Flesh And Blood. Caroline Burnes

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СКАЧАТЬ The bedrooms were filled with personal items from brushes to pantaloons in keeping with the period. I had to laugh aloud at the beds; they would have been barely long enough to contain my legs. In one bedroom a corset was laid out. No wonder Southern women swooned.

      What price vanity! Or should I rephrase that to say, what price society does extract. Well, it would take more than a maid to wrestle one of those things on me. I’m afraid I would have failed miserably in the role of mistress of the plantation. Ha! Frank always said that my tongue would run an honest man away. I suppose that’s another area of womanliness that I would have flunked. I do have an inclination to speak my mind.

      I wandered the rooms of Ravenwood, wondering if Mary Quinn’s ghost watched me. I’ve never been afraid of ghosts or haunted houses. I’ve never spent much time thinking about either. With my footsteps echoing on the beautiful oak floors, I hoped that such things did exist. How else, sanely, to explain Frank’s reappearance?

      Before I could imagine, the afternoon was gone. I had a feel for Ravenwood. For all of its magnitude, it had been someone’s home. It had been loved and cherished. I was comfortable as I sat on the front porch in an old rocker and greeted the dusk. It occurred to me that for the first time in two years, I had not written a word. Not a day had gone by since Frank’s death that I hadn’t been able to pen some pithy remark or hone some sentiment that would fit perfectly inside a Hallelujah Hijinx card. The line specializes in sharp humor, and I had prided myself that I’d never lost a day’s work over Frank. I had some peculiar idea that he would have approved of my refusal to buckle under to grief. But today, I also knew that he would understand. Maybe it was time to take a breather. Maybe it was finally time to sit on the front porch and rock until dark had settled around me like a soft blanket.

      When I picked up the flashlight I’d had the foresight to bring with me, I left the porch with reluctance. I had dinner to make and a fat, juicy novel to take to bed. There was also the little matter of the fireplace. Someone had laid it with seasoned oak. All it required was a match, and I’d brought a big box of kitchen matches for such a necessity.

      After a light meal, I found myself curled before the warmth of the fire, my book opened but unread upon my lap. The sense of loss that struck was acute. I stood, the book dropping unattended to the floor. Why couldn’t Frank be here with me to share this room, this fire, this soft spring night with just enough chill to make the fire welcome? Why, of all the people in the world, was it Frank who’d been killed?

      As a million others who’ve lost loved ones, I went to bed that night with my questions unanswered.

      The next day dawned brisk and beautiful. Pale pink light suffused the room, creeping in through the wall of eastern windows and ricocheting off the delicate webbing of the mosquito netting that I’d been unable to resist draping around my bed. It was like a fantasy to wake up swathed in that glorious coral bed. I was thankful that whoever had furnished the room had been of more modern size. The bed was more than adequate, with plenty of room to wallow and indulge. But this wasn’t a morning for such activities. I intended to get up and scout the grounds for the old trysting oak of Mary Quinn and Charles Weatherton. I had the peculiar sense that during the night Mary had stood over me, weighing my cause. I would meet her this day. I knew it in my bones.

      My hair is dark brown and straight, just below my shoulders, and I’ve taken to pulling it back in a barrette or ribbon at the nape of my neck. My mother says I’m not young enough or old enough to support this style and that it’s simply a tactic to look austere and spinsterish. Most days I stay in the house and write, and since the grocery man or the postman haven’t complained about my “do,” I’ve been able to ignore Mother. I donned a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater, tied a ribbon in my hair and set out with a piece of toast in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. Perhaps I’d breakfast with Mary Quinn.

      Walking through the gardens, I recalled the legend. There are a few variations on it, but only in specific detail. The content is the same no matter what version I’d heard or read.

      In the spring of 1861 Mary Quinn was a seventeen-year-old girl, or woman in those days. Corrine, her descendant, favored her greatly in looks and attitude. Curly red hair, pale skin and green eyes. The ferrotypes of Mary reveal a lovely young girl with a square jaw and a humorous twinkle in her eyes. It was March, and Mary was attending a church social on the grounds of the Presbyterian Church in Vicksburg when she was introduced to young Charles Weatherton. Four years her senior, Charles had been to Europe and was reputed to be quite a charmer. He had completed his education and was heir to the Weatherton fortune, a firm that had grown up around the development of the railroad in the South.

      While most of the eligible Vicksburg ladies had fallen victim to Charles’s gray eyes and olive complexion, Mary was immune. She told him archly that as an only child, she had been well vaccinated with skepticism by her father when it came to male charm.

      Charles was smitten. By the end of March, he had proposed to her at least fifteen times—and been declined. His sixteenth plea met with success, for as saucy as Mary’s tongue could be, her heart was tender and she’d fallen in love with Charles.

      Mississippi had already seceded from the Union, and Charles had joined the Confederate army. Mary had jokingly told her friends it was the combination of Charles’s gray eyes and the gray of his cavalry officer’s uniform that had finally worn down her resistance. Whatever the source of the attraction, their love was so deep and intense that no one who saw them together could help but feel the tender brush of their love. Even the most cynical of anti-romantics melted at the emotion that flowed between the two.

      The proposal was approved by both families, and a wedding was hastily arranged. Charles was due to report to Richmond for his orders, and Mary wanted her wedding before he left. The entire town rallied to the cause and began the preparations for the April 14 wedding. But fate stepped in, and on April 3, Charles received orders to report to Richmond immediately. There was dire need for his services. Torn between his duty to his country and his fiancée, Charles hesitated. It was Mary who tied his golden sash of rank and walked him to his horse. He could not love her if he neglected his duty to his country, she’d said. She would wait for him. She would wait until eternity.

      The quick war that everyone in the South had anticipated was an illusion. Though one Southerner might be able to lick ten Yankees, the Yankees were better trained and better provisioned. And there were so many more of them. The year passed, and then another. It was 1863 and the South was struggling for survival.

      Mary received many letters from Charles. She would take them unopened to the oak tree where they had often sat holding each other in a tight embrace and planning their future after the war. When she read them, she could feel Charles beside her.

      It was in February of 1863 that Mary received word of Charles’s death. He had led a charge in a remote area of North Carolina and been shot down. He did not suffer. His death was instant. Mary’s reaction to the news was completely unexpected. She said she’d known for three days that he was dead.

      Instead of the terrible grief her family expected, Mary went on about her life as if she still believed that Charles would return after the war. She did not speak of the future, but she did not grieve, either. She continued to go to the oak tree where they’d had their trysts, and each time she returned, she seemed calmer, happier.

      When Vicksburg came under attack, Mary’s father, Canna, ordered her to remain in the gardens and not to venture along the riverbank to the oak tree. Union soldiers were straggling about the grounds of Ravenwood, and even desperate Confederates were dangerous. For the first time in her life, Mary disobeyed. No matter what her father said, she refused to give up her daily visits to the oak. Canna ordered a servant to restrain Mary. With all the agility of her quick mind and body, Mary was able to elude her keepers. At last, Canna ordered her locked in her room. СКАЧАТЬ