“The Grays of Truth” A Novel Excerpt

*Featured image courtesy of mumu limlim, https://openart.ai/@beautifulworld8?tab=creation*

In Reconstruction-era Washington and Baltimore, city elites are turning up dead.

It’s Tuesday once again and we would like to entice you to read the excerpt from a new novel, The Grays of Truth. Written by bestselling historical true-crime author Sharon Virts, it’s a gripping tale set in Washington, DC, and Maryland in the late 1860s, and is based on true events. In Virts’s hands, the settings in and around the nation’s capital and Baltimore come alive as she reveals the cruelty and cunning of various members of a rich and respected family, one death after another after another. After reading the excerpt below and the bio about Sharon, we think you’re going to want to learn the whole story by reading this novel, written by a master of the true-fiction genre.

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Monday, April 3, 1867, Washington, DC

“Mrs. Wharton!” A frantic young man pounded on the door of the brick house that fronted K Street. “Mrs. Wharton, please!” he shouted again, his blond hair blowing wildly in the blustering spring wind.

“My gracious, Danny,” said a slight woman with strong features and silvering blonde hair as she opened the door. With a shiver, Jane Gray Wharton folded her arms against the cold, her pale eyes studying the man on her stoop. “What has you so riled up this morning?”

Daniel Ketchum leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he attempted to regain his breath. “It’s Mother. She’s really sick.”

Daniel’s mother, Rebecca Ketchum, was Jane’s oldest friend.

“Has she been seen by a doctor?”

Daniel nodded. “My father insists that you come anyway,” he said, still panting.

A worried expression fell over Jane’s face, and a sinking uneasiness settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew General Scott Ketchum well enough to understand he would not have called for her if the situation weren’t desperate.

“Walk with me and tell me her symptoms,” she said, and headed down the hall toward the back of the house.

“She’s been throwing up something awful,” Daniel said as he followed behind her. “The doctor said it’s gastritis or something and would get better, but she’s getting worse and not making sense.”

“Not making sense?” Jane asked, her brows knitted. Daniel nodded again. “Wait here and let me grab a kit.” She opened the back door with a jerk.

Having served as a nurse at the Armory Square Hospital during the Rebellion, Jane Gray had seen plenty of sickness and death, and had become adept at closing herself off from the anguish of such suffering. But Rebecca was like a sister to Jane. No amount of Jane’s usual emotional shielding would immunize her should the worst occur.

Jane walked onto the back porch and took a deep breath, trying to cast her worry aside. The wind whipped through the yard as she hurried down the steps to the muddy path that led to her greenhouse and workroom at the rear of the lot. Unfastening the latch, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Rows of plants potted in coarse earthenware crocks sat on makeshift sawhorse tables and on the floor below. Dozens of jars, some filled with tinctures, others with a variety of herbs, roots, crystals, and powders, lined the shelves. Racks of tools and instruments hung from the walls: a spade, tongs, blades, a pair of scissors. A shelf beneath held vials, flasks, and beakers. On the counter under the shelf were a balance scale, mortar, and pestle, along with an assembly of glassware, coiled metal piping, pipettes, stands, clamps, and condensers. A small desk with a microscope was tucked in the corner at the rear of the room, its surface covered with piles of periodicals, books, and hand-drawn sketches.

Jane rushed past the laboratory equipment and rows of plants to the back wall and a rack of brown bottles filled with home-brewed tinctures and chemical compounds. Scanning the rack, she pulled down several of the bottled concoctions and carefully placed them in pockets that were sewn inside a carpetbag. At the desk, she removed a small leather case from the drawer and flipped it open to confirm its contents. Reassured, she snapped it closed and shoved the case into the carpetbag. Hoping she had all that she needed, she hurried down the aisle of plants to the yard and back into the house, where Daniel was waiting impatiently.

“Let’s make haste,” Jane said, ushering him through the hall with the bag in hand. She grabbed her wrap, took an umbrella from the stand, and followed Daniel out the door.

Passing through the small iron gate that separated the yard from the street, they headed east on K Street. To their right, the half-built Washington Monument thrust into the sky like an accusation, its fragmented summit rising upward as if begging the heavens for its completion. Overhead, dark leaden clouds hung low, ready to unleash a torrent at any moment. A biting breeze tossed the branches of elms that lined the street in a chaotic dance against the pewter sky. A distant roll of thunder rumbled as Jane and Daniel reached the corner and turned north toward the Ketchum house. Three-storied Italianate row houses with smooth brick façades, large bay windows, and carved eaves lined both sides of Thirteenth Street. The Ketchum house was about halfway up the block.

