The Inheritance

By David C. Lavoie

Mary Dudley, a young Vermont woman with newborn twins, is abandoned by her husband and brother when they become Gold Rush adventurers. While the men experience the exotic American colony in Panama and the gold fields of California, she is left to the mercy of friends and extended family. When her brother dies overseas, he bequeaths all family property to his Panamanian mistress. This shocking calamity threatens Mary and her children with homelessness and poverty. She must defy her brother's curse in order to win her independence as a woman. In doing so, she is forced to consider a deal with a spurned suitor from her past. A story of forgiveness, redemption and the transformation of hearts spanning the tumultuous period of Antebellum America, The Inheritance explores the devastation done to families left behind by adventurous men in the pursuit of wealth, and is based on actual family records. It presses the question of what we truly inherit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Jan 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634132398

Book preview

VOICE.

WINDSOR, VERMONT

1869

CHAPTER ONE

THE GLACIER OF SOULS

MONDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1869

LIVES OF GREAT MEN ALL REMIND US

WE CAN MAKE OUR LIVES SUBLIME,

AND, DEPARTING, LEAVE BEHIND US

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SANDS OF TIME.

—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, A PSALM OF LIFE

Mary Dudley soaked the last tears of relief into a filigreed handkerchief, pressing it gently into her eyes. She smoothed her dress with shaky hands and donned a woolen overcoat. The exit beckoned her to some quiet bastion beyond. Her soles reverberated against the kettledrum walls of the courtroom, where only the judge and an assistant murmured. As she leaned into the swinging door, it was suddenly flung backward, sweeping her into a row of chairs. Gilbert Daniels, a locomotive clearing debris from his tracks, surged into the courtroom, only to watch helplessly as Mary crashed to the floor.

Oh, Christmas! I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?

I don’t think so. It sounded worse than it felt.

That’s a blessing then. Why are you still here?

What do you care? You want to put me out of my home. If it were up to you, I’d have no place to go.

I’m doing my job as an attorney, following your brother’s desires. You’re the one making this more painful and expensive than it needs to be. Delay after delay. I’ve never had a will contested for so long. Why don’t you let it go? You can’t win. It’s only a matter of time.

Oh, just let it go and live on the street? It’s my home. I’ve nothing else.

Gil looked down at Mary with granite eyes and huffed in frustration. Seemingly endless motions and delays had extended the case for four years. But her tactics had run their course, and soon he would prevail. He looked upon the small woman, whose gentle eyes belied a demanding nature. Those expressive lips had always lured him, but she had inflicted the worst wound he’d ever received. So his defenses were alert. It was understandable that Fred had chosen to take the home from Mary. The only way Fred could punish her was in death.

It’s what your brother wanted. Now I must go see the judge. Excuse me.

She turned after him.

"It’s what you want. Isn’t it, Gilbert?"

Gil hesitated, and then decided to move forward, engaging the judge.

* * *

Mary left the dank air of the courtroom, whose wood stove had vanquished the morning chill and replaced it with the taste of ash. The probate court had been held in a meeting room of the Windsor House, the finest hotel between Boston and Montreal. It was not until she left the hubbub of the hotel and felt the shock of early winter air that she could breathe and think.

A gray cloud hung over the village like a heavy blanket stretched over the world. The first snow had fallen, and it seemed more light was emanating from below than above. It cast a strange incandescence upon Main Street, and the pedestrians bundled in their coats, hopping anxiously over the mud churned up by wagon wheels.

Gilbert might think I’m fighting for a piece of real estate, but how sadly he underestimates these proceedings! Mary thought.

Owning a house meant surviving independently as a woman. It was not just a house at stake, but rather her life. If the house were lost, then she would once again be at the mercy of relatives—men who would treat her like a child. In fact, they would treat her like a failure. She could not, and would not, allow that to happen. The only option available was to contest her brother’s will with grim determination until the last ounce of resistance was spent.

Delaying tactics had already won valuable years in the home. Luckily, the witnesses were in Panama and communication was difficult. She used Fred’s drinking habits to contest the soundness of his mind. The time had allowed her children to grow with some dignity. Those years, as tenuous as they’d been, were the first during which she maintained decision-making authority. She did not want to give that up.

Mary pulled her bonnet more tightly around her ears. Her pale skin stood starkly against her black dress and coat, with curly locks of brown hair compressed around her face. Now fifty years old, she couldn’t understand how the years had mysteriously evaporated. Once she had harbored tantalizing dreams. Her parents had been well off, provided an education, and she had excelled. Mary had wanted to marry a man who valued her mind and talent, and who wanted to escape Windsor and see the world. Now she was fifty, and still fighting to salvage a few shards of those shattered desires.

