Flesh And Blood
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.
Even through the worst of my grief, I never doubted that Frank knew how much I loved him. Not until lately. In the past month he has appeared to me three times. I wake up from a troubled sleep, and he is standing at the foot of my bed. He points his finger at me and makes his accusation of betrayal. I want to reach out and touch his hand, to feel his thick, black hair beneath my fingers. To pull him to me and tell him that I haven’t betrayed him in thought or deed. But he makes his accusation and he fades. It is unbearable, and if I don’t find the reason for his visits, I truly will become insane.
By the time I had mulled through the entire legend yet again, I found that I had arrived at the old oak. It was a live oak, an enormous presence that exuded a peace that invited me to sit beneath its branches on an old root. I settled in, wondering if Mary and Charles had shared this same natural seat. I felt as if they had. Setting my empty coffee cup beside me, I leaned back into the trunk of the tree and prepared to wait. I wasn’t certain what to do to attract the notice of a ghost. Were there chants or songs or whistles that might help? I didn’t know.
Lacking any specific behavior, I decided to wait quietly. The sun was warm and relaxing, and I leaned into the tree and closed my eyes. Fragments of dreams danced behind my eyelids. There were parties in Ravenwood, laughter, the crinkle of dresses, the clink of crystal. Charles and Mary danced before me, their love a palpable presence so that all other dancers stopped to watch them. I think I must have laughed out loud with pleasure at the sight of them. They held nothing back from each other. To stand beside them was to bask in the overflow of their love.
I awoke with a start. To my dismay, dusk was settling around me once again. I’d slept the entire day away. I gathered up the coffee cup and hurried back toward the house. It was a long walk and darkness was falling. Since I’d set out so early, I hadn’t even considered needing a flashlight, and the grounds were without any lighting. Unfamiliar with the landscape, I had to hurry or risk getting lost.
Mixed with the sense of having squandered a valuable day was a secondary feeling of bitter disappointment. I had been so certain I would find Mary at the tree. Had I slept through our meeting? I thought not. It was more likely that she simply had not come. That she would not come.
Tears are a rare thing for me, but as I hurried along the path back to Ravenwood, I felt them building. I knew it was a combination of disappointment, disorientation and desperation. The dreams of Mary and Charles were still with me, highlighting my own loss. It had been foolish desperation that had brought me to Ravenwood in quest of a ghost. Maybe Dr. Stoler was right. Maybe I’d never accepted Frank’s death.
Rain that I hadn’t even noticed blowing in began to fall softly. It mixed with the tears on my face as I hurried along the unfamiliar path. My cotton sweater was soon clinging to me. Half blinded, I failed to see the horse and rider step out of the trees and directly into my path. When I finally registered man and beast, my shrill cry of fear unsettled the horse and he danced forward.
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 had time to notice 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. My face was pinned into the azalea.
“What are you—?” I began indignantly.
“Make another move and you’ll die.”
Chapter Two
The pressure of the knife or whatever blade he held against my neck made me give up any ideas of resistance. Roughly he pulled me out of the shrub. When his hand grasped my breast, he stopped suddenly.
“You’re a woman!” He spun me around to face him.
The light had completely faded from the day. The gray mist of rain and gathering darkness concealed most of his features, but I could see that he was dressed in the uniform of a Confederate officer. The weapon he’d used to pin me to the ground was his sword. For a second I was so taken aback, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Once I found my tongue, I had no lack of questions. “What are you doing at Ravenwood? Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you dressed in those clothes?”
He didn’t answer, but a slight grin played across his face. “And I could ask you the same,” he said in a drawl.
The hand that had pawed me suddenly lifted me by the elbow with a gentle support. “The lighting was poor. There are stragglers from both armies on these grounds, and I’ve developed a fondness for the residents of Ravenwood. Whenever I have some spare time, I ride through here to patrol.”
I had been frightened before, but it was nothing compared to what I experienced now. “Wha-what armies?” His dress. His speech. It was as if I’d stepped into a nightmare.