“Mrs. General Ketchum is upstairs, ma’am,” the butler said, swinging the door wide as Jane stepped onto the portico. Once she was inside, he took her umbrella and wrap and waved an arm toward the stairway. “The general is expecting you.”

Even from the foyer, Jane could hear Rebecca crying out. With her kit bag looped over her arm, Jane took the stairs to a set of rooms at the back of the house. At the end of the hall, a doorway opened to a small dressing room that fronted the bedchamber. Esther Brice, General Ketchum’s sister, was seated next to the door. A woman with auburn hair was sitting beside Esther on the arm of the chair.

“Thank the heavens you are here,” Esther said and stood, her thin face drawn as tight as the gray bun pinned at the back of her head. The woman sitting on the chair’s arm eyed Jane with a look of skepticism. She was pretty, with a heart-shaped face and arched brows. But there was something in her hazel eyes that unnerved Jane.

“This is Mrs. Eliza Chubb,” Esther said. Jane recognized her name from Rebecca’s many complaints about the woman’s meddling. Eliza inclined her head. “Eliza is General Ketchum’s copyist. She’s been here with the family since all this started yesterday.” Esther turned to Eliza. “Eliza, this is Jane Gray . . . Mrs. Edward Wharton. Jane served as a lady nurse at Armory Square under Dr. Bliss.”

The Armory Square Hospital took its name from the city’s armory on Washington’s Mall, where the hospital was built at the onset of the Rebellion. Near the steamboat landing on the Potomac River and the tracks of the Washington and Alexandria Railroad, Armory Square treated the most severely injured, those who could not be moved any further.

“I’ve heard much about you,” Jane said to Eliza before redirecting her attention to Esther as Rebecca cried out again. “How long has she been like this?”

“About an hour now,” Esther said.

“Danny says a doctor was here earlier. What was his diagnosis?”

“Gastritis. And the diverticulum is inflamed.”

“What did he prescribe?” Jane asked.

“White willow, I think,” Esther said, “and he gave her an antimony pill.”

Antimony? Jane thought. While doctors commonly prescribed the capsule to relieve chronic bowel congestion, in Jane’s opinion, if misused, antimony was dangerous and as deadly as arsenic.

“Who is this doctor?” Jane asked.

“Dr. Chisholm,” Eliza answered. “I called for him at the general’s request.”

Something didn’t sound right. “Did he give her anything for the pain?”

Esther shook her head. “I gave her a bit of laudanum from the general’s bottle, but it has had little effect.”

Jane frowned. “All right. Let me see her.”

Rebecca lay on her side facing the far wall, her legs drawn to her chest. Rebecca’s husband, General Scott Ketchum, sat on a chair next to her, his rawboned shoulders hunched over his wife. A dark-haired woman in a fitted red dress stood behind him, her hands resting on the back of his chair. A young woman with a ghostly pale complexion and long black braids was on the opposite side of the bed, holding Rebecca’s hand. Jane recognized her and blanched. Octavia Wharton was Jane’s niece, the daughter of her husband’s brother, and lived in Baltimore with her parents. And Octavia always traveled with her mother. Jane glanced again at the woman standing behind the general. She felt her anxiety rising as she realized the woman was her sister-in-law, Ellen Wharton.

Like Jane, Ellen, too, had grown up in Philadelphia. With ebony hair and milky skin, Ellen “Nell” Nugent had reminded Jane of the lovely Schneewittchen—Snow White—in the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. But in Jane’s opinion, Ellen’s appearance had been the only thing beautiful about the girl. Ellen used her beauty like a weapon and manipulated those enamored of her to get what she wanted. From Jane’s perspective, not much had changed over the years. Ellen’s self-admiration had only intensified since she’d married Hank Wharton. While most were charmed by Ellen’s quick wit and charisma, Jane knew her as mean-spirited, and she often made Jane feel inadequate. Drawing a nervous breath, Jane tried to push her uneasiness aside, training her eyes on her sick friend.

“Rebecca?” Jane said, her tone soft and comforting as she approached the bed. Immediately, she noticed the pallor of Rebecca’s skin. From just a moment’s observation, it was clear to Jane that Rebecca was deathly ill.

“Mrs. Wharton.” General Ketchum stood and extended his hand. Jane took it in hers. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his blue eyes glassy and reddened. General Ketchum was taller than most men, with a muscular frame and angular features. Usually he dressed smartly, his beard neat and his gray-blond hair carefully combed to the side, but not this morning. From his disheveled appearance, Jane assumed that the general had slept in his clothes from the day before, if he had slept at all.