A feeling of failure haunted her. There were times when it seemed she’d let everyone down. There was no denying she’d tasted more sweat than sweets, and had worn more grime than silk. Some dreams could not be preserved forever. Eventually they had to be discarded.

Mary walked slowly down Main Street past the commercial buildings and shops of the town’s center. Her uncle’s general store was there, as well as the Pettes and Tuxbury buildings. The train station was just a block away toward the river. Windsor had always been the center of business and political life along the Connecticut River Valley. Resting on a terrace between Mount Ascutney and the river, it nourished two thousand souls, making it one of the largest cities in Vermont. Farms were its bedrock. Dairymen produced butter, milk, and cheese, which the trains sped to Boston.

Mary stepped carefully across State Street, where garbage decayed in the road under a thin layer of snow. The nearby tannery and slaughterhouse added to the unpleasant aromas. She held a handkerchief over her mouth and nose and tried to put some distance between herself and the town’s workshops.

Thinking fresh air might do her some good, she decided to keep walking past her house and follow Bridge Road to the river. Men animated Windsor with a profusion of toil and sweat. How frequently did they think of their families amongst the clutter of trade and transaction? All her life she had been subject to the wiles of strong-minded men. They controlled everything. Women were considered nothing more than dependents by the courts, and upon marriage all their assets belonged to their husbands. Single women had few employment opportunities, none of which paid better than subsistence wages. Though as competent as any man, Mary’s little ship had been blown from bank to bank by blustering men intent on their aspirations.

But she was not without her victories, at times adroitly playing her hand and sometimes securing her desires through force of personality. Mary had never been comfortable in the gilded cage most women inhabited. Men cherished women as models of virtue. They set them upon pedestals of homemaking and childrearing, at the same time, restricting their freedom. So most women swung upon the perches in their cages, worshiped and incarcerated. That had never been the life for her, and fighting it had carried a burden of injury. Mary was an elusive skylark flying amongst the predators. Why did men feel a need to discipline her?

Her father’s desire for significance drove him to belittle those around him. While he valued Mary and tried to give her every advantage in life, he raged at each attempt she made to exert individualism—as though it were some form of misbehavior. He should have expected no less. She was her father’s child, emboldened with the same fighting spirit he possessed. Mary had wept when she realized he was incapable of seeing his own reflection in her. Whenever she stepped from the path he designed, she forfeited little fragments of his love. In the end, the store had been expended, and the penalty had been severe. Her father had virtually written her out of his estate. The family home and stores had been given to her younger brother, Fred. Her father could only love the images harbored in his head. Much of her life had been spent wresting herself from the grasp of his errant passions, while seeking some portion of his affection.

Fred had somehow taken up the cross. But instead of her father’s vengeful God, Fred deified money. As Mary increasingly strove to find a spiritual lever in her life, the chasm between the siblings eventually grew so wide that no fellowship could bridge it. Fred also chafed under their father’s control. But he was able to escape by following gold rush adventurers to Panama and settling there permanently. After securing his independence, he guarded it with keen devotion. Freedom had been ransomed with money, which was thereafter nervously sequestered. Now it was his turn to rebuke Mary by taking away the very roof under which she and her children lived. It was unimaginable that her very own brother could do this terrible thing—to throw her homeless onto the street. How much he must have changed since being gone! How cold he must have become in that hot land!

Soon after Fred’s death, she had received a letter from Willard Johnson, a Boston businessman who employed Fred in Panama. Johnson described an alien scene in which her brother seemed entirely incompatible with her previous images.

Cohasset, November 14, 1865

Dear Mrs. Dudley,

Since arriving at Boston last Saturday, I have been meaning to write you about Mr. Wardner’s death. But I have been completely used up by cold weather, want of winter garments, and a severe cold and cough.

Mr. Wardner had been suffering from dysentery for the past year. Within the last two months, it was so severe as to confine him to his house. His imprudence baffled all efforts to restore his health. During this time, our business affairs in Panama were neglected. Wardner could offer no aid in resolving the many difficulties. His house had been broken into, some money stolen, and many books and other things destroyed and thrown into the well.

