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Sam asked, “Miss Cynthia, how do you and Julianne know each other?”
“I try to make it up to Washington once a year. I love its history. I met Miss Julianne about five years ago during a tour. I guess she found my pestering questions endearing, so we stayed in touch. Whenever I find a new piece I can’t identify, I call her for help. She’s been here to visit. Excuse me while I check on our tea.” She disappeared through another door and returned two minutes later. “It’s steeping. While we’re waiting, let me show you what you came to see.”
She led them back out of the parlor, across the foyer, down a short hall, and through a door into a spacious, sunlit room painted snow white.
“Welcome to Miss Cynthia’s Museum and Gallery,” she said.
Much like in Morton’s Museum and Curiosity Shop in Bagamoyo, Miss Cynthia had assembled a plethora of artifacts—these all related to the Civil War—from musket balls and rifles to uniform patches and daguerreotypes.
“I collected all of this with my own hands,” Miss Cynthia said proudly. “On battlefield sites, garage and estate sales . . . You’d be surprised what you find if you know what you’re looking for. Oh, my, that sounded very wise, didn’t it?”
Sam and Remi laughed. Remi said, “It did indeed.”
“Those bits come to you now and again as you age. Well, you can look around at your leisure later, but let me show you this.”
Miss Cynthia walked to the room’s northern wall, which was packed from floor to ceiling with framed photographs and sketches. She stood before it, lips pursed, as she scanned her eyes back and forth.
“Ah, there you are.”
She hobbled to the corner, reached up, and took down a black-framed four-by-six-inch image. She shuffled back and handed it to Sam.
A grainy daguerreotype showed a three-masted wooden ship sitting at anchor.
“My God,” Remi breathed. “It’s her.”
“Remi, look at this.” Sam brought the picture closer to their faces.
In the photo’s lower right-hand corner, etched in faded ink, was a single word: Ophelia.
FIVE MINUTES LATER in the parlor, teacups in hand, they were still staring, dumbfounded, at the photograph. Sam said, “How did you . . . ? Where . . . ?”
“That Julianne has quite a memory—eidetic, I think it’s called.”
“Photographic memory.”
“Yes. She spent hours in my museum. This morning she sent me a pencil sketch through the e-mail whatsahoozit and asked me to compare it to mine. I assume the sketch was yours?”
“Something tells us it’s more yours than ours,” Remi replied.
Miss Cynthia smiled, waved her hand. “I told Julianne the two could be twins, despite the difference in media. The same right down to the inscription.”
“Ophelia.”
“Yes. Sadly, we never knew much about her.”
“Pardon me?” said Sam.
“My apologies. I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, William Lynd Blaylock was my great-great-great—I’m not sure how many ‘great’s, but he was my uncle.”
Miss Cynthia smiled sweetly and took a sip of tea.
Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Remi pursed her lips, thinking, then said, “You’re a Blaylock?”
“Oh, no, no. I’m an Ashworth. So was Ophelia un
til she married William. After Aunt Ophelia was killed, my great-great—my grandmother Constance stayed in touch with William. It was never more than a friendship, of course, but I imagine there was some fondness there. He wrote her often, starting a few months after he got back from England and all the way until the end. Around 1883, I think.”
“The end,” Sam repeated. “You mean his death?”