“Here this is the name I was looking for--Foret,” Abigail said.
“Yes, Foret started as a day laborer. You can see from his pay which reflected that of a common worker. I noticed this before. His position changed after his first year working with Olmsted. Mr. Olmsted must have thought highly of him to promote him so many times and his pay steadily increased.” The curator ran her finger along the lines of the ledger. “First class steamship fare for Mr. Foret, Mr. Olmsted and several others to Ireland. Olmsted took him along to pick out saplings for Biltmore Forest. This was a great honor. Mr. Olmsted kept a close circle around him when it came to important projects.”
“Anything else about Foret?”
“He had a house in Biltmore Village, rent free, with some of the other artisans. That’s really all there is. If you really want to know more about Biltmore village, ask our Mrs. Twiggs; she’s the expert.”
Abigail thanked the curator for her help while I snuck back inside her backpack. “What do we do now?” Abigail whispered to me.
“We go see Mrs. Twiggs.”
The Reckoning
Mrs. Twiggs greeted us at the door. Pixel flung his paws around my neck, biting me. I had gotten used to his exuberant greeting. Tracker circled around Abigail, wagging his tailless butt and whining. Both were still a bit angry about being left behind. I couldn’t chance concealing two of us in Abigail’s backpack. Tracker wasn’t pleased either. He did not like to let Abigail out of his sight. I was amazed at how attached he had become to her in such a short time. “So, Abigail was it a success? Did you find what you were looking for?” Mrs. Twiggs asked.
“Everyone was very helpful. Thank you for hooking me up,” Abigail said.
“Why don’t you come in? I’m closing up. We can have an early supper and you can tell me what you found out.”
Pixel followed Mrs. Twiggs into the kitchen, his swinging belly scraping the floor. I would have to be sterner with him and with the humans who constantly met his demands for food. Mrs. Twiggs returned with a tray loaded with melted cheese sandwiches. She placed them on one of the larger café tables and then went back to the kitchen to retrieve soup bowls steaming with homemade tomato bisque. Pixel reached his paws to the edge of the table just able to peek over the top to see the gooey Gruyere cheese melting over the freshly baked French bread. “Me hungry,” Pixel said.
Mrs. Twiggs must have learned some cat because she immediately gave Pixel a taste of her sandwich. Abigail threw down her backpack and plopped down on the wooden chair across from her.
“Oh, I almost forgot, silly me,” Mrs. Twiggs said leaping out of the chair with a surprising agility for a woman of her girth. She came back carrying two bowls, which I could smell to be tuna fish. She placed them on the table. Pixel leapt onto her lap and then somersaulted onto the table devouring his bowl before I could even start. I eyeballed the deep red bisque with homemade croutons floating across the sea of goodness. My memories told me it would taste good but my feline craving drew me to the tuna fish. I truly hated being a cat.
Abigail ate her sandwich occasionally dipping it into the bisque. Mrs. Twiggs waited patiently until she could wait no longer. “Abigail, dear, have you had enough?”
“Yes, thank you Mrs. Twiggs.” She folded her napkin in her lap. “Your curator friend was very helpful. She let us into George Vanderbilt’s private study. We found his secretary’s notebook detailing the planning for the opening of the Fillmore hotel. Vanderbilt invited a medium from Louisiana, a Madame Claire Renee.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Mrs. Twiggs said, bustling off through the kitchen. I could hear her footsteps going down the rickety wooden stairs into the basement. She returned momentarily, wiping away cobwebs from her face and shoulders. She placed a small leather-bound book on the table in front of Abigail, and opened it. “This building we’re in was originally a boarding house for some of the artisans.” As Mrs. Twiggs recounted what she knew, I found myself drifting off. This was another part of my feline being. I was often sleepy. Pixel leaned his warm body against mine, his belly rumbling in soft purrs.
“Nothing,” she closed the book with a thud. I jerked my eyes open to hear the rest of the conversation but it was no use. I gave into the sleep.
“This day of our lord the 30th of October, 1692, we call this trial to order. Honorable Magistrate Jonathan Goodall, Sr., presiding.” The small public house was standing room only. I could smell the anger. I hid in a corner. In the first row, Jonathan Goodall Jr. sat quietly staring straight ahead at his father, nervously checking the time. Any minute his beloved would be dragged in. From the back of the overcrowded room a door flew open. Two men dragged Elizabeth by her arms, bound in chains. Her beautiful dress torn and dirty. Her hair matted and tangled. “Witch, witch,” the crowd spewed venom at her as she was dragged before them. Elizabeth brushed against Jonathan as they dragged her to the front. They chained her to the witness bench. All around me the village folks, most friends at one time of Elizabeth’s--people she had known all her life, people she had treated with her compassion and skills--turned on her as they shared stories of her evil doings. All of them lies, a spark that spread burning through the town. Elizabeth was the source of all their bad fortune.
“Quiet, quiet.” Jonathan Goodall, Sr., raised his hands, settling the mob. Elizabeth showed no fear. She stared blankly at her accusers. She knew the outcome was inevitable. She would not give them the satisfaction of a single tear. “Elizabeth Oakhaven, you have been charged with practicing witchcraft, sorcery and consorting with the devil. How do you plea?”
Elizabeth was silent.
“Your silence confirms your guilt. Speak up now if you wish to live.”
Cats can’t cry. It’s not in their physiology. I tried, Angry as I was at Elizabeth for turning me into what I was, I still loved her deeply. My mind raced with all the scenarios of how I could save her. If I only had some magic left. The crowd became louder, chanting, “Burn the witch. Burn the witch.”
“Quiet, quiet,” Jonathan Goodall, Sr., commanded, banging his gavel.
Then Elizabeth spoke. “Will you grant me my choice of death?”
The good people of Salem shouted, “No.”
“Quiet, let her speak,” the magistrate said peering over at her over his glasses.
“You put all my friends, innocent children, young girls to the fire. I wish to be hanged by the neck until dead so as the last sight I see are my dear friends and neighbors as I leave this world.”
The courtroom became dead still. At that moment I knew Elizabeth’s spirit would move on. There was still hope for me. If she was saved from the real death, the fire, only her body would be lost. I would find her. Elizabeth gazed at her love, her only love. With tears in his eyes he opened his mouth to speak, but what could he say to persuade his own father--who was killing the mother of his grandchild he would never know. For whatever reason--whether the conviction in Elizabeth’s voice or what witch power she had left in her--the magistrate agreed to her request.
As they dragged Elizabeth out, she stopped before reaching the door and turned her head quickly, staring right at me.
She read my mind and saw everything. The water rushing around me in the cave, my transformation, all of it. My childish anger was gone replaced by the great love I had always held for her. She smiled as she was pulled toward the door. Jonathan Goodall, Jr., rushed to her side, “Wait,” he urged the guards. He grabbed Elizabeth by the arm. “This is your last chance. Save yourself.”
Elizabeth bent her head near his ear and whispered. Then they took her away.