We will all arrive in New York eleven days hence. I am eager to land.

I was amazed that in 1875 you could cross the ocean in a steamer in just eleven days. I looked back in the box for other travel papers and found her college diploma. She went to Oberlin. She must have known the artist Edmonia Lewis there. Lewis had been at Oberlin during the Civil War period and they were both sculptors.

Victoria's handwriting was difficult to read. You barely see anyone's handwriting anymore, much less flowery 19th century calligraphy from the point of a quill. But as I continued to turn through the pages, I got used to her style.

April 11th, 1875: The delivery and installation of my newest piece at the Vanderbilt's is done. One of Cornelius's older sons has suggested it may go to the new college the family is financing. As always, everyone is charming to me and the attention of the young men is almost comical. Yet my heart pines, but I feel I cannot hope. I wish Anne was here to advise me. Perhaps I will go to Boston to see her on the pretext of helping with her newest commission. Then I could ask her or Abby what would be my best course. But alas, I must first take Edmonia's work to New Orleans.

She's talking about Anne Whitney in this pa.s.sage. She and her partner Abigail Manning lived in Boston. I turned to my laptop and found some entries on Anne Whitney's life. She was indeed working on a preliminary study to enter in a commission compet.i.tion for the statue of abolitionist Clark Sumner in 1875.

And it must be Edmonia Lewis's work Victoria is going to deliver. I skimmed for another reference to Edmonia and found one.

April 23rd, 1875, Have finally reached New Orleans to deliver Edmonia's work. Though it has been ten years, one can still see the devastation of war. Amazingly, the trains are running well.

Though I am grateful that my trip was fully financed by my longtime college friend and colleague, and proud to be emissary of her work, there is grimness everywhere that pains me. Illness and loss. Yet, when I find sympathy in my heart for the current lives of struggling landowners, I then feel a kick of reversal when they speak of the blessed old days. They seem to have no awareness that their easy lives years ago were genteel due to the forced labor of human beings. A moral outrage, still.

The fact that I am delivering a monumental sculpture made by a woman of African, Haitian, and Ojibwe descent pleases me. Particularly so when white men disparage my role (as a woman) in conducting this important work to its destination!

I gasped inwardly at this pa.s.sage and then my eyes widened at the next sections that were clearly referring to Charlotte Cushman and Emma Stebbins! I skipped through them.

April 29th, 1875, Must rush back to Boston to see Charlotte do one of her readings at the Globe Theatre. Emma suggests in her latest letter that it may be Charlotte's last performance. And unlike her many final performances as Hamlet, I suspect Emma may be accurate.

May 16th, 1875, Charlotte's performance last night at the Globe was moving. I was in tears, not just from the words she spoke, but for the look on Emma's dear face as she watched her.

I was whisked to a party at some fine restaurant after the show in a private room that looked much like Delmonico's.

Charlotte and Emma are going on tour through New York State and then will rest in Newport. They implore me to visit.

I clicked my laptop for some quick research to confirm the timelines, then flipped ahead looking for more interesting entries: July 4th, 1875, The City of Philadelphia and whole of the country is already in preparation for the Centennial, even this one year in advance. Pavilions, memorials, and monuments are already in production. I am in the running for a work in the main American Pavilion. This commission should cement my reputation so I am in hopes that I will not face unfair treatment because I am of the fairer s.e.x.

Edmonia is already at work on what is surely her most ambitious piece. The Cleopatra sculpture will be hailed, no doubt, as a huge success at the exhibition. Indeed Edmonia has ama.s.sed so much money she is already speaking of retirement somewhere in France. Perhaps I envy her... and yet, I feel alone and in need of affection.

September 1st, 1875, These weeks in Boston with Anne and Abby have been idyllic. They dote on me as loving aunts. So much like Rome where sisters of my own heart followed their true desires. I should have done so then. At least I would have known if the flame could burn in her as well.

Of course Anne is furious that the commission she won for the Sumner monument has been revoked because the authorities have realized she is of the female s.e.x. Some nonsense about a 'woman could never sculpt a man's legs.' Absurd! Anne vows to do the sculpture anyway and already has some interest.

