Personal Journal of Laurie Foston

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Personal Journal of Laurie Foston


On a stagecoach in New England, October 27, 1795


I just woke up from the strangest dream. I dreamed that I lived over two hundred years in the future. Even as the dream fades from my memory, I feel as though I learned some secret in the dream, which I will slowly uncover as time goes by. I wonder if the strange dream has any connection with the fact that I am suffering from some form of amnesia. Maybe the dream is a clue to my past and to my present identity. I have a general knowledge of this area of New England and the language, even though it seemed strange to me when we first started on this journey.

These were my first thoughts as I removed my quill and fastened my inkwell into the ink cradle under the window inside the stagecoach. Then I began to pen a portion of my journey while the coach moved steadily, without many jolts and turns. I checked the newspaper earlier in the day for the date and was successful at partially interpreting the credentials in my handbag.

I recall this to be the fourth night of travel for me on a course from New York to Maine, and the coach has already made many stops along the road. There were business stops as well as stops for picking up new passengers and dropping off others. This, in addition to the stormy weather, is the foremost hindrance to our progress.

The men who are traveling with us grumbled among themselves that we should have covered a little over a hundred miles a day. However, between the thunderstorms and the mail dropped off in Boston, it seems doubtful that we will reach our destination on schedule. They also complained that we have a slow team of horses. One elderly gentleman grunted that the drivers have not changed the horses enough for the five hundred and eleven mile trip.

This entire day has been very strange. Earlier, I tried to focus my thoughts on my identity as I stared blankly through the wet glass windows of the coach, but the storm outside made it almost impossible for one to think. Yet I sat with my wrap drawn tightly over my shoulders and tried to concentrate on how I found myself a passenger in this coach, helpless to remember anything as to how I got here, my origins, or purpose. I feel certain that the dream had something to do with my memory loss.

I still do not know why I am holding a contract to work for a New England family along the coast of Maine. The papers in my handbag verify that I am a qualified tutor and governess. I don’t recall having a formal education of any kind, even though I do remember a convent and being taught to play musical instruments. I am sure I will remember everything, eventually.

I observed that even though the contract was signed, the signature was illegible. Therefore, I didn’t know the name of my employer. I hoped I had more paperwork that would reveal who he or she was and, indeed, who I was.

I shivered from the cold, rainy storm and turned my eyes back toward the passengers. If I was delirious, I did not perceive myself to be so, and many strange thoughts echoed through my mind. My senses, including my memories, were coming to me slowly, yet with certainty. Someone once said that the mind sometimes plays tricks on those of us who have been through tragedy, and I believe it to be so. I was sure I must have seen something traumatic, for I was unable to concentrate or remember anything of my past. By some miracle, I was beginning to be very calm about it. It was as though it was a natural thing for me to be riding in a coach without knowing who I was.

The heavy downpour of rain seemed to have formed a curtain, preventing me from seeing the world outside that small group of passengers. The inside lamp light flickered with every crack of thunder as if signaling a reply and swung back and forth in the coach, casting ghostlike shadows on the ceiling.
I had upon my person—rather, in my handbag—the daily Gazette I found at last, which came to my rescue to some degree, for I did not know for certain what century I was in.

The headlines read, “United States and Spain Sign the Treaty of Madrid,” followed by, “Thousands to the Guillotine as Revolution in France Rages.” In addition, “Yellow Stone River is penned today.” All of these things sounded familiar to me in spite of my amnesia, and I felt somewhat comforted by this. I was just tucking the newspaper back into my handbag and making a mental note of the date when someone gently touched my arm.

“Laurie, you are exceptionally quiet today. I hope you aren’t missing your friends at the convent, my dear.”

I was startled back to the group in the coach by an older woman with wide blue eyes, silver-grey hair, and an aristocratic nose. I feigned deafness due to the storm to avoid responding. I knew I was suffering from some gap in my memory, but I didn’t know then—and I still don’t know now—if this was obvious to anyone else. The name Laurie did sound familiar when I first heard it.

My memory of style, geography, and artistic abilities, as well as procedures and some life episodes—including, for example, melodies from music that I don’t recall learning—appeared to be unaffected by my memory loss.

The older woman is stylishly dressed in what I believe to be considered the latest fashion from New York. The woman’s amethyst earrings dangle and glitter, as do as her matching stone bracelet and rings. The colors she wears are also of the latest fashions—a bright purple plumed hat and lilac waistcoat over a tight bodice that fits snugly, with a long, flowing, deep purple, velvet skirt that fits smartly for a woman her age.

