Dead End Street by Sheila Connolly Page A

in the Commonwealth. They did lots of entertaining—Ben Franklin stayed there now and then, before the Revolution. Typical layout, and most of the woodwork is original. Great staircase. As the story goes, they kept slaves in the attic, a long,
long
time ago. What else you want to know?”
    â€œHave the ladies had any conversation with local officials?”
    â€œI don’t think so—not genteel enough for them, and they didn’t want to get the lawyer involved, at least not yet. We might be able to walk them through the process to gift it to the town, but that’s the last resort. Look, nothing has to be decided today. We’re just chatting. Did I mention they want to give the furniture with it?”
    â€œYes, you did, yesterday. I will reserve judgment, but I won’t make any promises to them. You said yesterday they were mentally alert?”
    â€œYup, sharp as tacks. You’ll see.”
    After another half hour of driving, we pulled into a long driveway and arrived in front of a handsome colonial house. I made a quick visual inventory: central doorway with traditional portico on columns, flanked by two windows on either side. A carriage house with three bays, closed off by arched doors, lay behind the house on the right. The ground-floor windows had to be six feet high—no expense spared when the place was built. Two central brick chimneys indicated the fireplaces that had heated the rooms. From a quick perusal, I couldn’t see any obvious signs of neglect or damage: the paint, while not new, was still sound, the roof had all its shingles, and the foundation stones were still well pointed. It was, simply, a beautiful example of the architecture of its time. But that didn’t mean the Society could do anything with it.
    Marty parked, and I followed her to the front door (whose hardware also appeared to be original). She rapped the large brass knocker firmly, and it took little time before we could hear the tap-tap of shoes—with heels, if I guessed correctly. The door was opened by a woman only a couple of inches shorter than I was, wearing a nice shirtwaist dress and, as I had deduced, low-heeled pumps. A string of pearls circled her neck, and her white hair was swept neatly up in a soft chignon. I hoped I would look anywhere near as good when I was approaching ninety.
    She extended a hand, and I took it; her grip was strong. “I’m Phoebe Oliver, and you must be Nell Pratt. Thank you for coming all this way to see us. We don’t get many visitors these days, I’m afraid—Penelope and I have outlived mostof our peers, sadly. Please come in. Good to see you again, Martha.”
    â€œI’m always happy to see you, Phoebe.” Marty and Phoebe exchanged a brief hug, and I wondered how well they knew each other.
    â€œWould you like a cup of tea after your journey, Ms. Pratt, or would you prefer to see the house first?”
    â€œPlease, call me Nell. Frankly I’m itching to see the house. It’s imposing, and your family appears to have taken good care of it.”
    â€œWe can’t take all the credit. I’m not sure how much Martha has told you, but our ancestor had it snatched from him a very long time ago because he chose the wrong side during the Revolution. It was our great-grandfather who managed to buy it back, shortly after his return from the Civil War, before too much had been changed. But you’re right—it had been lovingly maintained in the interval, and there was little to do in the way of repairs. I will be happy to show you.”
    Marty and I followed her through a series of rooms, large and square, with wide-plank floors the color of honey, and simple paneling embellishing walls and fireplaces. I noted that there were radiators under most of the windows, so there had been some changes made over time, but those were not obtrusive. The rooms were furnished, but the furniture was a bit sparse. Still, each piece