Anne and Abby encourage me to follow my heart. The heavens know I want to, as does the devil. But my better judgement cautions. I do recognize, with no little amus.e.m.e.nt, that if my declaration is spurned, Anne and particularly Abby will devote themselves to finding me a new object for my affections. Indeed they have invited several extraordinarily beautiful young prospects to dinner, who all seem rather remarkably eager.

Yet I received a gentle note yesterday with tender if non-enlightening words, which renewed my desire. I have written back and hope for an invitation to visit.

Will go to Newport to see Charlotte and Emma, then should consider returning to Rome to begin work again... if no other invitation arrives.

Yeah, this was getting good. Victoria was after a woman, just like all those other hot lesbian artists, actors, and poets in Rome in the 1860s. I was willing to bet the farm that it was Evangeline, but the only thing I had to go on was the way Victoria had modeled the nude sculptures of her.

The journal was beginning to read like a hot romance novel and I couldn't put it down. The problem was, I was acutely aware that this was real life. It might not end the way romance novels always do. Victoria could be kicked in the head by the painful revelation that the object of her affection was not that kind of a girl. Or perhaps worse yet, that she wasn't ready for commitment.

I sighed, It keeps coming back to that, doesn't it?

There was a small drawing labeled Home of Charlotte Cushman in the journal margin. It was a beautiful house on the coastline. Below it were these enlightening entries: October 1st, 1875, Newport, Rhode Island. Magnificent house, yet quite different from the piazza in Rome. Excellent and well appointed studio for Emma, which she never uses. Several other 'sisters of the heart' also here visiting Charlotte. In that respect it mirrors Rome!

Charlotte's nephew Ned has married the lovely Emma Crow, who is now pregnant with his child. I have to say I had always suspected that Emma C. was devoted in the most intimate ways to Charlotte herself and was surprised to hear that Emma S. allowed the charming young thing to follow them to Italy and then back here to Newport. But then, what Charlotte wants, she wins. Both Emmas are devoted to her and seem to tolerate each other. And thus Charlotte has achieved her role as sultana, a role she has been rehearsing for with various results for many years.

October 5th, 1875, Late last night, Charlotte found her way to my room, which is far in the east wing of the house, distant from anyone else. I supposed that was her idea. For suddenly I found her sitting on my bed with a small lantern. Though Charlotte is certainly not in the bloom of youth, being well over fifty, the lamplight softened her features and brightened her eyes.

She asked me if I was comfortable and if there was anything I wanted. She caressed my face and then drew her fingers, without undue haste, along my throat to the softness of my bosom where they rested as she began to compliment me in words I frankly found enchanting. She has a magnificent voice, and after all she is master of the craft of compelling speech.

Among other things, she said, "You are remarkably fair of face, but I find your strength very attractive."

I must admit that I was not repelled. In fact it had been so long since I have enjoyed a woman's affectionate caress that the depth of my breathing spoke its own encouragement. Clearly the meaning of it was not lost on her.

She said simply, "Shall I kiss you, Victoria?"

A rather considerable part of me spoke emphatic yeses in my mind, but then I remembered the two Emmas in another part of the house and marveled at Charlotte's incredible roguery.

"Charlotte," I laughed, "just how many women do you need?"

She laughed too. "Victoria, my dear, I need all of them! But I see I may not be having you? Not tonight? Ah well, more fool you."

"How does that make me a fool? I can't help but worry that the women who love you will be very angry with me," I asked her.

She replied, "My little lover is with child. Her husband, my nephew Ned, does seem to find his way to her far more than I. And my dearest heart Emma is simply too tired. They put you in this far away room so they could sleep, not so that I wouldn't find you. I believe they think that while you are following the scent of lavender you should consider that when you woo her, you'll be all the better lover if you had the benefit of my... experience. Many women honor me for the things I've taught them, as do their current lovers. But, my dear, I think perhaps my teaching days may soon be over. My Emmas feel this too. I know it. That's why they have directed me to you." She laughed lightly. "A farewell performance of its own kind."

I laughed again, as if to deflect her words, but I was feeling deeply moved by her offer of mentorship in these delicate arts. Deeply moved in urgent physical ways. I had the need to minister to a pain I hadn't felt in some years.

