The handwriting on the second letter was tighter, more desperate. Maeve Higgins smoothed the yellowed paper on her desk, the words from the first letter still pressing against the back of her eyes. *I am the true Elspeth Thorne.*
Outside, the last light had drained from the sky over the Shenandoah Valley. A single desk lamp threw a cone of yellow across the detritus of the centennial—a forgotten name tag reading “Board Member,” a program creased in half, the foil-wrapped ham biscuit she’d never eaten. The 1912 botany manual lay open beside her keyboard, its spine cracked wide, the hollow space where the letters had been hidden now empty. She’d sat there for ten minutes after reading the first letter, listening to the old building settle, before she could bring herself to pull out the rest.
She reached for her phone on the blotter and thumbed Clara Bellweather’s number.
Clara answered on the fourth ring, a little breathless. “Maeve! Did you get a chance to look at that old botany book yet?”
“I did,” Maeve said. “It’s lovely. I was wondering, do you remember exactly where you found it?”
“At the Carmichael estate sale, just outside Winchester. The family had been clearing out an old storage room full of trunks. They were practically giving things away.”
Maeve tapped a pen against the desk. “So it belonged to the Carmichaels?”
“I don’t think so. There was a nameplate inside the front cover, but it was too faded to read. Wait, let me think.” A pause, the click of a lamp switch. “I recall the seller mentioning it came from the estate of a distant relative, a Miss Hartwell, I believe. Florence Hartwell. She passed away last year at ninety-six. Her things were mixed in with the Carmichaels’ because of some family connection. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I like knowing the history behind the books we get.”
Clara gave a small, pleased hum. “Quite right. History is everywhere, isn’t it? You never know what secrets an old book might hold.”
Maeve’s eyes went to the stack of letters. “Indeed you don’t.”
“Well, if you find anything interesting, you’ll let me know?”
“Of course. Goodnight, Clara.”
She ended the call and stared at the letters. Eleven of them, each a folded sheet torn from a journal with rough edges, tied with a blue ribbon now faded to gray. The first had been a plea. The second was an accusation. She lifted it now, her hands steady only because she forced them to be.
*October 12, 1924*
*Dearest Abigail,*
*They have moved me again. This new place is colder, and the women here do not speak. I begged the doctor to contact my lawyer, to send word to you, but he only smiled and said Eleanor had explained my “episodes.” The money she pays them keeps the doors locked and the pens full. She came to see me last week, dressed in my green silk dress, wearing my mother’s garnet brooch. She sat in the visitor’s chair and told me I would be much happier here, where I could rest. Then she said the gardens would be beautiful, and that people would remember my name forever. My name, Abigail. She is building something with my name.*
Maeve set the page down. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until sparks burst behind the lids. Eleanor. The letters named her again and again. Eleanor Vance, the hired companion who had insinuated herself into the life of the frail, wealthy Elspeth Thorne. Eleanor and her brother Henry, who handled the legal papers and the doctors.
The third letter was shorter.
*November 3, 1924*
*Abigail, they have recorded me under a false name. I am Eleanor here, not Elspeth. She has taken everything. Even my name on the intake forms is hers. If you do not hear from me again, know that I did not choose this.*
Maeve read all eleven letters without stopping. The story they told was methodical and monstrous. Eleanor Vance, with Henry’s help, had first isolated Elspeth from her remaining family, then had her declared incompetent through a bought doctor’s testimony. By the summer of 1924, Elspeth was in an asylum in Baltimore, and Eleanor was posing as Elspeth Thorne in the newly purchased Oakhaven estate. The fortune—railroad money from Elspeth’s late father—went to buying land, commissioning the first greenhouse, planting the formal gardens. The founding myth of the town was a lie. Every plaque, every framed photograph in the visitor center, every school tour that praised the visionary Miss Thorne was a tribute to a stolen identity.
She was holding the last letter when her phone buzzed. Leo’s name glowed on the screen. She cleared her throat twice before answering.
“Hey, Maeve. Sorry to bug you so late. I just finished locking up the tool shed and I found that the solenoid valve for the sprinklers in the east bed is leaking again. Did we ever order the replacement from that company in Harrisonburg?”
“Not yet. I’ll add it to the list. We can grab one from Cole’s Hardware tomorrow.”
“Cole’s? Sam usually gives us a discount if we buy in bulk. Should I call him?”
“No, I’ll handle it.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I need to talk to him about something else anyway.”
A beat of silence. “You sound a little… I dunno, strained? You all right? That centennial took it out of all of us, but you especially.”
“I’m fine, Leo. Just tired. Lot on my mind.”
“I heard Julian Thorne was bending your ear again. What’s he want this time?”
Maeve glanced at the letters. “Just more talk about the Gardens’ future.”
“The back acreage, right? I saw his car parked up by the ridge last week. He was out there pacing around with a surveyor’s tape.”
Her hand tightened on the phone. “He what?”
“Yeah, a couple of weeks ago. I figured you knew. Sorry, I should have mentioned it.”
“No,” Maeve said. “It’s… thanks for telling me. We’ll talk tomorrow. Get some rest.”
“You too, Maeve. Don’t stay up all night.”
She set the phone down. Julian Thorne, the great-grand-nephew of the woman who had founded the Gardens. The woman who wasn’t a Thorne at all.
Maeve stood and walked to the framed botanical print of a Virginia bluebell that hung beside her filing cabinet. She lifted it from its hook and set it on the floor, revealing the small wall safe behind it. Her fingers found the dial, cold to the touch. 18-97-24. The combination had been the same for twenty years—Elspeth’s birth year and the founding year, a small, private joke she now wanted to scrub from her memory.
The safe door swung open. She gathered the letters, the ribbon now lying loose in the hollow of the book’s spine, and slid them back inside the manual where she’d found them. Then she placed the book in the safe, shut the door, and spun the dial hard. The clunk of the locking bolts was louder than she expected in the silent office.
She leaned her forehead against the cool wall. This building, this desk, her entire career—all built on a crime. She didn’t know what to do with that knowledge. She didn’t know if doing anything was even her place.
Her phone rang again.
Julian Thorne’s name flashed across the screen. She straightened, smoothed her shirt, and answered.
“Maeve, good, you’re still up. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“It’s fine. What do you need, Julian?”
His voice was smooth, but there was an edge under it she hadn’t heard before. “We need to meet first thing in the morning. David will be there as well. There’s been a development regarding the back acreage that requires immediate attention.”
“What kind of development?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person. Eight o’clock, your office. I promise it’ll be worth your time. The Gardens stand to benefit considerably.”
Maeve looked at the print of the bluebell still leaning against the wall. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Excellent. Goodnight, friend.”
She didn’t answer. The line clicked dead. Outside, a late-night mockingbird started its list of borrowed songs. Maeve stood in the lamplight, the weight of a hundred years pressing down on the small, quiet room, and waited for morning.
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