Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

that I thought about it, all the clues were there at the beginning. “So, you work for the farmers and take care of me?”

He shrugged.  “Pretty much, when I’m not taking care of my own fields.”

“Where are your fields?” I asked.

“I rent certain fields around the county from landowners who don’t want to farm them.  That’s in addition to farming my own.”

“And where are your fields?”

“All around you and the Cottage.”

My jaw dropped. “You own Waterwood?”

He checked his rearview mirror and seemed to concentrate on his driving as we made our way down the empty road. Quietly, he answered. “Yes, what’s left of it.”

“What do you mean, what’s left of it?”

“In its glory days,” he explained. “It was one of the largest plantations in the county, one of the largest on the Eastern Shore.”

I stared out the windshield, trying to process this new information.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he continued. “Land rich doesn’t mean wealthy. There are lots of expenses – taxes, upkeep. The thought of heating the house in the winter staggers the mind.”

“You live in the main house?”

He sighed.  “Yes, but it isn’t as grand as it once was.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Almost home.” And he clicked the turn signal for the road to the Cottage. I looked at the fields and thought about this man and his connection to Waterwood. And Daniel?

He interrupted my thoughts with instructions. “Don’t forget to take your pain pill when you get inside. There’s no way you’re backing out of the meeting tomorrow night.”

“What meeting?” I was hoping he’d forgotten.

“The meeting of the writing group. Catherine said she’d pick you up at six. I’ll give you a ride home afterward. Take a nap before if you can.”  Suddenly, he held up a hand in submission. “Look, it’s what you said you wanted. You want to write. Catherine says you need support. I don’t know anything about books, except how to read them. The only thing I can do is to get you with people who can help you.  I only meant…”

“I got it. But that’s tomorrow. I have a lot of reading to do today.” And I added in the quiet of my mind, the first thing I have to do is read about how to deal with a ghost.

Chapter Sixteen

“Before the development of the fountain pen by Waterman & Co. after the Civil War, a person using a dip pen needed a traveler, a small, portable inkwell that kept the ink secure. The tiny traveler came in different shapes, such as an acorn, ladies hat box, or leather-covered case and was a source of personal expression.”

– Member of the International Society of Inkwell Collectors

At home, after a quick snack to put something in my stomach, I popped the pain pill and sat, waiting for it to kick in. The smart thing to do would be to take a nap, but the adrenaline was still pumping from the field fire. And Daniel was overdue for a response. It wouldn’t be smart to rile him.

I made my way into the writing den, moving slowly to learn how to negotiate the Cottage with both legs and the crutches. It made things better, but it was still awkward. Relieved, I plopped into the chair at the desk. If I sat still and rested my leg, it was almost as good as taking a nap, right?

I wanted to prepare to write an appropriate letter to Daniel. I pulled out the research pages about writing instruments used during the Civil War. I set aside the last letter from Daniel along with copies from the Maryland Room to use as an example of the handwriting from that period. Preparations to write the actual letter were cumbersome. I needed paper, pens, a bottle of ink and a rocker blotter for the wet ink. Fortunately, the desk had lots of cubbyholes and niches to organize things. It wasn't as convenient as using the internet and typing out an email, but it certainly got me in the mood.

I opened the ink bottle without mishap and dipped the pen into it. It wasn’t as classy as using an antique inkwell, but it worked as long as the nib didn't go too deep into the bottle and drench the paper with wet ink blobs. It took some trial and error to get the pen and ink right.

Then it was time to test my penmanship. I sent out a silent thank you to my elementary school teacher who had patiently drilled us in the art of cursive handwriting. The flowing style was rapidly becoming a lost art. Many schools didn't even bother teaching it to today's students. They even print their signatures. I’d read the reports in the news about the demise of cursive handwriting, but the ramifications didn’t hit home until I took on my first student teacher. I wrote a note and handed it to a student to give to her. Moments later, she was back asking me to decipher it. I thought she couldn't read my handwriting, but that wasn't it. She couldn't read the words at all. I'd written using cursive. From then on, I had to print every note for her.

My normal handwriting wasn't fancy or flowery. During the Civil War, people took their time forming words on a piece of paper, especially capitalized letters. Some were ornate, even in a simple letter from a Union soldier to his wife.

I spent some time practicing so I didn’t speckle the paper with ink droplets.  Slowly, I moved the nib across the paper more evenly. Then I made a sample alphabet of the capital letters to use for reference. The other impressive thing about