waited for Allison to take a seat and then she sat down also.

“I feel as if I already know you, Ginna. Jonathan has done nothing but talk about you since I arrived back in Washington. I was sorry to miss you the other day when I called on your mother.”

“I’m sorry, too, Mrs. Meadors. I was at my sister’s house.”

“But now that we’ve met at last, I can tell Jonathan that I agree completely with him. You’re a charming young woman. Welcome to the Meadors family, my dear.”

Allison leaned over