Charlotte continued, "You know, I've met her. I'm sure you will win her. Don't you want to please her in every way? I'm an excellent teacher, and in the waning days of my life I find it better to give than to receive. Especially in these days when my body fails me so grievously. Now, as the Bard said, 'Come give us a taste of your quality.'"

I could resist no longer. In acquiescence I drew down the sheet to expose my silk chemise. I confess it was my very best nightdress, the one I had made in Paris. Just a whisper of fabric. And I admit I had worn it this night in vague hopes that I would be visited by one of the many women in Charlotte's house.

Charlotte admired my nightgown and what she could see through it with a lingering glance. Then she kissed me deeply, as the overture to her next acts. She easily slipped the gown down my shoulders and her appraisal of what was revealed was more than a glance. After all, I am rather blessed in proportion and though it is not a boon to me personally, I have found others were delighted by my abundance.

Indeed Charlotte paid worthy tribute, with both her hands and her mouth. And rather more thoroughly than others have done, yet without asperity. To my surprising delight, this ministration caused me to find my first of many spendings of the night. When she found her way below, her attention became more focused, and she was able to do more than a.s.suage my needs. There seemed to be a constant rekindling of them and then relief, repeated in waves as though crashing on the sh.o.r.e.

When I heard the hall clock strike 2 a.m., I became aware that this edifying interlude was at an end. Yet Charlotte left me neither besotted nor disaffected. Indeed I was hazy from pleasure, but I found myself shedding indolence to attend to her words.

She said, "Take your skills to your angel, my dear, and make her happy, for in her you will find happiness too."

I will heed this advice, and I told her so.

Charlotte had been quite true to her words. She taught me several important things about the delights and needs of my own s.e.x and how to slake, then prime for more. I learned more to enhance these important skills in this one night than I had learned to increase my skill at carving stone in a full year at Harriet's studio. I now see why so many women have been devoted to Charlotte Cushman and I confess that I will always be grateful for her mentoring in this doss cla.s.sroom, after the hall clock had struck midnight.

When I was done reading that pa.s.sage I was literally sweating. Not only was it a hot little real-life love scene but it was history. Charlotte Cushman teaching Victoria Snow the subtleties of the bedroom while Emma Stebbins and Emma Crow were down the hall. Jiminy Crickets!

But what about the lavender scent Victoria was chasing. Surely that confirms Evangeline Lavender Fen was the angel of whom Charlotte spoke. I skimmed through the next few pages of the journal. Victoria had gone to Boston with Emma Stebbins and Charlotte Cushman and had then received a telegram from the Centennial Exposition committee asking her to come to Philadelphia to confer about her sculpture for their exhibit. Victoria was thrilled that they had accepted her. She set up a small studio in Philly to begin work on it, rather than going back to Rome. The next fifty or so pages described the studio and her work. It was interesting to me, but didn't contain clues about the object of her affection. Victoria seemed too nervous to mention her. She didn't want to press anything in case she was rejected. Sometimes it's easier to live in the fantasy than try to play it out and find it was just that-a fantasy.

I read on: October 20th, 1875, Charlotte has not come to my room hence. She has complained of illness, and the Emmas and I convinced her to go to Boston to seek medical treatment fearing a recurrence of the cancer that gripped her several years ago.

And then skipped to the last entries in this section: February 5th, 1876, I have rushed to Boston to be by Charlotte's hospital bed and to give Emma S. as much help and comfort as I am able. I can't describe how I feel, short of feeling that it is impossible for someone as full of life as Charlotte Cushman, to...

The rest of the line was unreadably smeared by what looked like tear stains. Lower on the page in a slightly different color ink Victoria wrote: In the last moments of her life Charlotte, numbed by morphine, took my hand and told me to seek my pa.s.sion.

She said in a voice still rich but weakened, "She will never be yours unless you go to her and tell her you love her. Why wait when you know your mind? Go to her, Victoria. I have heard by the most recent post the barest hint from Evangeline that her financial situation is poor. She has a young brother and sisters and a mother to support. I'm sending her some gentle sum to help her carry on.

And, my dear, I shall arrange for you to have a commission there. Yes... I shall do that, I have already decided. I believe there is a college that educates young women in the Arts..."

Charlotte turned in her bed and waved Emma to her. Emma was never absent when Charlotte needed her.

