It was one of those unusually warm,damp, fall evenings in Vermont. You could still hear the summer crickets and colorful leaves were drifting like snowflakes,swirling round the open roof and into our convertible.
My husband and I did not speak to oneanother and had not spoken for hours.
My husband and I did not speak to oneanother and had not spoken for hours.
The shiny convertible made its way down the long, windy driveway to "Hildene" the former home of Robert Todd Lincoln, the only surviving son of Abraham Lincoln.
"She only died in July," I said, as randomly as possible for fear of rankling him again. "Who are you talking about?" he answered.
"Lincoln's granddaughter. Her last name was Beckwith and she was daffy. She collected dogs and let them run rampant all around the house. She was a hermit. The house is for sale for some very low price, $85,000 or so."
As we approached the end of the drive ,we passed a spectacular structure meant for star gazing, and then saw the front of the mansion. It was Georgian, impressive but unkempt. But more startling was the front door.
It was wide open,massive and blowing in and out, with the wind gusts.
The sun had almost passed completely behind the mountain. Bright orange blasts of color still pierced through the dirty windowpanes of the house.
We parked our car and stepped out.
When we saw a figure emerge from the house, we both stiffened.
"It's a buck," I said, whispering. Bill said nothing."He's going back in the house," I said under my breath, as we both followed our fourlegged host into the front hall, past the massive staircase and around the corner.
This appeared to be the formal library, shelves still packed with precious books and memorabilia."My God, these might be valuable and could even be in Lincoln's own handwriting," my lawyer-trained husband quipped.
As the unnerved deer buck wandered around his shoulder nudged a half-shelved scrap book and letters came floating out, one,two,more and more.
"Look," I said, bending down to collect the papers. "This letter is from Mary Todd to her son." The letter rambled in an angry tone, threatening.
"You have ruined my life," she wrote. "I will never see or speak of or to you again."
Just then the front door slammed shut and the massive organ that we had commented on as we entered the front hall began playing, all on its own.
"We're getting out of here," my husband demanded. "Get in the car now!"