“What armies?” He laughed. “The Confederate and the enemy, of course. What did you think, the Trojans and the Greeks?”
“Oh, Lord.” The words escaped me on a sigh. I was too afraid to scream. It occurred to me that the man and horse standing before me were figments of my deteriorating imagination. If I could conjure up Frank, why not a Confederate soldier and horse? I decided to play for time and test him. “What year is this?”
“Eighteen sixty-three. April. Have you lost your senses tumbling around in the bushes?”
His hand was still beneath my elbow, and for good reason. My knees threatened to give. In an instant he had his hands about my waist, offering support. “You’re rather tall for a woman and strangely dressed. I thought you were a boy.”
“I don’t feel very well,” I answered as I stumbled forward. Thank goodness he was on the tall side, for a man, or I might have crushed him on the spot. In a moment I had my spine re-engaged and I stood on my own. I had gone to sleep in 1993 and awakened…in the midst of the Civil War? It was not possible. It was…insane. But the man beside me was flesh and blood. A very solid man with firm muscle. The horse smelled of horse. Even the delicate scent of the paper-whites was all around me. If this was a dream, or a nightmare, it was Technicolor. But after all, hadn’t I come to Ravenwood in search of a ghost?
For the first time I noticed the silence. The night was hushed, as if it waited for a burst of fire or a volley of cannon. “Where is the Union army? Why aren’t they shooting?”
“Several battalions have dug in at the low ground not two miles from here. We’re expecting reinforcements any day.”
He spoke with such matter-of-factness, and absolutely no fear. I didn’t completely accept what might have happened to me, but I felt a sudden rush of pity for this man. He had no concept of the future, of the futility of the battle about to be fought. How could I tell him that those reinforcements would never come? That the siege of Vicksburg was one of the most torturous events of a long and bloody war. That his army, his men, were doomed to starvation and death, along with many of the residents of the town. I was overwhelmed with what I knew and could not tell.
“You’re looking ill. Let me walk you back to Ravenwood. I’m sure that we can find something to bolster your spirits.”
I hesitated. What would I find at the plantation? Would Canna Quinn be mourning the death of his daughter, Mary? What would he make of my sudden and unexpected appearance? What had happened to the mini van I’d rented? How could I wake myself from this nightmare?
“My name is Nathan Cates, lieutenant colonel in the Seventh Confederate Cavalry.”
How should I respond? I decided on a simple name. “Emma Devlin.”
He hesitated, as if he waited for more. “Are you a relative of the Quinns?”
“No. A guest.”
Nathan captured the reins of his horse and we started back to the house. Several minutes passed in silence. I sensed that the man beside me struggled to say something. I was completely disoriented and unable to decide what I believed. Silence was my only choice.
“Miss Devlin, I’ve taken a vow this summer, and I’m about to break it. I think this has gone far enough.”
He’d lost me completely, but it sounded sinister. “What vow? What are you talking about?”
“I took this…job, and it’s a matter of honor with me to fulfill my obligations. But I can see that I’m distressing you, so I think I’d better tell you the truth.”
With his words, it was as if lightning had zapped behind my eyes. The costume! The strange cadence of his speech! The courtliness of his manner! “You’re part of the Civil War reenactment, aren’t you? You’re paid to act out the role of cavalry colonel and it’s against your contract to break character.” I’d read all about it. With the first flush of excitement also came a bitter aftertaste of disappointment. I had wanted to meet a ghost. I’d been more than ready to believe it. As unreasonable as it was, I also felt anger.
“What are you doing on the grounds?” I asked.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.
“These are private grounds. I think you should take your horse and leave.”
“Miss Devlin, please allow me to walk you back to the house. The grounds are supposed to be private, but they aren’t secure. I am sorry that I’ve upset you. You see, I didn’t expect to find anyone here, either.”
He sounded genuinely contrite, and a bit of my anger passed. “You frightened me, but only a little. I didn’t know if I’d woken up in the Twilight Zone or if I was in the company of some raving lunatic who was living in the past.” I wasn’t about to confess that I’d hoped he was a ghost.
