Buch lesen: «Flesh And Blood»

Chapter One

Grief is a peculiar emotion, as slippery as an eel. As deadly as a snake. It comes and goes in the dead of the night, or on the sunniest of days. It visits in the guise of memory, a dream or a too sudden thought of the future.

I know it well.

Before my decision to come to Ravenwood Plantation in Vicksburg, Mississippi, I thought I was beyond the anguish of first loss. There were times when the acuteness of missing Frank would take me unawares. I would suddenly miss him with an ache so deep that I had to stand and pace the floor.

Two years had passed since his murder, and I thought I had accepted his death. He was in a liquor store buying champagne for our fifth anniversary when he was killed in an armed robbery. A senseless act of violence. An act that changed my life forever.

I had adjusted to the grief, but I was completely unprepared for the guilt and desperation that came with Frank’s first “visit” to me—after his death.

In all of our marriage we had respected and trusted each other. When Frank’s ghost stood at the foot of my bed and accused me of betrayal, the terror was even greater than the pain. Not a fear of Frank, but a deep and gnawing concern that I had begun to lose my mind.

Self-doubt is almost as debilitating as guilt. Standing at the locked gate of the old plantation, I was filled with all sorts of loathsome anxieties. I was afraid, alone and confused. Once a proud and strong woman, I had been reduced to a superstitious creature willing to try anything to understand the nocturnal visits of a dead husband. Either I was going stark raving mad, or Frank’s ghost had something important to tell me. Before I gave in to my fears of the former, I was going to make one last-ditch effort to explore the latter. Ravenwood was the place where I might find the key to unlocking Frank’s words of accusation. I was a desperate woman.

I had come to find Mary Quinn, a young girl dead since 1863. But her love for a young man called Charles Weatherton was stronger than death, stronger than war. If my prayers were to be answered, her love would prove stronger even than a hundred years of time. It is said in Mississippi legends that Mary’s ghost returns to earth to intervene in misunderstandings between lovers who’ve been separated by an act of violence.

I haven’t taken on this mission lightly. I know that some people would call it macabre or morbid. Others would say that I am insane. I only know that I’m willing to try anything. Anything. To stop Frank’s accusations of betrayal. I can live with my grief at his death, but I cannot live with his condemnation, especially when I have no idea why he thinks I’ve betrayed him.

Before I’m written off as a crackpot, let me assure you that when I first heard of Mary Quinn’s ghost, I was a complete skeptic. Mary’s legend is well known in Mississippi, part of the lore of the Old South. I’d never put much stock in such stories. They’re rich in local color and emotion but often short on fact. But I was younger then, happily married, and immune to the type of tragedy that might make one consider looking to a spirit for help.

Life, and loss, have softened me. There are fewer blacks and whites and many more shades of gray. I suppose it could be said that now I want to believe. I need to believe in something, or someone.

My friends accuse me of still being in love with Frank. That, I suppose, is the brush with which I’ll be tarred. I do still love him. Intensely. Ours was not a trivial love, not one easily dismissed by even the finality of death. Without being overly dramatic, I can say that I never expect to love anyone but Frank.

So why, then, has Frank begun to visit me in the dark hours of the night, pointing his finger and speaking of betrayal? Five years ago I would have laughed at the idea of a woman so desperate that she would consult a spirit. Today I find myself standing at the gates of Ravenwood Plantation.

Before I’m labeled a maladjusted hysteric, consider that I’ve done everything within reason to resolve my problem, including several trips to a highly acclaimed psychiatrist. He spoke to me of guilt and how it can manifest itself in dreams and visions. He has recommended “stringent rest,” a contradictory term that escapes normal comprehension, but when translated from the shadowy jargon of psychiatry means institutionalization.

In our family, blood is thicker than mental disorders. After an attempt at psychiatry, I went to my mother. She loves me more than life and waits patiently for the grandchildren I will never give her. She said that Frank’s “visits” are the subconscious twistings of my mind trying to tell me to let go, to accept his death, to remarry, to have those grandchildren she waits to spoil. To gain this end she has even enlisted the aid of Frank’s family to convince me to get on with my life. She means well, but she doesn’t understand. The Frank that stood at the foot of my bed and pointed his finger at me, dark eyes ablaze, was not shooing me into another man’s arms. Not by a long shot. His exact words, delivered in a voice of wrath, were, “The past is never dead. I have suffered at the hands of those I loved. I am betrayed.” I can’t forget those words. And I can’t twist them into some type of license to find a new life. I also don’t believe that I’m losing my mind. So ruling out the extremes of psychiatry and motherhood, I’m left with few choices.

Now that reasonable steps have failed me, I’m taking the unreasonable. I have the key to Ravenwood—and two weeks to live in the old plantation without interruption. The house is generally open to the public for tours and is very popular, due to the legend of Mary’s ghost. But each year, for two weeks in April, Ravenwood is closed in honor of the anniversary of Mary’s death. These two weeks are mine. I must make contact with Mary, and she must help me to communicate with Frank.

I’m guilty of nothing, and I can’t go on with Frank accusing me. Whatever he feels I’ve done wrong, I must explain to him so that he can rest in peace and I can continue with my life.

In a manner of speaking, Mary is my last hope. My last “sane” hope.