I was there on the twenty-fifth of October. That forenoon he was very bad. His will had been made the day before. A merchant had transcribed it according to his wishes. When I arrived at his home, the merchant was there, as were the US consul, witnesses, and one of the administrators. All were there to sign and attest the document, and were waiting in the hall, trying to gain admittance. However, Wardner and his doctor would not grant it. I presented myself and demanded to see the man who had been in my employ for eight years. The doctor went up and brought back a refusal to see me or anyone else.

The matter was talked over, and it was settled that I go up and see him anyhow. I did, but he was thrown into such a state of excitement that I could not remain. Later I was allowed to read the document. In it, he bequeaths to his woman and children in Panama all his personal property and real estate—naming the places and parties and where they may be found. He then enumerates a two-story dwelling house, a brick building, and the old banking house in Windsor, and gives all this property to the same heirs. He had been living with this woman, Audrea Gonzales, who had kept his home for ten or twelve years. Wardner owned the two children as his—a daughter maybe twelve years old and a boy, Guillermo.

After reading the will, I told the administrator all about the property in Windsor, of Wardner’s family, and relations to his only sister. He was inclined not to press the signing of the will. But there were others there who, having raised illegitimate children, would have the will signed.

And so it was signed on about four thirty p.m. of that day. But not before I had seen Wardner face to face. Ordering the doctor out of the room, much against his will, I then sat down and had a serious conversation with him. He was reclining in a hammock in a miserably rank room, a bottle of rum near his hand. I asked on your behalf for all the Windsor property—insisting that the Panama property was sufficient for his children. He would not listen to any such arrangement. I then appealed for just the Windsor dwelling house, pleading with solemnity, and reminding him of his sister’s love as his death drew near.

It was of no avail to look into his crimson face and sunken eyes and remind him that you were his loving sister, that the winter was approaching, and that he was taking the shelter from those he should love and protect. It was soon apparent that asking would do no good, for he positively refused to alter the will and wished it signed and off his mind.

It was my most earnest wish that God call him right then and there from the great and unforgiving sin he was committing. But he lived until the morning I was to leave the isthmus. I presume by next mail you will get a copy of the will and probably a letter from Panama. In the meantime, since no specific provision is made in the will for any personal property or money in Windsor, I suggest that you get hold of any that exists and secure it.

Yours kindly,

W.B. Johnson

By his death, Fred precipitated the fiercest battle for survival Mary’s life had known. Her old nemesis, Gilbert Daniels, arose to take the hammer from Fred. Now she was locked in a competition, freedom hanging in the balance. The long-simmering issue with Gilbert had now been escalated.

* * *

Carved out of the mountains by glaciers, the Connecticut River Valley filled with water as the Ice Age ended. The glaciers had been a potent erosive force, scraping land to the bedrock and destroying all life in their wake. As they receded, everything was left wrenched and changed. The river flowed beneath passes in the surrounding hills, covered in mist on fall mornings when the chill air was colder than the water and surrounded by sunlight and silhouettes on the hilltops.

Mary looked upon the river and it spoke to her in timeless voices. Many glaciers had already rent her life. She recalled prayers in church thanking God for the gift of water. Moses had safely led his people through the Red Sea to their destiny. She prayed that she, too, would be offered some form of salvation.

Currents of water born in mountain watersheds near Quebec cruised silently to the south, lapping over and over against the riverbank. The chilly water was slate gray on this late October day. The swirling surface told her little, its face a mask.

The river will see the future, just like it observed the past, she supposed. I am growing old in its sight. Will it know when I’m gone?

The river flowed like a family—generation after generation of water, with no known beginning or end. It changed color, changed speed, was always unique, overcame and avoided obstacles, always pushed forward, and took strength by merging with other streams. It was timeless, never changing, and always changing.

My future is as gray as this river, she thought. I should go home.

* * *

She closed the door of her study and tried to gather her thoughts. Somewhere hid the key that would unlock her freedom. Somewhere in the mists of the past there was an answer, if only she could grasp it. Bits of happy memories rose and fell like driftwood polished smooth from its journey. So many of those good times had taken place in this very house where she was raised. Remembrances lurked in the shadows of every room—misty ghosts that attended her presence. They did not speak to her, but acted out particles of events here and there, like silent encores of her past.

Some caused her to quake, catching her breath when an image of her deathly ill sister would flash into the present, or when her father would appear in his doorway, eyes full of rage and accusation, his mouth moving silently while the guilt of her actions welled in her heart.