“By your accent, I’d say you’re from the South. Surely you know about the Vicksburg reenactment. It’s part of the history of the town. It’s one of the biggest tourist attractions. And reenactors are required to stay in character.”
“I had my mind on other things.” The understatement of the year. “That business with the sword at my throat, though, was pretty convincing.”
He laughed out loud, an easy, slow chuckle. “Maybe I should ask for a pay raise if I’m such a great actor. Or maybe, Emma Devlin, you’re ready to believe in something different in your life.”
The humor of the situation struck me hard. I smiled, and that was quickly followed by a chuckle. The man had truly unsettled me. He had every right to believe I was a half-wit. All it had taken was a uniform and a half dozen comments, and I’d been ready to believe I was talking with a Confederate soldier.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I brought Frisco over for a gallop around the grounds. He doesn’t get a lot of exercise during the day I’m afraid, and the gardens around the plantation are incredibly beautiful.”
“They are indeed.” He was waiting for my explanation. “I’m staying in the house while it’s closed. I’m…researching a project.”
“Then you’re a writer?”
His eager questions made me feel guilty of some deception. “In a way. I write for a card company, but I’m at Ravenwood on personal business.” That was as much as I would give him.
“I’ll see you back to the house and then be off.”
He seemed to sense my desire for privacy, and I walked silently beside him. Frisco followed behind like an obedient puppy. I’d learned to ride as a child at my Aunt Charlotte’s, and I liked the looks of the big chestnut gelding. The night sounds of Ravenwood closed gently around us. The chirr of crickets was a comforting noise, reminding me again of happy childhood moments.
But the silence between us had stretched too long. “How long will you be working with the reenactment?”
“On and off through the summer, I suppose. I have a teaching arrangement at Mississippi College. Then…”
I felt him shrug beside me, and without being able to see, I knew that he was smiling. He was confident of his future, whatever it might prove to be.
“You’re from the South, aren’t you?” My curiosity was piqued.
“I’ve never been able to completely curb my accent.”
“And I should hope you wouldn’t try. Why would you want to sound as if you came from Illinois or Idaho?”
“A good question,” he said, “and one for which I don’t have an answer. Are you staying at Ravenwood alone? I ask because I’ll stop and check on you if you’d like.”
There was no pushiness in his question, only concern. Walking through the dark with him and the horse, I felt an unaccustomed peace. “I’d like that. I am alone.”
“Ravenwood is a big house. Don’t let the little idiosyncrasies unsettle you.”
“I’m not easily unsettled.” Through the heavy green of magnolia and oak leaves I could see the night-light that had been put up near the apartment door.
“An independent woman. I like that.”
“And I’d like to point out that you are a gentleman, and I like that.”
We laughed together as we walked to the kitchen door and I drew the key from the pocket of my pants. “Thanks for seeing me home, Nathan Cates.”
“My pleasure, Miss Devlin. And I’ll be by to check on you during the next two weeks. If you hear a horse galloping about the property, you can bet it’s me and Frisco.”
“Did you rent him at a local stables? I thought I might like to ride while I’m here.”
“No, Frisco isn’t a rental, but I think I might be able to scare up a mount for you.”
“No Union horses.” I couldn’t resist a bit of teasing.
“Any horse I bring for you to ride will neigh with a drawl,” he said as he swung up into the saddle.
The light from the window caught him fully, and for the first time I realized what an attractive man he was. His legs were long and well-muscled, defined by the boots he wore. Wide shoulders supported a strong neck. His face was handsome in a rugged way, and there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. That disappeared when he smiled down at me.
“Not to alarm you, Miss Devlin, but be on the lookout for ghosts. There’s a rumor that Ravenwood is haunted.”
“What a charming idea, Mr. Cates, a haunted plantation house.”
“Most ghosts are harmless, Emma Devlin. Many of them are simply too sad to rest. But there are some that mean you harm.”