She is striking in appearance and has a motherly charm. I instinctively took great comfort in her friendship. Several times, I almost confided my secret to her. Once, she patted me on the shoulder and my fear dissolved.

I, by contrast, wear subdued colors. My too-tall, too-thin body is unable to provide any touch of flattery to my attire. A plain brown, wool hat covers my braided, black hair, which is my only salient feature, and a matching wool vest covers a long skirt that doesn’t fit very well. I feel out of place in it. I prefer that it was shorter. I put my hand to my face timidly when I saw my reflection in the glass window this afternoon, and self-consciously pulled my hand away when I noticed one of the male passengers looking in my direction.
I am not smartly dressed; nonetheless, I am professionally clothed for a specific occupation, mainly that of a higher-ranking servant. I stared with admiration at the older woman as she smoothed down her skirts. In retrospect, I think she pretended not to notice that I did not answer her question. I was unresponsive to her conversation, at first because I was still unsure of myself. Gradually, as the day went on, I remembered who she was and began to realize her association with me since the onset of the trip. Her name is Mrs. Harold Tyler, although before that, nothing came to my mind other than faint memories of a boarding school or convent. I started to relax, feeling that perhaps my memory would all come back to me soon.

She had shared during the first days of the trip the personal loss of her husband, a doctor whom she loved dearly, and I remember now that I had listened with a sentimental interest to some of the memories of their life together
.
I decided to try to pick up the conversation at her remark regarding missing friends at the convent. I thought this would dissuade her chatter about the war in Paris. A clap of thunder preceded my response.

“I am not homesick for the convent. In fact, I am rather looking forward to being a governess, in a way. I believe I will feel quite comfortable living in a large house with a big family.” I spoke as though I meant every word.

Embarrassed by my own fib, I started fumbling through the papers in my handbag. Once again, I was trying to see who my employer was, find my credentials, and look for some evidence of my true origin. I’m almost certain that I was in a convent at some time—but when? Flashes of children playing on swings and an unfamiliar environment kept repeating themselves, along with the strange music.

I felt a nudge from Mrs. Tyler’s elbow as she nodded her head toward the other two passengers, who were men. The elderly gentleman was very eagerly engaged in conversation with the younger. To my shame, I found myself leaning forward slightly to eavesdrop on their conversation.

The younger man was tediously tugging on his gloves as though they needed to fit tightly on his hands at all times. He also kept rubbing the edge of his umbrella as though he were expecting a genie to pop out of the handle. Judging from his attire of top hat and greatcoat, I surmised that he was a gentleman. From the quizzical way he raised his brow from time to time at the older man beside him, I wondered if he did not consider the subject matter to be mere gossip. Rebuking myself for judging his character from such superficial observations, I tried to turn my thoughts away so I would not be guilty of the same again. The thunderstorm made listening next to impossible anyway.

The lamp inside the coach was still sufficiently lit. It had burned for hours, and even though it was now quite low on fuel, it continued to cast rather ghastly reflections onto the faces of all the passengers.

Mrs. Tyler whispered in my ear, “The older gentleman knows enough about history that I should not be surprised if he could pass himself off as a reporter for the Gazette. However, he is not a reporter. I will formally introduce the men to you in a few hours when we arrive in Davenport. I can’t shout over their conversations because the noise is too loud.”

I nodded in agreement. Mrs. Tyler continued trying to explain.

“They climbed into the coach in Bangor as the rest of the passengers got off. You were asleep, and I saw no reason to wake you.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

Both men carried a satchel, and I wondered if they were authors or historians. Mrs. Tyler pulled out her pendent watch. “It is almost five o’clock,” she said. Then she leaned forward and turned one ear toward the men. Soon, I was drawn into the spell of curiosity that engulfed Mrs. Tyler.

The discussion was about news headlines that had appeared some years ago—the so-called Boston Tea Party. The occurrence was recounted in all the newspapers when it happened. The tea in the Boston harbor was thrown overboard in protest. However, the tea party was not their main point of the conversation. Instead, the men were conversing about something more specific that happened during the incident. We never could hear clearly what they were saying. Mrs. Tyler shrugged her shoulders and brought out her fan, which had sequins all over it. Vigorously, she began fanning herself. I tried to hear the elder man, but the storm was still too loud.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the face of the elder, and he spoke with his index finger pointed at the ceiling. “Upon my word, he was there—dressed like an Indian, just like the others—when I was thrown from the pier by accident, I am sure. He was a muscular fellow, and if he had not rescued me from the water, I would have drowned.

