Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) Read online

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Daniel sighed. “The back of the house there being open. Some friends got together with tarps and big tents and stuff. We’re going to cover it up as soon as the firemen leave.”

  That would help, for now. “Do they have any idea who did this?”

  Daniel shrugged. He looked rough and wild, like he’d been up all night. There were even smudges of black on his face as though, he, too had tried to jump into the rubble and pull something out. “They think maybe just kids. Only one who would stand to gain anything by setting it on fire is the owners and they’re in New York this week, visiting family.”

  “Doesn’t mean they couldn’t have hired someone to do it,” Taryn pointed out.

  “Yeah, I know. Fact is, it doesn’t matter. This will put us so far over our projected budget I don’t think we’ll ever get there now. We only have a week.”

  “What’s your campaign up to?”

  “That’s the thing; it was actually doing pretty good. We were up to almost $8,000. My professor, the one who pulled out? He had a change of heart and went back in. Wouldn’t tell me why. Brought in some other friends, too.”

  Taryn smiled and patted him on the arm. “Well, maybe this will turn into a blessing in disguise. People like to jump in and help during tragedies. You never know. It might bring in even more money.”

  “I know,” Daniel tugged at his bears peppered with ash. “I thought about it. But damn it, why the tavern? That part hadn’t even changed much since the 1800s.”

  When Taryn got back to the B&B she turned off the television, put a CD in her laptop (Caroline Herring’s haunting “Lantana”) and brought out a clean canvas. In her painting for Daniel and his organization she’d been working on a profile of the inn and the tavern, showing a little bit of everything. It wasn’t a difficult project because as poor of shape as the building was in, it was still whole. She didn’t have to use her talent for anything more than prettying it up, more or less.

  Now, with the tavern gone, she focused on doing what she did best–seeing things that weren’t there. This picture would be completely dedicated to the tavern end and nothing else. She had tons of photographs of it and her memory would serve her as well. The rest she would make up.

  On the top part of the canvas she used charcoal to sketch the exterior of the tavern. It was one story, brick, with a line of windows running down the side. A small porch extended from the side entrance, just big enough for two or three people to stand on at once.

  At the bottom she sketched the interior. Here, she drew tables, a bar, chairs, a wide enough place at the back that could be used for dancing. She didn’t include any people, but left plates and bowls on the table, glasses on the bar, lanterns lit…it appeared as though everyone had simply got up and walked away one night. The two images she blended together with the front of the inn between them so both appeared to fade in and out of it.

  It took her nearly two hours to do the rendering and she went through three charcoal sticks. By then, she was exhausted and hungry. She was almost finished with the main painting, but would work on this one in the evenings and then present it as a gift to Daniel before she left. If they were able to raise the money they might be able to use it. If not, she hoped he would at least appreciate it for sentimental value.

  Chapter 17

  Dear Taryn,

  It was so nice to hear from you. I’ve recently gotten into genealogy, thanks to Ancestry.com, so your email came as a wonderful surprise to me. I know a little about my great-great grandfather Elijah from stories my grandpa told. I also knew of his sister, Permelia, but mostly from the letters she sent home. Although she never returned to Boston after moving to Indiana to be with her husband, she wrote home frequently. She corresponded regularly with her sister, my great-great-great Aunt Lucy, and her mother. As an only child and descendent I was lucky enough to acquire these when my mother passed away recently.

  I’ve scanned the letters I have and attached them. There aren’t too many but I hope they help. Please let me know if I can help you in any other way.

  I’d love to see any pictures you’ve taken and look at your painting once it’s finished. I’ve seen one image of the tavern in an old history book, but it wasn’t very plain.

  Sincerely,

  Eve

  Taryn closed her eyes, exhilaration rushing through her. Matt had come through for her; she was finally going to get somewhere. The fire was a slap in the face; seeing the damage was awful. But then, when he told her about the email, she’d been uplifted. Letters would definitely help, Taryn thought with excitement. If nothing else they would give her an insight to Permelia’s personality and maybe a little more information as to what she might want.

  Settling down into her pillow, Taryn started reading.

  October 1, 1839

  Dear Lucy,

  We arrived by stagecoach yesterday and the ride was not as awful as I’d feared. The air was cold in the evening but I was wrapped snuggly and there were blankets and rugs to help take the chill off. I am sure you want to hear all about my marriage and not my transportation, however.

  I met James three days ago. He was awaiting my arrival and was almost exactly the way he’d described himself. I say “almost” because I find him much more attractive than what he had boasted. He is a tall man with black hair and blue eyes. He says his ancestors are from Ireland, although he has been here for three generations. He is lively of spirit and animated. He can tell raucous jokes with the other men and is yet still tender and gentle with me. He has made me laugh many times on the journey and for that I am grateful.