His words struck me like a cold blade along my spine. He was playing with me in a light, bantering way, and he had no idea how close to my heart he’d hit.
“I’ll be careful only to consort with the good-natured ones,” I answered, and unlocked my door. “Good night, Mr. Cates.”
Before I locked the door I watched the night swallow up horse and rider. I’d spent the day dreaming about Mary Quinn and met a strange history teacher who doubled as an actor. For a woman who’d done nothing all day, I was exhausted—and starved. Too hungry to wait for something to cook, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took it up the stairs to the bedroom. I was suffering from an odd aftershock of meeting Nathan Cates. I was bone weary and yet I felt as if a tiny electrical pulse was running through me.
Thinking back through the meeting, I was surprised to recall that once I spoke with him, I had absolutely no fear of him. I’d never been a person who made instant friends. My mother, who has a list of complaints a mile long about me, said it was because I was sarcastic and smart-mouthed. Before people got a chance to like me, I drove them away, she said.
Frank had defended me by saying that I weeded out the wimps. At the memory of those lively debates, I couldn’t help but smile. The smile faded as I thought about my reasons for being at Ravenwood. I’d spent a dreamless night my first night here. Would I see Frank tonight?
I finished the last bite of my sandwich and took the plate back downstairs. I made sure the doors and windows were locked before I abandoned the kitchen for the bedroom and a hot bath. A tiny rule I’d made for myself was that I would not think of Frank before I went to bed. If it was my subconscious acting up, I didn’t want to invite a visit from the man I loved accusing me of betrayal. I picked up my book, spun the coral mosquito netting about my bed and settled down for the night.
About eleven, my eyes grew heavy and I gave up my book. Outside the open window, the night was alive with small creatures. With a smile I surrendered to childhood images and sleep.
The brush of the mosquito netting across my face woke me. Waking up in an unfamiliar place can be unsettling, and I forced myself to remain calm. A gust of April wind must have blown through the open window with enough force to billow the netting over the bed. It was a strange sensation, like waking up in the folds of an elaborate gown. There was a coral glow around the bed. I was pushing my way clear to the surface of material when I saw Frank.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he watched me closely.
“Frank.” I wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hand, to touch his face. But I could not. The chill of the grave held me back. No matter how much I didn’t want it to be true, Frank Devlin was dead. Though he stood before me, handsome in the pink and coral light of dawn that had begun to chase the darkness from the room, I knew he was no longer of my world.
“The past is never dead, Emma.”
“I know that, Frank. I miss you terribly.”
“I have suffered at the hands of those I loved.”
His words were so sad, so horrible. Tears threatened to choke me, but I fought them back. “Not me, Frank. Never me. I could not have loved you more. You know that. I still love you.”
“I am betrayed, Emma. Betrayed.” His right hand came up and his finger pointed directly at me. “Emma…”
As in the past three times, he faded away. In a few seconds, the room was empty except for me.
“Frank.” I spoke his name, expecting no answer. My tears were bitter, bitter. Frank’s ghost was gone, but the specter of insanity completely filled my mind. Was I mad? Maybe the smartest thing to do would be to commit myself to an institution. Each time Frank visited, the pain was more unbearable. Each time his accusations were the same, and my ability to understand them no better.
Hugging my pillow, I cried until I had no more tears. Then I washed my face and went downstairs. I put on a pot of very strong coffee and thought about my options. I’d promised myself two weeks at Ravenwood. I would give myself that much time and no more. What I needed was a plan to find Mary Quinn. Walking to the oak hadn’t worked. Perhaps by sitting in Mary’s own room I might encourage contact with her. I had the coffee dripping when I ran back upstairs to change into a pair of stirrup pants and a long-sleeve blouse. God bless the creator of heavy knit. It didn’t wrinkle, held its shape and was as comfortable as a second skin. I crowded my mind with these trivialities, grasping desperately at the ordinary. Beneath everything I did, the question remained: was I losing my mind?