But other images made her surge with fondness, hopeful of embracing the memory and holding it in her arms once again. She saw Grandfather Conant sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace, gazing at her fondly and still reflecting the yellow vitality of life. Oh, how she had loved him! The image pierced her with longing. More than anyone, her grandfather sustained the highest hopes for her. He had conjured laughter from her darkest moods and safe harbor when life had produced the most fearsome storms. No one ever made her feel so unconquerable.

She had promised herself he would never die because she needed him too much. And so she welcomed every aspect of her grandfather that chose to reside in the firelights and twilights of the old house. Mary returned his smiles and every embrace of his eyes. Truly there was a resurrection because so much of him still lived within her and spirited the home.

Mary carefully removed the tomahawk from the desk her grandfather had given her on the precipice of his death. He’d won the tomahawk in a fight for his life during his service in the Continental Army. Throughout his years, he had invariably made the right decisions in the heat of battle and found the resourcefulness to win. But he always did so with honor and earned the respect of ally and foe alike. She wished that he inhabited her more fully today, when she was so bereft of answers. Along with some old papers, the tomahawk was the only physical artifact of his she possessed. It represented all he had given her, and she searched for his legacy as though it resided within her, hidden away in the squandered hallways of her mind.

Grandfather said he would always protect me.

She took down her sister’s Bible from the shelf, opening it to the Book of Psalms and finding a comforting verse: For thy name’s sake lead me and guide me. Pull me out of the net they have laid secretly for me.

Her faith felt weak. The long battle was slowly depleting her optimism and vigor. The night before, a Bible verse had haunted her: All is vanity and a chasing after wind. She had slept fitfully, feeling hollow. How was it that some people were able to keep the faith so happily in times of trouble? They could smile and offer help to others when it was they who needed comfort. She feared her well of faith had proven too shallow.

She thought of her sister, Rebecca. Even now, when Mary’s children pattered into the kitchen, she would turn, expecting to see Rebecca, and a breath of sadness would pass over her. It seemed as though her sister was still there somehow, in curtains that drifted in the breeze, or in ripples that flickered across the mirrors. Rebecca was a wisp, a slender trace of sweetness. Oh, there were times when Mary’s exasperation with Rebecca’s gullibility would boil over and she would begin to lecture. But she might as well have admonished the stars for perpetually twinkling. Nothing ever came of it.

Her sister’s enduring innocence had set an exquisite standard. Had Rebecca really been naïve? While Mary was filled with portentous notions, dark clouds and yearnings, her sister was composed of nothing more than lightness. Rebecca never had to forgive because she simply assumed the offending party never meant harm in the first place. She only saw the good in people. While others scrapped and scratched for their fair share, she simply discerned grace in every moment.

I wish I could share her belief in others, Mary thought.

It was not as though her sister’s life had been easy. Far from it. Yet she had lived in expectation of the light. Even when there was no hope, Rebecca projected a certainty that all the promises were true. Mary’s tough determination paled by comparison. Mary knew that fate had put Rebecca at her side for a reason, and the lesson was obvious. But it was so hard to emulate! If Rebecca had been there last night, she would have said, Yes, everything is vanity. Nothing that you can see will last. Everything will pass away. Except love. Love is the only thing that endures. Open your heart.

A log suddenly popped in the fireplace, hissing at the flames that desired to consume it. Mary was jolted out of her reverie by the explosion and blinked, wondering how much time had passed. Her body felt stiff, as though she had not moved for hours. Could it be so? Too often, she allowed problems to occupy her mind at length. She roused herself, stoking the fire and wandering the house conducting chores. Once she was set in motion, momentum carried her at increasing velocity. Dusting here, sweeping there—so many things needed to be done! Afternoon feebly gave way to the gloaming. And throughout the town, wicks were lit and the private lights of secure families began to flicker through the curtains. Shops were closed and locked, and the forms of weary men drifted along Main Street to their families, seeking the comfort of home. Wagons creaked while their wheels crunched the snow and labored along the ruts that defined their predictable paths. Mary discovered herself in a darkening room, sweating and armsore, surrounded by her mother’s silver spoons, forks, and serving dishes that had been frantically polished and piled on the table. She examined her dirty hands, blackened by the effort, astonished in some way that it had been she who had done the work.

Instead of proving therapeutic, the exercise had merely fed the gushing effluence of panic in her mind. She could picture Gilbert Daniels standing in the courtroom victorious and waving the eviction notice at her like a tablet of retribution carved by her father and brother and carried down the mountain for her affliction. As the sweat glistened on her brow, she vowed nevermore to eat the broken bread she had been fed all these years. They would not see her weep. Not Gilbert Daniels. Not any of them! If her life would become a tomb, then she would face it squarely. New life would come. Resurrection always followed the tomb. In the end, she would not be denied her independence. She would not acknowledge the consecration of ruin.

