Rituals by Mary Anna Evans Page B

Armistead. And the return address is from Seneca Falls.”
    She held the letter out to her mother, but Faye didn’t take it. This was Amande’s moment. Faye just asked, “Can you read it?”
    She watched the girl lay the sheets of the letter over her work surface, smoothing them individually with hands sheathed in white cotton gloves. Despite her desire to see Amande do this herself, Faye couldn’t resist doing her own hands-off assessment. The paper looked supple and it wasn’t terribly yellowed. The use of wood pulp in paper had already begun at the time this letter was written but, by 1848, the Armisteads were living in grand style in Tilda’s and Myrna’s beautiful mansions. Virginia Armistead would have had the means to buy high-quality paper. Perhaps she was using stationery bought when she was a bride, possibly many years before. It would be no big trick to find out how long she’d been married in 1848.
    Faye could see a monogram on the stationery, centered on an elaborate “A” that might have been a symbol of a bride’s pride in her new name. So maybe they would find that they were lucky in Mrs. Armistead’s choice of writing paper. But had the ink bled or faded? Was her beautiful but archaic penmanship still legible?
    Amande’s face gave her that answer. As the girl read, her mouth dropped open.
    Still agape, she looked up at Faye with her index finger still pointed at the second paragraph. “She says, ‘I haven’t yet had the pleasure of seeing dear Mrs. Stanton. I am given to understand that she has been at work with her pen, using words on paper to speak for us all. Forgive me, dear husband, if I have misspoken, for perhaps she does not speak for you. For myself and our daughter, however, I wish for the security to know that our property will remain ours to control. And, though I know you disagree on this point, I wish to have a voice in all my affairs, including those of my country. I wish to vote. When we gather tomorrow, I shall take the chance to say so.’ ”
    Amande removed her forefinger from the letter. “Oh, Mom.”
    The history geek in Faye wanted to snatch the letter up and read it, immediately, but the mother in her stilled her hand. There was only one way impulsive Faye would be able to give Amande the chance to fully appreciate what she had found. She needed to leave the room.
    â€œYou transcribe the letter,” she said as she hugged the girl and then hurried out the door. “I’ll go tell Myrna what you found.”
    ***
    As Faye pulled the museum door shut behind her, she reminded herself that Amande was completely capable of transcribing the letter safely. It was already spread across her clean workspace. She hardly needed to touch it. There was no food or drink in the room, and Faye couldn’t imagine her daughter sloshing a Coke across an irreplaceable letter, anyway. Everything would be fine.
    Since she was concentrating on disasters that weren’t going to happen, instead of looking where she was going, she walked straight into a defenseless pedestrian.
    Mortified, Faye looked the woman over to make sure she wasn’t hurt. She was older than Faye, but still far from being one of the octogenarians who seemed so common in Rosebower. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was stupid of me. Are you okay?”
    â€œI hardly felt anything. You’re not big enough to hurt a fly.”
    Faye reflected that she might have inflicted a little damage on both of them, if she’d been traveling at top speed. Fortunately, her momentum had been low.
    â€œAren’t you the archaeologist working for Samuel? My name is Toni. I love history, and I think your work is just fascinating.”
    â€œIf you like dusty and dirty old junk.”
    â€œI don’t just like dusty and dirty old junk. I like Samuel’s dusty and dirty excuse for a museum.”
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me. The