  The tavern is much pleasanter than expected. We have a set of rooms that are spacious and well-equipped. My trunks take up much space but James doesn’t mind. I know Father is not keen on my being a proprietor of such an establishment but, I can assure you, it is a well-respected title here and James is looked upon in favor.

  We do have many people working here. We have several servants who help with the cooking, the cleaning, the maintenance. Lydia has been with James from the beginning. She is the cook and her husband, Paul, takes care of the horses. We’ve made close friends with one another and she’s teaching me what I need to know.

  Please write when you are able to.

  Much love,

  Permelia

  September 22, 1840

  Dear Lucy,

  It is difficult to believe I have lived here for almost a year. The first few months were lonely and I was terribly homesick. I thought of you constantly and cried myself to sleep on many occasions. Being an adult is more difficult than I imagined. It’s difficult enough to be a wife; looking after dozens of strangers every night and ensuring that each traveler is well taken care of and tended to is nigh on exhausting. Many times I’ve longed to be back in Boston with you, walking through the gardens or enjoying a recital. Simply laughing again with another woman would be ideal. I do feel, however, that I am becoming accustomed to this life and it is starting to bring me joy. I enjoy meeting the new travelers, hearing their stories, and tending to them. We haven’t any children yet but I think of those weary souls as mine, in a sense.

  I am sorry Father is still not speaking of me. I did write him a letter but he did not respond. Please tell him I send my love.

  Permelia

  February 5, 1841

  Dearest Mother,

  I do hope this letter finds you well and in good health. I think about you daily and wonder how you are doing. I have settled into my role here at Griffith Tavern and although there are days that are trying, I do love it here. I also love my husband. He is a strong, kind, and generous man. We are partners as much as we are husband and wife and this is deeply satisfying to me. Although we run our business and I play hostess to the guests each night, it is late when everyone has turned in and it’s just the two of us when I am the happiest. We often stay up until dawn, simply enjoying one another’s company and talking. His companionship means the world to me, just as yo
urs did.

  I know I didn’t do a good job of explaining why I left Boston. The truth is, I have always had a yearning in me to see more and do more. When I looked at the other young women and the lives they were settling into, I saw their happiness but I also saw the sameness in what they were doing. I did not feel that was the life for me. This life I have chosen is difficult and trying, but it does make me happy.

  The tavern is struggling a little. Our guests come at an influx or else there is a dry spell. Sometimes they barter for their rooms and meals. Although this occasionally does work to our advantage, like many people we also need the coins. When they are not able to pay, we suffer as well.

  We hoped to have a child by now and, indeed, I was with child for a short time period. I caught an illness, however, and the doctor thought it traveled to the child I carried. He does think we will go on to have more children. That is my one true hope. I wish to fill our home with laughter and song from those who belong to us.

  Please tell Father I send my best. I love you and think of you every day.

  Yours,

  Permelia

  May 26, 1841

  Dear Lucy,

  I am sorry it has taken me so long to respond to your last letter. We have been ever so busy here at the tavern and inn. More and more people continue to come through and stop and I feel as though I am constantly moving around, tending to others. My back and feet ache at the end of every day but it’s a happy kind of fatigue I feel. We are thriving in our purse and James is delighted at our progress. We hosted a party three nights ago and it continued until dawn. I love dancing so much, as you know, and although my feet were bleeding by the time I went upstairs to our rooms I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy.

  We did experience one mishap recently. A month ago, one of our boarders partook in the whiskey a little too strongly. He wandered away from the tavern in the early morning hours and fell into the large hole in the back. We try to warn our guests about these, and most abide, but we assume he must not have been in his right senses. He was not traveling with his family and seemed to be alone in the world. This may have been a blessing in disguise because at least there is no one to mourn him

  I am so very happy to learn of your engagement. I would like to attend your wedding but am currently unable to travel since I am now carrying a child. Yes, it is happy news and a good time for both of us. I am certain you will look lovely in your dress and please know I will be thinking of you and all the happiness you deserve.

  Love,

  Permelia

  September 9, 1841

  Dear Mother,

  As I grow nearer to my birthing I am reminded of the sacrifices you made for your children and I yearn to be closer to you. I have a few trusted women here to help me, but none of them are replacements for my mother. I am more than a little frightened, but I know I will come through the ordeal and, when I do, will be blessed with what James and I have so patiently waited for.

  Several new inns have been built here in town but ours remains the most popular. Many guests say it is due to the food. I like to think I have something to do with that. I discovered my talent for baking and cooking upon moving here. Naturally, as I near the end of my condition, we have hired others to perform those duties so I may rest more.

