Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(48)
She nodded and shook his hand firmly. “I am. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Clarke, especially at the last minute. In truth, I expected to speak with one of your employees.”
He gestured for her to sit, and the secretary discreetly left them. “Perfect timing is perfect timing. I hope your travel was fair?”
Hulda sat, propping her bag on her lap. “Quite, thank you.”
Mr. Clarke retook his own chair, sliding his lunch off to the side. “I’m so grateful for your response. It’s hard for us to find magically capable women who aren’t already spoken for or too old to—”
“Mr. Clarke.” Hulda was not one to interrupt, but her cheeks were already flushing at his insinuation, and she did not care to further darken them. “You have mistaken me. In my telegram, I stated I was here to research the Mansel name.”
Fortunately, Mr. Clarke did not seem insulted—he merely chuckled. “Ah, yes, so you did.” Reaching over, he picked up a small piece of paper, the telegram itself. “I was hoping we’d be able to discuss both things.”
Hulda straightened as tall as she could in her chair—sometimes a stiff spine made her flushing recede faster, and there were few things she loathed more than being red in the face, especially in front of a man. “I am still . . . considering the other matter of business. But today I’m here on behalf of the Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms.” Snapping open her bag, she pulled out her list of names, as well as the rubbings of the graves. “I have a possessed house on Blaugdone Island and need to find the identity of the inhabiting wizard. These graves were found nearby.” She handed the papers over.
Mr. Clarke pored over the papers for several minutes. Hulda remained silent. She didn’t mind silence, especially when there was work being done.
“Very well done, Miss Larkin,” he finally said. “Some fifty years ago, we did a survey of early colonial townships—by we, I mean those before me—all the way back to the Mayflower.” He shrugged. “Could be forty or sixty, with this brain of mine. And with this brain of yours”—he held up one of the rubbings—“you would be an excellent genealogist.”
She smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, but I am safely employed for the time being.”
Gathering the papers, Mr. Clarke stood, and Hulda followed suit. “Take these out to Gifford—he’s the one who saw you in. He’ll personally take you down to the files you need. If they’re not there, well, then I haven’t been doing my job.”
Hulda shook the man’s hand once more. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Clarke.”
“Thank you. Do see me when you’re finished.” Sitting down, he pulled over his lunch. “So I can better explain what my earlier letter didn’t.”
Hulda nodded, if only to be polite, then left, her steps carrying her a fair bit quicker than they had before.
In the basement, Mr. Gifford carried the box of Narragansett records to a table for her and lit a second lantern. Hulda pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders as she sat in the single chair available; it was cold in this vast, earth-scented space.
“Everything should be right there for you,” the secretary said. “Do you need help?”
Hulda shook her head. “I shan’t keep you from your post. I’m accustomed to file digging.”
Mr. Gifford tipped his head. “You know where to find me.”
With that, he left her to her box. Lifting a candle, Hulda scanned the handwritten tabs, making sure she could reorder the documents if she had to overturn the whole thing to find what she needed.
However, Mr. Clarke and his predecessors had indeed done their job well, and she found the information she wanted quickly, in a thin folder labeled Blaugdone, Gould, Hope Islands, 1656–1750.
She thumbed through a few fragile papers before pulling out one with the Mansel name on it. It was a long parchment, about three feet, folded into thirds. Shifting the box to the ground, she flattened it on the table and brought the second candle closer. A date scrawled in remarkable penmanship on the bottom stated that these records had been created in 1793. Hulda briefly wondered how many gravestones the recorder had had to uncover.
“There you are.” She pressed the tip of a well-manicured nail to the name Horace Thomas Mansel. His birth, christening, and death dates were neatly printed beneath his name, followed by brief handwritten notes on his calculated magic. His wife’s name—Evelyn Peg Turly—was beside his, her information arrayed in a similar manner, though her christening was marked as unknown. These records were made well after the family’s passing, so their magical potential must have been estimated. Ch14 was penned under Horace. Co6? beneath Evelyn.
Ch was shorthand for chaocracy, which the house certainly had. Co was shorthand for communion, which, thus far, Hulda had not witnessed. However, the question mark suggested uncertainty.
“And a Crisly,” she said, following a line to Horace and Evelyn’s firstborn child. She and her children had been buried in Baltimore—it appeared she’d gotten married and moved off the island, which explained why her grave marker wasn’t with the others. All daughters, indeed.
Crisly likely wasn’t the wizard of the house, despite her magic markers. Baltimore was too far away. Unless the records had gotten it wrong and Crisly had died and been buried at Whimbrel House. It was a possibility.