So many parts of my life have died already, she thought. So many loved ones, and so many dreams. But I will not wall off the disappointment or the pain. I will not let those parts of me disappear. I will pass complete into the future, whatever it might hold.

Mary threw the soiled dishrag onto the floor and stood there, quivering with resolve that she would not fail those who had loved her. No! She was not done fighting.

She cried out her challenge, Look at me, Fred! I am still here, in our home. Gilbert Daniels has not defeated me yet, and he never will!

Mary stormed like a gale through the house to her study and pulled up a chair at the desk. From around her head she removed a chain and extracted the gold cross from underneath her dress. It had been a gift from her husband, George. She remembered her muscular man, whose virility had sparked fires within her. Marriage had come as a relief. Yet George could not breathe life into the dreams she harbored, and the disappointment had slowly poisoned their alliance. Memories of errant selfishness haunted her still. Poor George thought he had failed as a husband.

He had risked everything to prove his love, and lost. Or so he thought. There was a reason she was living in her father’s house— Fred’s house now. It was because she and George had lost their own. In fact, the gold cross was one of her few mementoes of George. She treasured it. Even in financial peril, she had not sold it. He’d gone off in search of fortune and had come back empty handed, except for this small gift. But she could never make him comprehend the most important thing: he had come back to her. That is why she always wore it next to her heart, the heart he had won.

She placed the cross on the desk next to the tomahawk and the Bible.

These are the markers they have left within me, she thought. I am just a reflection of their good wishes. But I pray their love can save me. Somehow, these are the clues that will lead me out of the trap.

She pondered her allies—her grandfather, her sister, and her husband. What would they have her do?

BOOK ONE

FAITH

* * *

WINDSOR, VERMONT

1835

CHAPTER TWO

SKUNK CABBAGE

TUESDAY, MARCH 31, 1835

TRAVELER ON THE ROAD OF LIFE!

SEEKING PLEASURE, FINDING STRIFE,

KNOW THE WORLD CAN NEVER GIVE,

AUGHT ON WHICH THE SOUL CAN LIVE

GRASP NOT RICHES; SEEK NOT FAME

SHINING DUST OF SOUNDING NAME

TRAVELER WHAT ARE THEY TO THEE?

LEAVE THEM ALL AND FOLLOW ME.

—INSCRIBED IN MARY WARDNER’S 1835 BIBLE

Only a Vermonter knows how cold a winter can be, or how long it can last, thought Stephen Conant as he bundled his coat about him while leaving the tavern. Just in the last three weeks, another foot of snow had fallen, and temperatures had been as low as negative three degrees. The newspaper reported that Charleston, South Carolina, had received an inch of snow on March 19.

Those Southerners have no idea what it’s like to survive a Vermont winter. We have snow like that in May sometimes. And I remember 1816. We had snow or frost in every single month, the entire year—even in July and August!

Yet, the signs of change were obvious for those who watched and listened carefully. Stephen knew the snow did not crunch as sharply underfoot. The white of the snow was not as white as it was a month ago. And the tree branches, bare of leaves and shivering dark and exposed in the snow since November, did not seem as forlorn. Though the tendrils of their branches still painted cracks in the gray sky above, early signs of buds were beginning to alter their silhouette. The snow and ice would soon decompose into a sea of mud and slime. Before long, the sun’s warm rays would awaken the meadows with an explosion of yellow dandelions, Vermont’s annual hymn of resurgence.

However, at the moment it was darkening and cold, as the evening silently settled over the town, extinguishing much of the earlier energy. Stephen had enjoyed the fireplace warmth of the tavern, the loggerhead emanating red heat while he had satisfied his appetite on salt pork, turnips, hot bread and butter, and Indian pudding. There were a few travelers ensconced in the barroom, along with several neighbors who assembled there to learn news from travelers and to discuss business and politics. In the old days, the crowds were larger on the sanded floor of the barroom, the air blue with tobacco smoke and the rooms filled with singing, stories, and debate. But the recent years of rising temperance and anti-Masonism was having an effect on tavern business.

Well, I’m seventy-three years old and have seen plenty of changing times. They come and go. At this point, I’ll do as I like, Stephen thought while ordering some flip to wash down his meal.

He could almost feel the warm beer and rum soothing his constitution as he awaited the drink. It crossed his mind that a pleasant state of relaxation could be necessary before seeing his daughter’s family— especially his son-in-law.