  We did recently build a pavilion. It’s beautiful and just right off the tavern. It will be glorious next summer when we can have music there and guests can enjoy the warm evenings in it. We use it now on nights that aren’t too chilly.

  Please remember to say a prayer for me and my child when the time comes.

  Love truly,

  Permelia

  November 8, 1841

  Dear Lucy,

  I have more respect now for our mother, and all mothers, than ever before. Birthing was an ordeal I’d wish to forget. I knew I was dying at one moment, although the women around me said all women think that. I did deliver a healthy baby girl, however, and that is the important thing. We named her Hannah Rachel. She is an absolute angel and rarely makes a peep. I am completely in love with her, as is James. She is the light of the tavern and all the guests wish to make her acquaintance on a nightly basis. Oh, how I wish you could see her! And I wish I could have been in attendance at your wedding. Mother said Father didn’t want me there at all. I am afraid he still feels shame about my departure. I did so hope he was come around in time.

  Do know I love you and think about you daily.

  Yours,

  Permelia

  April 16, 1842

  Dear Mother,

  I hoped to write sooner, but was quite unable. I trust you received the letter from James himself. He read me aloud the words he wrote to you and I felt them adequate, although no words can ever describe our true grief.

  The preacher said our Hannah was too good for this world, too pure. We had more than one hundred souls in attendance for her small, sad funeral. The inn was shut down for almost an entire week, although visitors still came and brought food, drinks, and other items of comfort. One young woman made me a beautiful quilt and another brought me a wreath she made of dried flowers and berries. We still have it hanging on our door. I am blessed beyond compare to live in such a place where people are kind, attentive.

  Hannah was not ill. She simply passed on as she slept. When I awoke the morning felt too late. I realized she had slept through her feeding and changing. The cold dread that ran through my veins was perhaps mother’s intuition. I knew she was gone before I approached her bed. Still, I hoped.

  Her little mouth was drawn in a smile, her cheeks still flushed as though she was merely sleeping. Her tiny hands curled around the blanket you sent her. But she was cold, oh so cold. I held her and wept until James pried her out of my arms and took her away. His grief is insurmountable. She was his angel. I mourn as well, but Lydia has proven to be a rock for me in this time. James, I fear, has no one. He will not speak to me about it.

  The doctor says we will have more. I am not sure I will be able to carry another; the burden in my heart is too heavy.

  Permelia

  December 10, 1842

  Dear Lucy,

  Here is wishing you and your family a wonderful Merry Christmas. I hope it is filled with love and laughter. The inn is alive with wonderment. We invite the local children to meet St. Nicholas here. James is busy giving away sweets. He’s even bought toys to hand out to everyone. It is a festive atmosphere and I am trying my very best to stay happy and merry for everyone.

  Please pass on my love to Father.

  Yours truly,

  Permelia

  October 21, 1846

  Dear Lucy,

  Another tragedy has struck us. Sometimes it feels as though grief and hurt will never leave. My beloved James was killed last week when his horse threw him to the ground. We buried him two days later. I am a widow now and do not quite know what to do with myself. James was more than just my husband, he was my friend. I was connected to him in ways I never thought imaginable. He was the light of this inn, a beautiful soul. I could not have asked for anyone to be better to me, or to love me more.

  My bed is so cold now; cold and lonesome. I have sent word to Mother to inquire about coming home. I don’t wish to stay here any longer. How can I without my love?

  Permelia

  December 1, 1846

  Dear Lucy,

  Thank you for your generous offer. I do not think any household is large enough for two families, however, and with your husband and dear children already in yours I fear I would only be in the way. It is unfortunate Father won’t welcome me back into his home. I will find a way to survive here, never fear. It breaks my heart but I am strong and will find a way to become stronger. I have difficult decisions to make ahead, but I will make them, even if they break my heart.

  Take care my dear,

  Permelia

  There were no more letters. They’d either been lost through the years or Permelia had simply stopped writing. When she was finished reading them
she’d gone for a walk. Now she sat back in her rocking chair on the porch and gazed out into the yard. The reading had left her emotionally drained. Before, Permelia had simply been a character in history, a name. And a face. But now she was a real living and breathing person. She’d been someone who enjoyed her work, had loved her husband, had yearned for a child and then lost one. She hadn’t gone back to her family in Boston because they didn’t want her. She stayed here not out of love but because she had no other viable option. It had, perhaps, been desperation that made the tavern and inn so successful after her husband’s death; failure simply wasn’t an option for Permelia.

  She’d been a fairly young woman when her husband was killed. And she’d lived to be almost ninety. All those years running the tavern alone…