“She’s in a terrible way,” he said with a glance at the pail next to the bed. Jane followed his worried gaze to a bucket that contained bloody vomit.

“I’ll need to examine her,” Jane said, dropping his hand and turning to Rebecca.

“We’ll give you some privacy.” General Ketchum looked at Ellen and nodded in the direction of the door.

Ellen narrowed her dark eyes and threw a scornful look in Jane’s direction as Octavia stood from the bed.

“And it’s Dr. Jane to the rescue,” Ellen said in a low voice that only Jane could hear. Doing her best to ignore the remark, Jane swallowed hard to quell her nerves.

“Esther,” Jane called as Esther started to leave with the other ladies. “I’ll need your assistance. Please stay.” With a nod, Esther moved to the side of the bed where Octavia had been.

“Take all the time you need,” the general said, and closed the door behind them.

Jane placed her hand on Rebecca’s flank. “Can you show me where your pain is?”

“Just leave me to die,” Rebecca said, rolling away from Jane.

“No one’s going to die if I can help it,” Jane said. “Now, tell me, what hurts?”

“My soul,” Rebecca cried, curling into a fetal position. “I deserve to suffer.”

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Friday, June 8, 1867, Shippen House, Philadelphia, PA

Jane Gray’s father, Dr. William Shippen, was always meant to become a physician. His grandfather had served as chief surgeon for General Washington’s Continental Army, and his father co-founded the medical school at the University of Pennsylvania. Like his forefathers, Dr. Shippen was considered a pioneer in his methods, bucking opposition from other doctors who, in his mind, caused needless suffering and death. He was fascinated by chemistry and its application to curing disease, and shared his passion with his children. Jane had always been particularly inspired by her father. When the telegram arrived informing her of his passing, she was deeply affected. The trip with Ned and Mary Louise to Philadelphia for his wake and funeral felt dreadful.

Midway through her father’s wake, Jane disappeared into the laboratory and operating theatre where she and her sister Emma had spent so much time with him. Dr. Shippen had wanted his firstborn to be a son, but instead gained twin daughters with curious minds much like his own. Jane looked out across the burners and beakers, reminiscing. “Do you remember the day he showed us how to make invisible ink?” Emma asked.

“As I recall, the first time you tried to decode a message, the paper caught fire in the flame,” Jane laughed.

“And all those dissections?” Emma shook her head. “Frogs, I could tolerate. But feral cats?” She made a face.

“You were always so squeamish.”

“Not you, sister,” Emma said. “What about the time you dissolved one of Mother’s gold rings? The look on Pa’s face!”

“He was so angry.” Jane remembered.

“Yes,” Emma said. “But proud, also. How clever you always were.” Jane started when the door behind her jerked open.

“Jane Gray,” Hank said as he walked into the lab. “What are you doing in here?”

“I’ll take my leave now,” Emma said with a scornful look in Hank’s direction, and disappeared.

“I could ask you the same,” Jane said, moving her gaze to Hank.

“I had forgotten that your brother Edwin is a temperance proponent. Can’t find a drop of liquor in the house. So I figured that perhaps the good doctor might have kept a stash in here. You know”—Hank chuckled—“for medicinal purposes.”

“I think the absence of alcohol has less to do with Teddy and the temperance movement than with Mother. Father wouldn’t allow a drop of the stuff around her after her first visit to the asylum. But he also knew that Mother would never step foot in his operating theatre or the lab. She used to say there were too many ghosts out here.”

Jane moved to the far end of the room. She reached under a counter and pulled out a corked bottle of clear amber liquid. “For medicinal purposes.”

“God love him,” Hank said as Jane handed him the bottle. He pulled the cork and swirled the contents before smelling them. “Scotch. Fine and aged at that.”

“Much like my father,” Jane said.

“In honor of your father.” Hank lifted the bottle in the air in a toast and took a drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered the bottle to Jane. She shook her head.

“God, how I hate wakes,” Hank said, and he took another drink. “I don’t think anyone enjoys them.”

“Other than the dearly departed, you are most certainly correct.” “You believe that the dead take pleasure in the grief of their family and friends?”

“I think they know nothing of it,” Hank said. “My theory is that they are in the glory of heaven, having a few drinks with the Father during their wake here on earth.”

“I pray your theory is correct,” Jane said, her gaze drifting to the laboratory apron that hung on a hook by the back door. “I just wish I had come to see him during his illness.”

“I thought you went to Philadelphia after your visit with us.”

“That was my plan, but Ned decided that I needed to come home to be with Mary Louise.”

“Ned refused to allow you to visit your father when he was dying?” Hank set the bottle down on the counter.