It wouldn’t be Christian of me to strangle Shubael before his children are grown. Maybe I’ll have two drinks.

He watched with anticipation while the flip was prepared at the bar. Surrounded by pewter mugs, glass beakers, punch bowls, and funnels, the bartender gathered the rum, maple sugar, water, and beer. Then he fetched the toddy iron from the fireplace. The red-hot iron was plunged into the beer; then the other ingredients were added.

This is how I survive the Vermont winters, Stephen thought with quiet satisfaction.

Stephen had come to Vermont, the new frontier, following his service in the Revolution. He had come to Windsor from his home in Warwick, Massachusetts, just south of the Vermont border and near the Connecticut River. As a young merchant, he worked with his father to arrange shipments of goods north and south. Often, his father would receive goods from Stephen and hold them in Massachusetts for sale. The young state had grown explosively, and business had been good. He made a life for himself in Windsor, married, and had children. Eventually his father had joined him. Stephen was an established and respected citizen of the town, with Revolutionary War credentials. Tall in stature at six feet, big-boned, and athletic in his prime, he had a physical presence matched with flair and energy and, most of all, confidence. Now he was heavier and stooped. However, he was still a big man, still very lucid, and carried himself with the bold assurance of one who had victoriously surmounted decades of obstacles.

As he left the tavern, he realized it provided the same comfort as an old friend, as though the building were alive. Elijah West had opened the tavern before the Revolution. Stephen had frequented the place for most of his adult life. It provided a sense of balance and geometry to his world. In fact, the two-story clapboard structure represented more than that. In June of 1777, delegates had crowded into the tavern to frame a constitution for the independent republic of Vermont. It was a radical document, using ideas that first were framed in Pennsylvania. But it also reached new levels by incorporating universal suffrage amongst men and a prohibition against slavery. With optimism, those delegates gave birth to a separate nation, for Vermont did not join the United States until 1791.

Stephen drew a long breath of the cold evening air, exhaling a cloud of mist while his body relaxed under the long coat. The repast at the tavern had been a fulfilling interlude.

And now, Fanny, I am ready to sit with you for a while, and for Mary to help me feel young again. I wonder if she is anxious about tomorrow. If so, I will make her forget. I would be happy to see her well-married while I still inhabit this earth.

He stepped down the tavern steps and crossed the street, surrounded by merchant shops. They were quiet now. Most of the businesses awoke early in the morning and stayed open until the last customer departed. Darkness also forced the mills and smiths to close. He had capitalized or financed several of those businesses over the years. Before the opening of the Bank of Windsor, most financing had been done privately by local citizens like himself—successful merchants, farmers, and lawyers. So, over the years, he had helped weave the fabric of the Windsor community. As a merchant, he did business with many local citizens and farmers. He attended Sunday services with them, first at the Congregational Church, then later at the Episcopal Church. As a Mason, he further cemented church and business ties. He lent money to those he knew and trusted through church and Masonic meetings. The web of family, village, and church ties shaped the order of life in Windsor. To the faithful, it fulfilled their covenant obligations to each other and to God.

Reaching the other side of the road, Stephen glanced at the Wardner Store in the Tontine Block. It was closed, which meant that Shubael would now be home. Turning left, he came to State Street and could see the hills of New Hampshire rising across the riverbank. The town rested on a plateau overlooking the river, granting a fine overview. Since the settlement of Windsor, the river had been its father, mother, creation, and salvation. By comparison, the dirt roads of Windsor and Vermont were poorly maintained and sometimes impassable, especially in the spring. The roads were best in the hard winter, when sleighs carrying produce could be easily pulled over the snow. Windsor had become an important site when the toll bridge was built across the Connecticut in 1796, allowing land transport to the East. This and the vital location on the river drove the growth of business, merchants, and artisans, and made Windsor an exciting place to live.

The river fluttered and glimmered with activity during the day. It was filled with the vessels of trade and transit. The Connecticut River had become the umbilical cord connecting rural farmers with the major markets of New England. More and more of Vermont’s produce were being sold to the larger cities to the south, and more products were being brought in. Steamships made their way from Hartford beyond Windsor as far north as White River Junction, beyond which the water was too shallow. But most of the activity was in flatboats driven by long poles or square sails. Frequently, these boats would travel the river downstream, and then be broken up for lumber at their destination. As evening commenced, the river traffic was subdued. But tomorrow, as usual, it would be alive with sails and voices and hopeful expectations. As a merchant, Stephen remembered how vital this transportation was to his success. During his life, his expectations had, for the most part, been realized.

