Outside his grandfather’s drawing room, he stopped again and paused, inhaling deeply, before finally tapping his knuckle against the door and, hearing his grandfather’s voice, entering. When he did, his grandfather rose, unusually for him, and the two stood in silence, each staring at the other as if he were someone he had seen once and then forgotten.
“David,” said his grandfather, blandly.
“Grandfather,” he said.
His grandfather came to him. “Let me look at you,” he said, and took David’s cheeks in his palms, turning his head slightly this way and that, as if the riddles of David’s current life might be writ on his face, before dropping his hands to his side again, his expression betraying nothing. “Sit,” he told David, and David did, in his usual chair.
For a period, they were silent, and then his grandfather began to speak. “I shall not begin where I might: by rebuking you, or questioning you, though I cannot promise I will be able to resist either for the entirety of our conversation. For now, though, I have two things I mean to show you.” He watched as his grandfather reached into a box on the table next to him and drew out a bundle of letters, dozens of them, tied with string, and upon receiving them, David saw that they were all from Edward, and looked up, outraged. “Do not,” his grandfather said, before he could speak. “You dare not.” And David, though furious, hurriedly untied the knot and tore at the first one in silence. Inside was the first of the letters he had written to Edward when Edward had left to see his sisters and, on a separate sheet, Edward’s reply. The second envelope, cut open and resealed, contained another of his letters, and another of Edward’s replies. So did the third, and the fourth, and the fifth—all the letters Edward had never replied to, finally answered. As he read, he could not stop himself from beaming, or his hands from trembling: at the romance of the gesture, from realizing how much he had needed these responses, from the cruelty of their being withheld from him, from relief that they had been left unopened for him to read, for him alone to see. Here too was the letter that Edward had referred to, the one he had had delivered two days before the museum show, when David had been lying in his bed, insensate and tormented, here it was, and many more besides. Here was proof of Edward’s love for him, his devotion in every word, in every sheet of onionskin—here was why he had not heard from Edward during his confinement: because Edward had been writing him these letters. He suddenly had a vision of himself, in bed and staring at the stain, and, west from here, Edward scribbling by candlelight, his hand stiff and sore, each of them unaware of the other’s discomfort, but both thinking only of each other.
And then he was incensed, and yet once again, his grandfather began speaking before he could. “You must not judge me too harshly, child—though I do apologize for keeping these from you. But you were so ill, so upset, that I could not know if these would harm you further. It was such an extraordinary quantity of letters, that I thought they might be from—from—” He stopped.
“Well, they were not,” he snapped.
“I know that now,” his grandfather continued, and his face became grim. “And this leads me to the second thing I need you to read,” and once again he reached into the box and this time handed David a large brown envelope, which contained a sheaf of stitched pages, the top sheet marked, in large letters, “Confidential—for Mister Nathaniel Bingham, upon request,” and suddenly David felt a fear ripple through him, and he held the pages in his lap, careful not to look at them.
But “Read it,” his grandfather said, in that same tight, bland voice. And, when David refused to move, “Read it.”
Dear Mister Bingham, March 17, 1894
We have completed the report on the gentleman in question, Edward Bishop, and have recorded the details of the subject’s life within these pages.
The subject was born Edward Martins Knowlton on August 2, 1870, in Savannah, Georgia, to Francis Knowlton, a schoolteacher, and Sarabeth Knowlton （née Martins）。 The Knowltons had one other child, a daughter, Isabelle （known as Belle） Harriet Knowlton, born January 27, 1873. Mister Knowlton was a beloved teacher, but he was also a known and inveterate gambler, and the family was often in debt. Knowlton borrowed heavily from his and his wife’s extended family, but it was when he was discovered to be stealing money from the school’s coffers that he was fired and threatened with probable imprisonment. At the same time, Knowlton was found to be much more indebted than even his family knew—he had accrued hundreds of dollars’ worth, with no way to repay it.
The night before he was to be arraigned, Knowlton fled with his wife and two children. His neighbors found the house almost exactly as they’d left it, though with signs that they had departed in great haste; the larder had been ransacked for dry goods, and drawers had been left ajar. A child’s forgotten sock lay on the staircase. The authorities immediately began pursuit, but it is thought that Knowlton sought refuge in one of the underground houses, likely claiming religious persecution.
From here, the trail on Knowlton and his wife ends. The two children, Edward and Belle, are recorded as registered in a safe house in Frederick, Maryland, on October 4, 1877, but they are identified as orphans. According to notes from the shelter, neither child could or would talk about what had happened to their parents, but the boy did at one point say that “the man with the horse found them and we hid,” which led the facility director to believe that the Knowlton parents were captured by a Colony patrol just before crossing into Maryland and the children were later found and taken to the shelter by a good Samaritan.
The siblings remained at the house for another two months before being moved with a number of other parentless children found in the area to an institution for Colony orphans in Philadelphia on December 12, 1877. Here they were almost immediately adopted by a couple from Burlington, Vermont, Luke and Victoria Bishop, who already had two daughters, Laura （eight） and Margaret （nine）， also Colony orphans, though both were adopted in infancy. The Bishops were wealthy, upstanding citizens: Mister Bishop owned a successful lumber concern, which he managed with his wife.
But the early, pleasant relations between the Bishops and their new son were soon to sour. While Belle adjusted quickly to her new life, Edward resisted it. The boy was highly attractive, as well as intelligent and charming, but, as Victoria Bishop put it, “lacked any true sense of industry or self-control.” Indeed, while his sisters dutifully completed their chores and homework, Edward was forever finding ways to shirk responsibility; he even engaged in petty blackmail to coerce Belle into doing his chores for him. Though obviously quick-witted, he was an indifferent student and indeed was suspended from school after he was found to have cheated on a mathematics exam. He loved sweets, and several times filched candy from the general store. And yet, as his adoptive mother emphasized, he was also beloved by his sisters, especially Belle, despite the small ways in which she was often manipulated by him. He was, she says, exceptionally patient with animals, including the family’s lame dog, as well as a gifted singer, an excellent writer and reader, and deeply affectionate. Though he had very few true friends, preferring to be with Belle, he was well-liked and had many acquaintances and never seemed to be lonely.