Moonshadows by Mary Ann Artrip Page B

brought Madam here as his bride. Lettie and Duffy,” he continued, motioning to the married couple, “came just a few weeks later.” He paused and seemed to study for a moment. “We’ll miss her hard. We surely will.”
    “So you all knew my father when he was a little boy?”
    “Oh yes, Miss,” Lettie said. “I remember the night he was born.” She smiled. “Lands, what a howl he put up. I guess we all remember that night.”
    They made polite little laughs but held back any comments.
    “Lettie,” Janet said, “do you know where the family album is, the one with all the old pictures?”
    “It’s in Madam’s study. I haven’t seen it for years. It was in the bottom of the rosewood secretary. I’m sure it’s still there.”
    “Get it, will you, Lettie?”
    “Now?”
    “If you don’t mind.”
    Lettie was gone no more than a minute or two when she returned with the large leather-bound book and placed it on the table. Janet traced her fingers along the finely scrolled Lancaster name; the gold leaf had almost flaked away. She lifted the cover.
    The first page contained the family genealogy. Hands of a gifted calligrapher had written the names. Janet smiled to herself. Nothing but the best for the Lancasters, she thought. The ink had long since faded, and the names and dates paled against the fine vellum. Her name was not on the page—or Etienne’s—and Janet felt a sense of loss at not seeing them there. There was an ugly smear toward the end, as if violence had assaulted the paper, and Janet knew that this was where Isabella’s name had once resided. The final name to be registered was that of her father. It was as if the family had ceased to exist after that.
    She turned the page. A young couple stared at her from behind brittle cellophane. The images on the heavily silvered daguerreotype were still easily discernible, and Janet knew this was Jason Lancaster and Heather, his frail bride. The man’s eyes mirrored a certain coldness—a hardness that seemed unusually cruel, and his mouth was untouched by even the slightest sign of pleasantness. Heather was a pretty girl in a pale and languid way and was towered over by her husband. Had she been sorry that she left her homeland and traveled so far away? Had she longed for England and her family? Janet was sure she must have.
    The servants sat at the table and remained silent as Janet turned the pages. There was a picture of Nathaniel and his wife, Rachel. Rachel sat holding Little Nate, while Nathaniel stood just behind her. There was only one photograph of Little Nate and his notorious Gwendolyn Harrington, and they did look happy together. Janet was surprised that their picture had been deemed appropriate enough to remain in such hallowed surroundings. Sophie, Gwendolyn’s tender-aged replacement, was nowhere to been seen. But Charlie H. was there with Morgan, the apparent spoiled brat of the family. There were many pictures of Morgan on horseback and one with him sitting beside Bethany—the insufficient wife who took second place to his love for horses. He looked angry, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. His head was undersized and sprouted little tufts of hair; lint balls , Janet thought. He glared at the camera. There was something about him—some unpleasantness—that seemed familiar to Janet. Some family condition, she supposed. The Lancaster men always looked uncomfortable when being photographed. Janet could imagine their impatience with such frivolity.
    The friendly face of a small boy dominated the majority of the album. Janet’s father, usually dressed in short pants and a sailor blouse, laughed up at the camera and seemed to adore having his picture taken. Birthday and Christmas pictures filled the pages. As he grew, the quality of the pictures improved. In time, the black and white prints evolved into full-color snapshots and lost a great deal of their appeal.
    Thumbing back through the first few pages, a tiny square tucked into