Flesh And Blood

Rain mixed with tears as I fled through the forest

Half-blinded, I failed to see the horse and rider that stepped out of the trees and directly into my path. When I finally registered man and beast, my shrill cry of fear unsettled the horse.

I had one glimpse of a superb rider controlling the magnificent animal before I had to throw myself off the trail and out of the horse’s path. In that one brief glance I saw a man with his face completely hidden by a hat.

I noticed no more before I landed facedown in a leafy azalea. Before I could move from the clutches of the shrub, I felt the cold bite of steel against the back of my neck.

A masculine voice behind me gave me a blood-chilling warning.

“Make another move and you’ll die.”

On a trip to Vicksburg, Mississippi, with writer/history buff Pat Sellers, Caroline Burnes toured several “haunted” plantations and the historic battlefields. That trip, combined with the incredible letter written by a Union soldier to his wife and read during the PBS series on the Civil War, sparked the idea for Flesh and Blood. Caroline believes that the past is alive, and never far behind us.

Flesh and Blood

Caroline Burnes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my parents, Roy and Hilda Haines,

and Marjorie Manvel. They live in my heart.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The brass bell jangled merrily as Frank Devlin pushed open the heavy glass door at Mason’s Liquor Store and gave a good-natured grin to the store owner, short and plump Robert Mason, who stood behind the counter. Frank’s long strides took him unerringly to the cooler at the rear of the store, where he searched through the cold bottles of champagne and wines, until he found the one bottle he sought and pulled it out.

“Thanks for chilling this for me, Robert. This is Emma’s absolute favorite.”

“Special occasion, eh?” Robert already knew. For the past five years on this date he’d gone through the same routine with Frank. The special champagne, the ritual of having it chilled and ready so that when Frank got home he could pop the cork without delay. The Devlins were two of his favorite customers. They were so much in love, even after five years of marriage.

“Emma claims that you call me up and remind me to do this,” Frank said. He stopped near the selection of red wines. “She says you’re a handsome rascal. She’s also implied that I grew my mustache because she thinks yours is sexy.”

“If Emma Devlin was my wife, I’d give her champagne for breakfast everyday,” Robert answered. “She’s a knockout, and you’re a lucky man.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

The brass bell over the door jangled again. Frank selected a bottle of wine for the special dinner he knew his wife was cooking and turned back toward the cash register with a grin that quickly faded from his face. The wine bottle he held aloft was lowered to his side.

“Hit the floor, mister.” The young man in a black leather jacket pointed a blue-black pistol directly at Frank Devlin’s heart.

“Okay.” Frank lowered his lanky frame to the liquor store floor. He had seen the look of terror on Robert’s face. It was echoed on those of the two other customers caught innocently in what was surely an armed robbery. There were two robbers, both with guns and both wearing dark ski masks pulled over their faces. The second gunman was smaller, in a blue windbreaker.

“Take the money. Just don’t hurt anyone,” Robert Mason said from his prone position. “Take anything you want. Then get out. We don’t want any trouble here.”

“Shut up!” The leather-jacketed robber kicked Robert in the face as he lay on the floor. “When I need your permission, I’ll ask for it.”

The second robber, busy at the cash drawer, laughed. “That’s right, you tell ‘em, Diamond. We don’t need nobody’s permission!”

Frank could feel the grit of the floor against his cheek. He had no weapon. There was nothing he could do except wait for the robbers to take the money and leave. They were both young, and they both sounded unstable. Hopped up on some type of drugs more than likely. The best thing to do was to remain calm. If no one provoked them, they would probably take the money and some liquor and leave. Several stores in the downtown Jackson area had been hit by armed robbers lately. The Mississippi capital had never been a hotbed of crime, but the economic downturn and the high unemployment rate were taking a toll.

The young woman several feet away had begun to whimper in fear. Frank wanted to warn her to stay quiet. These robbers wouldn’t need much to push them to another act of cruelty. They would certainly feed off the young woman’s fear.

“Something wrong, bitch?” The robber called Diamond walked up to the woman’s side. He nudged her in the ribs with the toe of his shoe. “You got a complaint?”

“No,” she managed to gasp. “No problem.”

“That’s good. ’Cause if you had a problem, I’m afraid I’d have to solve it for you.”

There was the sound of a gun cocking.

“You wouldn’t like my solution!” The robber laughed, a high-pitched sound that mixed with his companion’s deeper laugh and the soft sobbing of the woman.

Frank concentrated on their voices. If he ever heard them again, he’d know them. Diamond was obviously a nickname of some type. He carried an antique revolver. Frank looked at their shoes, searching for details that might prove useful when the police arrived. They were running shoes. Expensive. Brand new. He didn’t have to ask where a couple of punks found the money to buy two-hundred-dollar running shoes. They did some running, but not for fitness reasons.

“Hey, this little mama’s sort of pretty.” The robber was still standing over the crying woman. He reached down and pulled her from the floor. She cried aloud with fear. “We got time for a little fun, cousin?”

The robber in the blue windbreaker had sacked up the money. He came out from behind the counter and stood on the other side of the crying woman. “Make it quick, before anyone else stumbles in here.”

Diamond grabbed the woman by her hair. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

“Put her down.” Frank rolled onto his side where he could look at the two men. He’d tolerated all he could. They’d gone beyond their original goal of robbery. If he didn’t stop them now, they might kill everyone in the store. “Get the money and go. You don’t want any trouble here.”

“That’s right, and we don’t intend to have any.” Diamond tugged the woman’s hair until she cried out.

“You think you’re gonna stop us?” The windbreakered robber ended his question on a sneer.

Frank held his position on the floor. He didn’t want to challenge them, but someone had to stand up to them. With a bit of luck, they’d decide it wasn’t worth the hassle. “Just take the money and go, before someone gets hurt.”

“You giving orders to us?” Diamond asked. He raised his gun in a fast, practiced motion. His grip on the woman’s hair loosened and she fell to the floor, too scared even to cry.

“You have what you came for. Be smart and go while you can.” To Frank’s relief, the gunmen started to back away, even though they both aimed their guns at him. The bottle of chilled champagne was still at his side, and Frank had a brief image of Emma. She’d be standing at the front window, looking out into the street and wondering why he was late. She wouldn’t be worried about him—not yet—and he’d never tell her of this episode. He’d convince Robert not to mention it to her, either.

The robbers were at the door. The one in the leather jacket paused. “You know, you talk too much.”

Before Frank Devlin could lift a hand in self-defense the bullet penetrated his brain. In a matter of seconds he was dead.

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.