THE KEY TO Ravenwood’s gates weighed heavy in my hand once I got out of my car and approached the wrought-iron fence. It was a work of art, iron twisted in curlicues that look as delicate as lace. With a grumble of protest, the gate opened. The driveway curved ahead of me, lost in a thicket of dark cedars and pristine dogwoods, a striking contrast of light and dark. Once my van was inside the fence, I got out and re-locked the gate behind me. There would be no need to leave the grounds. No one who could be stopped by a lock would be visiting me.

The scent of the paper-whites was as sweet as I remembered from childhood.

Ravenwood Plantation. I’d done my homework. The house was very old, dating back to the late 1700s when one wing of it was built by the original owner, Jeremiah Quinn. As the family prospered, the house grew. But the three-story structure has never been as awe inspiring as the grounds. From formal garden to acre upon acre of cotton and section upon section of woods, Ravenwood is one of the last remaining plantations.

The mini van I’d rented and stocked with two weeks worth of provisions cruised quietly down the winding drive. In the next few weeks as April’s sun kissed Mississippi hello, the grounds would shift from the frills of spring to the vibrant colors of summer.

My family is “old Jackson,” and I have several brothers who are in the legal profession. It was my older brother, Shane, who arranged for me to stay at Ravenwood. How he managed it, I didn’t ask. It was one of those friends of a friend of a friend things, and I know Mama had a lot to do with it. She probably told Shane I was going off the deep end with nightmares and visitations. Anyway, Shane stepped in and took care of all the details down to the fact that I would not be disturbed by anyone for two entire weeks. I had to suffer his amused comments about my “new hobby of ghost hunting,” but I got the key.

I drove around to the back of the main house. My quarters were to be in the newest portion, an apartment built above the old kitchen back in the 1930s. This was the only part of the house with electricity. Determined to settle in as quickly as possible, I hauled the ten sacks of groceries into the kitchen and my three pieces of luggage up the stairs to the bedroom.

From the moment I opened the door to the bedroom, I was enchanted. Three walls of the room were windows from waist level up. The fourth wall held the door to the bathroom and a fireplace. The bedroom was enormous. A cozy sitting area was structured around the fireplace and the bed, draped with coral mosquito netting and set up on a dais, occupied one sunny corner. If I remembered my history correctly, this room had been created according to the express wishes of Corrine Quinn, the last of the Quinn family to inhabit Ravenwood. A distant relation of Mary, Corrine had never married and had devoted her life to restoring and maintaining Ravenwood. It was her decision to open the house to public tours, and she laboriously documented the furnishings and repairs made to the original structure. Ravenwood had one of the most complete histories of any home in the state.

Although she was a spinster, there had been rumors that Corrine was not a saint. The house was her life, but she found spare time for pleasures and happy pursuits. She was reputed to have been a great beauty, and the only surviving photograph of her showed a slender woman with eyes that held the promise of mischief. She’d died at a young age in a riding accident. But her wishes had been followed in keeping Ravenwood open to the public—and closed on the anniversary of Mary’s death. Corrine had been bold enough to give an interview to the local newspaper saying that Mary deserved a couple of weeks alone in her own home.

The chifforobe was empty, so I made myself at home, unpacking my bags and arranging my belongings in the room I would occupy for the next two weeks. I was anxious to race past the gardens and down the riverside trail that led to the old oak tree where Mary’s ghost was said to visit frequently. Something held me back, though, some sense of propriety, as if I had to give Mary time to adjust to me, to sense that my intentions were sincere and that I honestly needed her help. I wanted to spend a few hours settling in to her home, learning a bit about her from the furnishings that had once made up her daily life.

So instead of rushing about the grounds, I made my way through the entire house, room by room.

The dimensions of the house dwarfed me. I’m average height, about five-six. During the days of the Civil War, I would have been a giantess of a woman. Miss Scarlett boasted of a seventeen-inch waist—and she was probably only four feet, eleven inches tall. The high ceilings of the plantation houses were designed for coolness, not the size of the inhabitants.

The staff at Ravenwood had done an impressive job. 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. Not even a lock on her door could prevent her from slipping away to the tree.

One clear spring day Canna followed his daughter. To his horror, he found her acting out the role of lover to empty air. She spoke as if Charles answered her, carrying on an animated conversation and even mimicking the act of hugging and kissing her nonexistent fiancé. The Yankees could not defeat Canna Quinn, but the sight of his daughter, his only child and heir, in such a condition, devastated him. He ordered Mary to be restrained in her bed.

Within three days’ time she was dead. Once she could not go to the oak tree, she simply gave up the will to live. She had told everyone not to mourn her, that she was simply going to meet Charles and that he waited for her, as she’d promised to wait for him. She’d closed her eyes and died without a struggle. She was not quite nineteen years old. Her date of death was April 14, the second anniversary of the scheduled date of the wedding.

Out of compassion for other lovers separated by death, Mary’s ghost is said to intervene in misunderstandings. She is said to be a messenger between the living and the dead. But only a pure love can attract her help.

There is certainly some misunderstanding between Frank and myself. I do not have the purity of Mary’s love, I know that. It was impossible for me to simply will myself to stop living, though I did think about my own death in the first months after Frank’s murder. Walking through the rose garden and past the fountain, I gave that idea some thought. Perhaps there is another kind of strength that allows one to survive a tremendous loss and continue to live. I’ve often thought that I’d rather be dead and allow Frank to live. But that in itself is cowardly.