“He felt Mary Louise needed me more.”

Hank placed a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. My brother had no right.”

But he’s your husband. That’s what her father would say when she discussed Ned’s behavior with him. They are Whartons, after all. Even though her father had forced her into a marriage she had never wanted, she never held it against him. Father knows what’s best. God, how she was going to miss him.

“Are you all right?” Hank asked. Jane lifted her gaze, her eyes catching his. The empathy in his face melted the dike that, up until now, had held her emotions at bay.

“Oh, Janie,” Hank said, and wrapped his arms around her as Jane began to cry.

“I loved him so,” she sobbed, clinging to him. “I should have come to him.”

“I’m certain your father realized your constraint. He knew how you cared for him. And you will always be his favorite.”

Jane looked up at him, her eyes questioning and brimming with tears.

“Of course you were your father’s favored child,” he said. “You were smartest of all the Shippen girls. Smarter than Emma. And probably smarter than the boys. Except maybe for Edwin. When my old man informed me that you were to be my bride, I was intimidated as hell. It’s a man’s greatest fear. Having a wife more intelligent than he.” He lifted her chin. “Especially one so pretty.”

A blush rose on her cheeks, and she looked away. Hank was  humoring her, for Jane knew how she looked. Pale hair. Pallid skin. Plain Jane Gray. She reached into a pocket of her skirts for a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

“Here. Allow me.” Hank took the square from his breast pocket and dabbed her tears. “There,” he said, his hand lingering at the side of her face.

“Is it stifling in here, or is it just me?” she said with a sniffle and stepped from him.

“’Tis rather warm with all the windows closed.” Hank moved his head in the direction of the side door that led to the back lawn and carriage house. “Come outside with me. Help me imbibe a little of your father’s medicine.” Grabbing her hand, he urged her toward the door. “Come, Jane Gray. A little fresh air will do you good.”

“Fine,” she said with a sigh.

Hank picked up the bottle with his free hand and pulled Jane along with him to the garden. They found a bench under an old crab apple tree and sat. Hank offered Jane the bottle. She lifted it to her lips, tilted her head, and let the liquor pour into her mouth. The taste was earthy and musty, and burned all the way down.

“Easy there, sailor,” Hank said and took the bottle from her. “I said a little. Not half the damned bottle.”

Jane brought her hand to her mouth, choking. “It smells like my father.”

“Sounds like your father enjoyed his medicine more than just occasionally.” Hank chuckled and threw back a mouthful before handing the bottle to Jane again.

Jane brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The smell of the whiskey and the scent of her father were nearly indistinguishable in her olfactory memory. She smiled.

“I remember finding him out here under this old tree just before supper. Sometimes with stacks of papers, or a medical journal, or the latest literature from England. And sometimes, he would just be here with no papers at all. Just sitting with his eyes closed and thinking. ‘Cogitating,’ he would say when I would ask what he was doing.” Jane took another drink from the bottle and handed it back to Hank.

“‘Cogitating,’ eh?” Hank said, then took another swig. “The world today could use a healthy dose of that. All we seem to do today is cajole, coerce, and condemn.”

“My father said that President Lincoln was the mind of the Union. That he had thought through each decision he’d made long before the idea was ever proposed. That he was the logic in an illogical world. And without his steady mind to control the body of the country, the nation would flail about like a madman until exhaustion set in. His fear was that, without Lincoln’s wisdom to guide us, we would destroy ourselves before we tired out.”

“A wise man, your father.” Hank offered Jane the bottle again.

“I wish I could have been like him,” she said after taking another mouthful. Her eyes began to water. Jane was unsure if it was from the burn of the whiskey or the breaking of her heart.

Hank turned to her, his arm behind her on the back of the bench. “How so?”

Jane cradled the bottle in both hands and looked into the amber liquid. “His strength. His confidence and conviction. The freedom to do what he loved and say what he wanted without retribution. His passion for science and healing others, even when it meant breaking rules and risking all that he had worked for.”

“You’re talking about grave-robbing?”

“Technically, he didn’t “rob” graves.”

“Just because he wasn’t the one doing the digging doesn’t mean he wasn’t responsible.” Hank took the bottle from her and helped himself to another drink.

“If it is as you say after death, the souls of those who were taken from their graves knew nothing of it. They were in the glory of God,” Jane said, and took the bottle back. She lifted it to her lips and gulped down another mouthful. Her toes were tingling, and a great warmth rose within her.

“Go easy, Janie,” Hank cautioned and put his hand over the one that held the bottle. “I do not wish to have to explain to your brothers or my wife why I am carrying you into the house.”