“There was another man on the pier. He was very well dressed and much older. I couldn’t get a close look at his face. I have seen someone since who, oddly enough, can pass for his twin. But I know it isn’t him because he would be dead by now. However, it has been said that there is always a chance of longer survival with the modern medicine they have these days—” A sudden crack of thunder blocked out the rest of his words, along with the description of the man about whom he had been speaking. As the storm grew louder, so did the elderly man.

Mrs. Tyler opened her smelling salts, took out her handkerchief, and expressed concern. “I am beginning to wonder if that thunder is God warning him not to say another word,” she murmured. Later, she pulled an impressive liquor decanter from her bag, which was decorated with feminine rhinestones and sequins. I was grateful for her festive character and began to look forward to enjoying the duration of the trip in her company.

The coach jolted around a corner at a dangerous angle, and the driver finally pulled it to a halt under a wooden bridge. “We are going to be here a few minutes because the horses are spooked,” he yelled into the side window. “It’s better to hold them here until the worst of the storm passes.”
With that announcement, he turned, climbed up onto the front seat of the coach, and opened up the overhead canvas on the passenger’s seat. He called shrilly to the guard, who could be heard rattling around in the back. The guard jumped down and sloshed through mud and water to join the driver. The stagecoach could hold four passengers inside and eight outside; however, as others had gotten off before the onset of the storm, no one remained outside.

Mrs. Tyler winked at me with mischief in her eyes and soon again became intrigued with the conversation of the men. I wondered if she was trying to encourage my latent interest in the younger man. I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

My attention returned to the younger man because he made me feel somewhat comfortable. Even though I tried to concentrate on hearing the men without being conspicuous, I heard only bits and pieces of the conversation as the storm raged on. While my thoughts filled with the possibilities the future held, their conversation turned to another subject that began before the last clap of thunder.

“I have tried to gather as much information as possible about the strange happenings with the slave traders. They will be prosecuted in Davenport if they are discovered. No one wants them here in Maine. They will not be allowed to make money off the misery of other people. Besides, our own countrymen need work and these slaves take up our jobs.”

“You have a poor argument for their cause, Mr. Phillips. If the people are being held in captivity and forced to work, then they are not guilty of taking over our workforce. They are driven to take over our workforce, and we have only ourselves to blame for the—” Another clap of thunder shut out the end of his remark.

There was a loud rap on the window, and the driver announced that another passenger was joining the group. Immediately, the door swung open and a senior gentleman climbed up into the coach, squeezing in between the two men. When his greatcoat opened a little, I noticed he wore one of the Queen’s metals on his breast.

The silence in the coach was almost instantaneous the moment the newcomer arrived. I heard a sudden intake of breath from the older man, who the younger had addressed as Mr. Phillips earlier.
I noticed that both men were now staring blankly at the stranger, speechless. Recognition of this newcomer by Mr. Phillips who had previously been so talkative was now evident. The newcomer seemed to pay no attention. It was a very tight squeeze indeed, for as I mentioned, the coach was designed to fit four people comfortably inside. Yet somehow, the three men managed to sit together on one side.

“Their conversation has ended for tonight, I suppose,” Mrs. Tyler whispered to me with a sigh of disappointment. My eyes darted back to the newcomer, waiting to see if he was going to introduce himself or engage in a discussion. All of his mannerisms were of a courtly nature. His beard and mustache matched his white hair. Mr. Phillips became more withdrawn, and his eyes acquired a faraway look. Mrs. Tyler whispered to me that he looked like he had seen a ghost. The younger gentleman leaned forward politely and extended his hand to the newcomer. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said cheerfully. “You look very familiar to me. Have we met?”

The stranger replied with a beautiful accent that I did not recognize as being truly British. In fact, he spoke with more of an American dialect. “There’s no pardon to beg of me, young man,” he said. “On the contrary, I beg your pardon for the intrusion. I am Sir Gaspar. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The younger gentleman tipped his hat. “Thornton Foxworth Davens—at your service, sir. Indeed, I remember you now. You are friends with Patrick Fairchild. I met you on his estate one evening last summer, I believe. I knew I had seen you before.”

“Yes. I have one of those faces, I suppose. The carriage I was riding in lost a wheel. I need to be in Davenport as soon as possible. I hope I will not make it too uncomfortable for any one of you. You’re good Samaritans. You are, indeed,” Sir Gaspar jovially replied.

“Oh no,” the young man insisted. “You have made no intrusion on our journey at all. This gentleman is John Phillips, Esquire. I believe you may have met him as well.”