He crossed the road and passed the Bank of Windsor, heading south toward the Congregational meetinghouse. All at once, he stopped and sniffed.

He chuckled to himself, Hold your nose, for spring is coming!

The meetinghouse was surrounded by land set aside for a cemetery and originally for a parade ground. Its Greek-inspired architecture was much admired in the surrounding communities and towns. The three-level spire still drew pleasant admiration. The first level was square wood framing with clocks on three sides. The second level had porticos and sculptures. The top level housed the bell. From the earliest days of the Windsor village, this beautiful building had called citizens to church and many other activities that defined the fabric of the community. It was here that God had driven his foundation stone. Evidence of turbulent human activity surrounded the elegant structure—the land was wiped clean of trees and littered with stumps, rotting away through the years. The trees had been felled long ago for wood to build homes, boats, and to make potash. Since then the land had been left alone, unclipped. A few small trees were sprouting again. At this time of year, snow covered the church grounds. White against white. But here and there, especially along the road, some ancient impulse had triggered a strange flower to bloom. Generating their own heat, these plants melted away the snow and frost around them and crowned themselves with a peculiar purple-striped cup. They were the first sure sign of spring that Stephen had seen; and they stunk.

If God does not have a sense of humor, then why did he create the skunk cabbage? he pondered.

He stopped to examine the swarm of insects strolling around one, making their way beneath the fleshy hood to the pollen-producing center, and thereby fertilizing the blossom. Stephen couldn’t help but laugh at their folly.

Quick, my bug friends, lets make haste for this warm bit of stench! Maybe it’s a chamber pot left out to rot, or a dead squirrel or skunk! How delicious! But, no—you’ve been tricked, my little friends. Its just a curious flower.

He grinned mischievously.

Maybe I should pick one for Fanny. No, the joke would be on me. She wouldn’t let me in the house!

At that thought, he found himself backing away from the flower; maybe it was like its namesake and would spoil his clothing with its odor. Better keep moving.

He pondered the façade of the Congregational meetinghouse. For many years, Stephen had been a member there. He was married in this building and had buried his father just behind. Yet, he left to establish the new Episcopal Church in 1816. He never regretted the change because the Congregationalists were spending too much time on his personal affairs.

He was suddenly torn from these irritating memories by a voice to his left, saying Hrrumph, and then Graack. It startled him and almost made him jump, for he was not aware of anyone’s presence. But, there he was, just in the shadows of the meetinghouse, with a dark, leather-brown coat and one foot wiping a troublesome left eye.

Curse you, Isaiah! You nearly scared me out of my boots.

The dog listened carefully to Stephen, tilting his head slightly to the right while perking up his left ear to hear more carefully. After a moment of cogitation, he dropped his snout almost to the ground and sneezed, Phfsst! then wagged his tail delightedly, apparently offering to accompany Stephen on the rest of his walk, whether invited or not.

Isaiah was rather famous in town for his startling behavior during church meetings. He belonged to Rollin Amsen, the young man who had moved with his family into the house next door to Fanny and Shubael. They apparently had come from a small village where it was still not uncommon to bring animals to church—turkeys, chickens, dogs, and the like. Rollin had continued to do so here at the Baptist Church, where it was thought a bit peculiar. Maybe Rollin just couldn’t be parted from his best companion or just liked using him as a foot warmer. He declared that nobility brought dogs to church in Europe, and in his opinion, Isaiah was certainly a noble among his species. Regardless, Isaiah was reportedly very fond of sermons, often moving attentively to the middle of the aisle and uttering approving or disapproving growls and yips. The congregation appeared to respect his opinion on the quality of the sermons, and Reverend Hale often spoke directly to Isaiah to make his points. An impassioned sermon about intemperance would often provoke Isaiah to a supportive barking frenzy.

No one knew how old Isaiah was, but he seemed a fairly young dog to Stephen. His short, brown hair was fine and sheen. His eyes were especially inquisitive. The wet, cold nose was a constant threat of contact. There were people in Windsor whom Isaiah did not like and avoided. Nevertheless, there was occasionally talk of making him Windsor’s state representative in Montpelier. Many supposed he would be a fine representative. But then, Stephen had to rid himself of these merry thoughts. After all, Shubael’s brother, Allen, had served in that capacity, and firmly believed he was a better man than Isaiah! In any case, Isaiah was eager to escort Stephen down the street. The dog sauntered alongside.