"Emma, please check with my solicitors on the arrangements." Then she turned back to me. "It will be my gift. My gift to you, Victoria."

Emma dutifully left the room to send telegrams making the arrangements.

Charlotte said, "You must go as soon as the commission is confirmed." And then she smiled. (More tear stains on the page.) I was tearing up right along with Victoria just reading about it. In her last moments Charlotte was using all her resources to help her friends. And that was certainly a worthy scene at the end of her or anyone's life performance.

In the next few pages Victoria chronicled Charlotte's rapid decline. She described Emma Stebbins sitting by Charlotte's bed with a cool cloth, holding Charlotte's hand and keeping her free from pain with some kind of morphine brew. Victoria even drew a sketch of this tableaux in the journal. It was a simple line drawing, but I could read the profound emotion Emma was enduring by her posture and the angle of her head.

I stared at it for many minutes, losing track of the present. I was transported back in time into the role of the artist herself, considering the effectiveness of each line before me, feeling their meaning. Suddenly I was Victoria Willomere Snow. I was pleased with the drawing for the most part, but there was one line that seemed a bit out of place, the tilt of Emma's head needed a slightly stronger jaw line. I looked up expecting to see Charlotte Cushman in her last hours, ministered to by Emma Stebbins. But there on the other side of the gla.s.s part.i.tion I saw nothing but a brief glimpse of Isabella Santiago looking back at me and then gliding off to the stacks with a huge leatherbound reference.

When she got to the edge of the first bookcase, Dr. Santiago turned to glance at me again. She gave one simple head nod and disappeared behind the first row of ancient architecture references.

And then just as suddenly I was back in the present. I stared down at Victoria's drawing, then turned the page.

On February 25th, 1876, Victoria Snow wrote: Charlotte died on Friday the 18th. I attended her funeral, which was a rather wonderful affair of dignitaries, actors, artists, and all mode of women who loved her.

And then the notification of my commission came.

Just as Charlotte wanted, I find myself on the way to Fenchester, Pennsylvania, by way of New York, to try my hand at wooing. I can only hope.

I looked at the clock and realized the hours had flown by. It was almost 9 p.m., which meant that Kathryn should be done with her meeting soon.

I texted her,

"Read it to me..." she said, before I even had a chance to say h.e.l.lo.

"Are you out of your meeting?"

"No, I got your text and told them I had to go to the restroom, which is where I am. Read it to me. Now."

"The whole pa.s.sage?"

"Do it."

"OK, this is from Victoria Snow's journal circa 1875." I read her the pa.s.sage straight through, without comment.

When I got to the end there was a long silent pause. I thought I'd lost her signal, but then I heard, "Oh Maggie, I'm really enjoying having you as a research a.s.sistant." She exhaled. I could feel her heat and excitement over the phone.

"Yeah?" I said in a low voice.

"Yes!"

"About that compensation package you mentioned..."

"It's increased."

"Yay!"

"I could write a book from this little tidbit."

"So are you done with your meeting? Come over here and see the journal. Then we can walk home together."

"Oh dear," she sighed.

"What?"

"This meeting isn't even half over and it's not something I can leave. It has to do with the funding for my women's history program. If I'm not here, I'll get stiffed. I can't..."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I really do. I used to work for the government, you know. One time I was in a union meeting that went on for three days."

"You're a gem."

"I know." We both laughed. "Do you have any idea when it might end?"

"I'm hoping about two hours. Bolton can give me a ride home."

"Who?"

"Bolton Winpenny. I told you about him. He was at the retreat.

"The steel drummer? The one who got you out of the retreat early?"

"Yes."

"I'm indebted to him. By the way, this journal seems to be part of a set, but there's only one in here."

"I can't wait to look at it all tomorrow. Put everything on my shelf in the locked part. I got the combination. It's 6...6...6."

"What luck, you'll never forget that."

"Why didn't anyone know about this journal? This should have been researched years ago. I don't understand it."

"Well, it's very hard to read. Also box was mis-shelved. No, that's not right; it wasn't in the data system. It didn't contain the reference."

"But how could you find it? The archives are huge. The college boasts that there are over three hundred thousand archived collections."

"Well, I saw Amanda and she..."

"Oh, Amanda helped you. But how could she even..."