Arsenic And Old Books

Celeste, the wretched girl, has been behaving oddly these past weeks. Finally she has come to me with a confession that I can scarcely believe. It seems that those times when I sent her to aid Vidalia Singletary and her children, Celeste behaved shockingly. She claims that she was seduced, but Franklin Singletary has never impressed me as a particularly forceful nor articulate boy. I suspect that Celeste is wholly to blame for her current condition for I have known her to be of a flirtatious nature before now.

TWENTY-FIVE

Though Rachel Long did not use the word pregnant, I knew that was what she meant by Celeste’s condition. Franklin Singletary was the father of a slave’s child.

I wondered whether that bit of family history had been passed down to the present generation.

In the next few entries Rachel made no mention of Celeste or the Singletarys. Then came the sad news, on November 16, 1861.

Franklin Singletary came today to tell us that the three younger children died in the night. They remained feeble, their sickness unabated, since the summer. The weather of the past weeks was harmful to them, I am certain. Cold, wet, damp, it could not have helped their poor frail lungs. I take some comfort knowing that at least they had warm garments from the cloth I provided. Franklin reports that Vidalia is so weak she cannot move from her bed and his father is prostrate with grief at the loss of his children.

Franklin most humbly begged for assistance to dig the graves, for his father has no workers to aid him. Jasper Singletary was most vehement against the use of slave labor, an attitude that of course did not aid his cause among his fellow citizens. Father Long kindly offered him the use of two of the young, strong field hands, and they went with Franklin to perform the sad duty.

Even at the distance of one hundred and fifty years, I felt the grief of such a tragic loss. Poor Jasper Singletary. No wonder the man was out of his mind—or that his wife died of a broken heart. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than outliving one’s child, let alone three children.

I had to take a break from the diary. My head needed clearing after reading such a heartrending story. Diesel, bless him, sensed my distress. He chirped and leaned from the windowsill to butt his head against my shoulder. He continued to chirp and purr while I stroked him. I felt better after a couple of minutes of special Diesel therapy.

I still didn’t feel like going back to the diary. There was only so much pathos I could take in a day. As Diesel settled back on the windowsill to clean his front paws, I debated what to do. There were always books waiting to be cataloged, but there was another task I suddenly remembered needed doing.

“I’m going next door, boy,” I told the cat. “You stay here and nap.” Diesel answered me with a sleepy meow and a yawn.

With all the other things on my mind, I had forgotten about searching through the Long collection to find the copy of Angeline McCarthy Long’s memoir of Rachel Long that Miss Eulalie said she donated.

In the storage room next to my office I unlocked the door and switched on the lights. I left the door slightly ajar in case Diesel came to look for me. I remembered where the Long collection was shelved and headed to the far end of the room from the door.