The Wardner home rested on land that had once belonged to Stephen. The house was a brick two-story Federal-style house with green shutters, six rooms up and six rooms down. It was a nice home for a successful businessman like Shubael. Stephen and his son-in-law had several investments together. However, Shubael had become progressively more ardent and uncompromising in his beliefs, making it difficult to work with him. Stephen examined the front of the house, pictured Shubael in his mind, and promised to count to ten as many times as needed to keep the evening pleasant. Stephen loved his daughter, Fanny, and was enchanted by his granddaughter, Mary. He smiled.

She is cut from the same bolt of cloth as I—determined, detailed, and very pleasing to the eye.

With that gratifying thought, he approached the door.

* * *

Mary bounced excitedly from the storeroom into the kitchen, carrying a candle in one hand and a jar of jam in the other. Her energy was not driven by glee over tomorrow’s dinner at Uncle Allen’s home, for she could too readily contemplate details that would define its success or failure. Nor was she full of nervous energy driven by worry. Despite her meticulous assessment of the upcoming event, Mary was ultimately a faithful optimist about God’s plan for her. Rather, her energy flowed from the simple joy of being the center of attention in this busy household.

Her mother, Fanny, was bent over the counter in the buttery, sniffing a pie that was almost cool enough to eat.

I always love the taste of pies in the winter. The dried apples from last year’s crop, soaked in cider, taste so much stronger than fresh fruit. This may be the only thing I like better about the winter!

May I have pie instead of temperance cake? asked Fred, Mary’s impatient ten-year-old brother.

He was practicing scripture verses on a slate and would rather be doing anything else. Chores lasting longer than ten minutes were a torment to Fred, but the Book of Deuteronomy was beyond his measure. He had already begun muttering, Why is it always the Ten Commandments? How many times are they in the Bible, anyway? he anguished. Why can’t I do some other verses? Here’s one that says you can’t go to the temple if you have crushed testicles. That’s more interesting. Why can’t I write that one?

Her little brother should more appropriately copy the Book of Lamentations! He was a grumbler and a little rogue, always getting into trouble. He hated rules for their own sake.

Fanny fixed on Fred with a look of potential displeasure.

We will see, Fred. If there is any left over, you can have some. But otherwise, you should be happy with the temperance cakes.

But they don’t taste good. You don’t put any sugar in them! countered Fred.

Exactly, Fred. If we put sugar in them, they wouldn’t be temperance cakes.

Mary gazed at her sister, Rebecca, who was diligently sewing by candlelight in a chair by the wood stove. She felt mildly frustrated that her siblings were working away as usual instead of sharing her anticipation. Normally she would sit beside Rebecca in the parlor, and they would sew and talk until it was time for prayers and bed. Even though she was sixteen and Rebecca only twelve, they were fast friends. Her sister was a delicate wisp of a girl, with a gentle and supportive personality that helped to bolster Mary when she was beset by all the imperfections of life. Rebecca toiled like a little spider and never seemed distracted. She liked everyone, even when they were mean to her. Mary always wanted to stand up for Rebecca and protect her. She felt the hurts more than Rebecca did.

And then there was Albert, the youngest at five. He sat intently shelling beans at the table and putting them into rows and squares. She suspected that he was building armies, which would soon engulf the table in a horrible bean war, for Albert was a marching young boy. He liked action and direct communication. He liked to do things. Singing hymns was especially invigorating. Albert was fun to play with. He had been a good baby, and she had been able spend many hours caring for him.

She moved one bean away from the rest and whispered, Look, Albert, this is Noah Bean, and he wants to escape in a boat before all the other beans get drowned in the flood that’s coming!

Albert’s eyes brightened with intrigue as he eyed the pot near the stove. He glanced back at his army, realizing that a plan was needed if they were going to live to fight another day.

Now don’t you start anything, Mary! I hear you tantalizing Albert with some story.

Mother, do you think I’m too young to be married?

Mary stood between the stove and the table, illuminated by the oil lamp, hands on her hips, and

Reviews for The Inheritance

[twoharbors · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A beautifully written historical piece, "Inheritance" will transport you back to Antebellum America! David Lavoie tells the story of Mary, a young, new mother of twins is left to fend for herself when her husband and brother leave in pursuit of Gold Rush success. Faced with homelessness and poverty, Mary has to take things into her own hands to survive this rough period. A story of forgiveness, redemption and based on one family's true history, you will not be able to put it down!