“I am perfectly capable of carrying myself.”

With the bottle still in her grasp, Jane stood from the bench to demonstrate. As she did, the back lawn seemed to swoosh around her, and she stumbled. Hank jumped to his feet, catching her and the bottle before they both fell to the ground.

“I think that’s enough medicine for you, lassie.”

Jane’s head was spinning and her legs felt heavy. She held on to Hank to keep from falling.

“Oh my,” she said with a giggle. “I think you might be right.” “Nothing like a little stroll to walk it off. We can slip out the gate behind the carriage house. A couple of blocks and a cup of strong coffee, and no one will be the wiser.”

Hank tucked the bottle in the inner pocket of his jacket and wrapped his arm around Jane’s waist to steady her. She clung to him as he led her down the path toward the carriage house. She laid her head against him, closing her eyes to stop the spinning.

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The Fictional Cafe Interview with Author Sharon Virts

FC: When did you first get the idea to write this book?

SV: I first learned about this story while researching my second book, Veil of Doubt. As I delved into 19^thcentury forensic science, I stumbled upon the murder trial of a Baltimore socialite. When I read the court transcripts of the trial, I realized the case had many elements that I look for in a writing project: wealth, power and politics coupled with multiple unexplained deaths, high society drama, a thwarted/botched investigation, early forensic science, and unsavory/unstable real-life characters—each with motive for murder.

FC: What’s the most surprising thing you learned while writing it?

SV: Since all of my books have been set in the 19^th century, I’ve learned a lot about the archaic way of life then and have become somewhat immune from surprises. But in this case, the trial truly read like a circus act. When the judge allowed (with no objection from the prosecution) the defense to conduct chemistry experiments and demonstrations in open court, I was floored. 

Another shock came when I learned that one of the murder victims decided to stay overnight at Ellen Wharton’s home, knowing the rumors about her poisoning her guests. And why, when he first became ill, he stayed another four days is beyond me.

FC: In what way is the book you wrote different from the book you set out to write?

SV: I don’t look at a writing project like this. I usually start a project with my story’s ending in mind. That way, I know where I’m going and don’t get lost along the way. What changes are the characters. The more I write about them, the more they present themselves to me.

When I begin writing a story, I develop a clear outline of who my characters are and the roles they will play. However, the creative process is full of surprises, and occasionally a character meant for a minor part grows into a pivotal figure, steering the plot in unforeseen directions. It doesn’t change the story’s outcome, just the path on how we get there. For example, in The Grays of Truth, Achsah Shippen started off as a minor character, but quickly became the protagonist’s confidant. Sometimes characters like Achsah who “should never have been” are often the ones who leave an indelible impression on the plot and the reader. They remind us that in both fiction and in the real world, the greatest heroes are often those we least expect.

FC: Describe what it’s like to write creative nonfiction, imagining what these people said and combine it with hard knowledge and insights.

SV: I believe that historical facts should not be incidental to a story—part of a blurry background that distracts—but instead embedded deeply in the fabric of the story—the characters, scenes, settings, costume, customs, etc.—to lift the story and carry it forward. My rule is to stay true to the spirit of the story. I do change real-life details to escalate stakes and improve pacing. I also tend to create composite characters to simplify a story’s cast.

I rely on old newspapers to provide unique insight into the culture and conditions of the setting and politics and tone of the time frame. From advertisements to weather reports, I find the content in those old journals invaluable for insight in creating the attitudes of my characters. I visit old historic homes, neighborhoods and cemeteries where the story took place to see, hear, smell and feel what my characters might have experienced in those same places.  For The Grays of Truth, I even watched a couple of miniseries: The Pale Blue Eye (Ketchum and Hank Wharton attended West Point when Edgar Allan Poe was there), The Alienist (mental illness in the late 19^th century), and Manhunt to get a sense of the scene, setting and the science at the time.  But ultimately, it’s how the scenes play in my head that influence how I write them. Just like my art, I paint what I see. When I write, I transcribe what I see, the conversations I hear, and the emotions I feel as I watch the scene unfold in my mind.

FC: Who is a creative person (not a writer) who has influenced you and your work?

SV: The real-life people who become the protagonists of my stories have had the most influence on my work. While they may not be “creative” people, their grit and determination made the most impressions on the books that I have written.

FC: Persuade someone to read The Grays of Truth in fifty words or less.

It’s 1867 in Baltimore and Jane Gray Wharton’s orderly world begins to unravel. What begins as an unexpected tragedy quickly spirals into something far more sinister and Jane is left questioning everything—her family, her past, and her own sanity. A gripping tale of suspense that will keep you guessing until the very last page.

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