Mr. Phillips leaned forward. “I hope you will forgive me for staring,” he murmured, “but you could pass for someone I met when I was a very young man. Of course, that’s impossible, I know. But now that Mr. Davens mentioned it . . . yes, I know I must have met you through Mr. Patrick Fairchild. He is, after all, one of my neighbors. The man I knew when I was young would be dead now.”

Sir Gaspar smiled at this remark and, with a voice that sounded like a deep, resonating baritone filled with a calm assurance, gave a curious reply. “Nothing is impossible, Mr. Phillips.”

Mr. Davens drew a sharp intake of breath, and Mr. Phillips looked puzzled. Mrs. Tyler just smiled and fanned herself. Sir Gaspar was so charismatic and regal in character that I immediately felt a connection to him that I could not explain. It was not a romantic attraction, of course, as he was old enough to be my father—and some might even suggest my grandfather. Mrs. Tyler also found him to be impressive, and she cleared her throat and blushed when Sir Gaspar smiled in her direction. I felt it was inappropriate to speak without being spoken to first and simply gave a nod that must have appeared to be uncertain, for Sir Gaspar nodded back and then quickly focused his attention on Mrs. Tyler as though he wanted me to believe he had not noticed my presence.

“Fancy meeting you here, Madame. I would have thought you would be in Davenport before now.” Sir Gaspar kissed Mrs. Tyler’s extended hand. Then he nodded to me and tipped his hat.
“Who is the beautiful young lady?”

“This is Laurie Foston. She will be tutoring Mr. Fairchild’s daughter.”

The storm subsided when Sir Gaspar first arrived, and now the coach thrust forward once more and all talk of the mysterious Indian appeared to be, at least for the moment, forgotten. Once again, the lamp swung wildly from the ceiling and flickered opaque forms across the faces of the group of passengers, for although the storm had lightened up, the coach was rolling over some rocky terrain.

Mrs. Tyler soon grew silent, partly from the liquor and partly from listening to the quiet patter of rain against the windows, which could have made her drowsy. Every time I looked up, however, the consular general was looking at her as though he had something to say. I disregarded his peculiar behavior.
I still had a challenge ahead of me of monumental proportions. I was lost in time without any point of reference by which to tell if I was headed in the right direction. The only compass that I had to follow was the secure feelings I felt with Mrs. Tyler and Sir Gaspar. Mrs. Tyler, it seems, I have known forever. Sir Gaspar has a presence that I can only describe as omnipotent.

I pulled out more paperwork and read instructions that mandated I meet someone at the stage depot in Davenport on the orders of Patrick Fairchild. Stifling a yawn, I pulled out my cushion from under my seat. I positioned myself for some rest. Once or twice I opened my eyes, believing I would see Sir Gaspar’s gaze upon me. But he was already nodding off to sleep. I was not in any discomfort and quelled the urge to peek at him.

As one usually does upon retiring for the night, I began to replay the evening’s events in my mind. The storm was back again but not as severe. I considered it very fortunate that Sir Gaspar's carriage just happened upon our stagecoach even though it was hidden under a bridge. The elderly John Phillips, Esquire, became suddenly and cryptically silent earlier when the consular general climbed into the coach. The man named Thornton seemed unaffected by anything. Mrs. Tyler appeared to be a little too secure in the presence of Sir Gaspar. Obviously, they had all met before today. I am the one who has no memory of what lies beyond the doors of the past, present, or future. Before I realized it, I was asleep.

Then, the dream came.

The dream that left a fast-tempo melody in my mind.

The dream that carried me into the twenty-first century.

I opened my eyes, feeling overwhelmed with the anticipation of something undefined. I suddenly had the urge to write it all down. I had planned to postpone documenting any of my journeys until late that evening when we reach the Inn.

I have penned most of the evening’s events. Now, to my dismay, I must put away my quill as the coach is starting to become unsteady again, and I dare not risk spilling my ink. Sir Gaspar has awoken and nodded in approval at my writing. However, the expression of Mr. Davens is that of a perplexed man. Perhaps he is not accustomed to women who write.

Before I put away my quill, I must note that over the course of the evening I have discovered from various sources that my name is Laurie Foston. I am sixteen years old and have been contracted to work for a wealthy merchant in Davenport, Maine, which recently severed itself from the state of Massachusetts. This is not the first entry into my journal, but I have no recollection of even writing the first one. According to the daily newspaper in my handbag, it is the twenty-seventh day of October in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and ninety-five.