Hettie rummaged from her box a letter postmarked Somerville, Massachusetts, January 14, 1910. It carried two green one-cent stamps bearing the profile of Ben Franklin and was addressed to Mr. Julian Edgar Collins, R.D. #2, Fort White, Florida.
Dear Julian,
Your very nice and interesting letter reached me yesterday and as usual I was delighted to hear from you. Glad to hear that all the folks are well. As to May, I have not heard from her. I am very sorry that she blames me for my opinion of Leslie, but I am sure that I have not wronged him and that he himself is to blame for the opinion held of him by all good people… If I understand his case correctly, robbery was his motive, therefore making it a most dastardly crime. I doubt very much if Leslie cares for May as such people are not capable of true affection.
Hope that eventually I will be able to come back and settle down and marry some fair southern maid. I have no time to bother with the girls now as I have to work Sundays and holidays. Hoping that you will grow more prosperous as you grow older and with my very best wishes to Laura and babies I remain,
Sincerely, Rob
“We think that can only be Rob Watson. But he never came back or Julian would have said something about it.”
The last time Lucius had seen him, Rob was a tense dark-eyed young man of “poetic” appearance, with straight black hair worn nearly to his shoulders. What did he look like now? I have no time to bother with the girls. Had he had time in the years since? Rob’s lonely moralizing letter made him sad.
“That’s the last letter?”
“That’s the only letter. Rob makes it sound like a regular correspondence but it wasn’t. We can’t even imagine how he found out what he seems to know. Clearly he needed to feel closer to the family, being homesick and lonely but afraid of coming home.” Hettie looked distressed. “Long ago, you see, Rob took his father’s ship and sold it at Key West with the help of a young Collins, at least that’s what Uncle Edgar told this family.”
Lucius nodded. “That was Arbie Collins,” he reminded Ellie. “The cousin I told you about.”
The women glanced at one another. Ellie spoke sharply, “Sir, we can’t imagine who this cousin of yours might be.”
“Well,” Lucius said, “he almost came with me today,” as if this explained things. He resisted the intuition now fighting its way to the forefront of his brain.
“You see, Professor”-Hettie was almost whispering in her distress-“our cousin Lee told us years ago that he was the Collins who helped Rob sell that schooner.”
“There’s no R. B. Collins in this family,” Ellie declared flatly. “I tried to tell you that over the telephone but you didn’t want to hear it for some reason.” She pointed at Hettie’s lineage sheets, spread on the table. “We rechecked every name before you came this morning, just to be sure.”
“Now R. B. Watson-Robert Briggs Watson-that’s Cousin Rob, of course,” Hettie said carefully, her eyes pleading with Lucius to absolve himself. “And Rob’s mother was Cousin Ann Mary Collins, as you know-”
September 13, 1879. That date had tattered the corner of his mind since the visit to the New Bethel churchyard early this morning. Ann Mary Watson’s death date was the birthday never mentioned in Papa’s household even when Rob was still a boy. He studied Rob’s letter. Oh God. Of course! The oddly familiar script, with its looping y’s and g’s, could have been written by a young, stiff, priggish Arbie, whose hand he knew well from all the margin notes in his “Watson Archive.”
“We can’t find ‘L. Watson Collins,’ either,” Ellie persisted. “If that’s really your name, sir, we have no idea who you might be.”
“No, of course not.” He set Rob’s letter on the table. “ ‘L. Watson Collins’ is a pen name.” He stood up and crossed to the window with loud creakings of the old warped pine floor. With his back to them, he said, “I’m your cousin Lucius. I’ve deceived you. I am truly sorry.”
He turned to face them. Having had no luck with Julian, he explained, he had hesitated to identify himself before he’d learned a little more about his father’s life here in Fort White; he had feared his cousins might be less than candid had they known that he was Uncle Edgar’s son. He had planned, of course, to confess this before leaving-but here he stopped short and raised his hands and dropped them, sickened by his own half-truths and excuses. He moved toward the door.
Speechless, they made no effort to detain him. But he’d seen tears mist in Hettie’s eyes and to her he offered a last plea from the doorway. “It seemed so important to establish the truth-” Unable to bear her wondering gaze, he stopped again. “Please forgive me,” he said.
Cousin Ellie’s unforgiving voice pursued him outside. “The truth seemed so important that you lied!” He closed the door, went to his car. The window was open and Ellie would speak again, and he was not sure that denunciation by these newfound kinswomen he liked so much would be quite bearable.
At the road corner, a woman walking toward the schoolhouse waved him down. “Mist’ Lucius? Don’t remember Jane the cook? From when you was a boy at Chatham Bend?” The woman, handsome, simply dressed, was indeed familiar, and when she smiled, he recognized Jane Straughter, who had accompanied Julian and Laura Collins on a year’s visit to the Bend; he vaguely recalled a crisis over Jane and Henry Short, which Papa had resolved by banishing Henry from the Watson place.
Without preamble, Jane Straughter asked after “Mr. Henry Short,” how he was faring. Where was he living? Lucius could not help her since he did not know. Yet she seemed confident he would see Henry again. “When you see him,” she said, “kindly give that man the warmest wishes of Miss Jane Straughter. Please say it that way, Mist’ Lucius: Miss Jane Straughter. Tell Mr. Short that Miss Jane was asking after him. Inviting him to please come visit one day if he wishes.”