TWENTY

 

I sat up, wide awake, my heart pounding against my ribs. Ashby. Ashby. Paralyzed, I waited for the haunting sound of those syllables to whisper again through the night air. Ashby. Ashby. I had not dreamed it. Someone was calling my name, someone outside my balcony. Scrambling from the covers, I flew to the French doors, where slanting streaks of moonlight filtered through the old-fashioned panes. I moved onto the balcony, feeling the damp roughness of the floor on my bare feet, following the sound. Ashby. Ashby. Leaning over the railing, I looked to the lawn below. Bleached in the silvery light of a full moon stood a figure clad in a pastel robe, long, flowing draperies cascading from the shoulders to the ground. I gasped, clutching the railing to steady myself, my eyes fixed on the ashen figure.

Slowly the head moved, tilting all the way backward, revealing a face whose features blurred into the moonlight. Ashby. Ashby. The voice was eerie and hollow.

My mouth opened but no sound emerged. Fright had frozen my vocal cords.

Ashby, don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to fear.

“W-who are you? What do you want?” I finally managed to articulate through numb lips.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s only me. Emma Coleville.”

I slumped against the railing, closing my eyes on the vertigo, and trying to catch my breath. I did not know whether to laugh or cry as I looked down at the old housekeeper basking in the moonlight, dressed in her long, pale bathrobe. “My God, Miss Emma. What are you doing out there in the middle of the night? You scared me to death.” Gradually, my senses awoke to the damp chill on my bare arms, the smells of dew on grass, the distant rippling of the lake.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her voice hoarse from projecting in the night air. “You see, Luke talked to me before he left for his class tonight, urged me to tell you what I know. He made me realize I’ve waited long enough, that I need to let you in on…on things I know. Things that concern you.”

“Don’t move. I’m coming down to talk to you. Please don’t leave.”

I shot back into my room, grabbed a short robe and some flip-flops and dashed through the hall, down the stairs, and out the back door to the lawn. Miss Emma eyed my night clothes. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have awakened you, Ashby. Perhaps I should have waited…”

“No, no. It’s all right. But let’s find a place to sit. Do you want to go inside?”

“Oh no. I never feel right talking about Lenore, about Rosabelle, about the past when I’m inside the house. Call it superstition, but it creeps me out, as Jeff would say.” She shivered slightly.

“Let’s go down to the dock, then, Miss Emma.”

“I’d feel more comfortable in the gazebo. It’s where Lenore and I spent so many hours together. Do you mind a little ramble over the fields? I’ll hitch up my robe so it doesn’t drag in the wet grass.” She reached for the rope-ties at her waist.

And so we followed the old stone wall, not talking, just breathing in the fragrance of night, our path guided by the lantern of the moon, until we approached the fence and lampposts surrounding the gazebo. Down the stone stairs, through the maze of boxwoods, we moved to the wooden benches under the arch of the ancient structure.

“There.” Miss Emma settled her slight frame onto the seat. “Just let me catch my breath.”

“This is really beautiful at night. The moonlight hides all the imperfections, you know, the weeds, the peeling paint, the crumbling wood. This must be the way the garden looked long ago.”

Miss Emma took her time and I worried that all of her energy had been spent. For a long while, she sat with eyes closed, leaning against the back of the gazebo bench, until I began to fear she would go to sleep.

At long last, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath and began. “I think I’ll start with the attic. Or, perhaps I should say it all started in the attic.”

I nodded, encouraging her to go on, afraid to break her momentum with my voice.

“Lenore and I spent hours and hours in the attic, the same attic you explored, Ashby. Why, even to this day, one whiff of the dusty, musty air up there takes me back immediately to those girlhood forays. We felt so clever sneaking into the diaries in the locker. Little girls up to devilish deeds, deliciously vowed to secrecy. We knew the diaries were supposed to be hidden away from prying eyes, but, with a little help from Rosabelle, we always got to them when we wanted to, and what we read was, well, it was simply irresistible! Love and lust and envy and pride. Family feuds, war, retribution. It was all there, all human, all real, and more fascinating than any romance novel or movie could ever hope to be.”

“I felt the same way, Miss Emma. About the attic and about the diaries. I know exactly what you’re saying. But some of the older diaries were so faint and faded. Were you and Lenore able to read all of them?”

“Oh yes. But, of course, we had the luxury of days and days and weeks, years really, to do so. Sometimes we would sneak one out and bring it here to the gazebo to decipher the flowery old script, using a magnifying glass.” Her eyes glowed with the memory. “What a thrill it was, to be conspirators like that. And what we learned was amazing. Unbelievable, and yet we had to believe. Can you understand how it was, Ashby? With Lenore and me?”

“Absolutely, Miss Emma. But, please, go on. Tell me everything.”

“All in good time, child. All in good time.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’ve thought and thought about how I would do this, and I aim to do it right, if it’s the last thing I do. You see, I believe I may understand something you’ve found puzzling.” She raised an eyebrow. Pausing for effect. “That word that appeared on your laptop?” She paused again when she saw my surprised look.

“Oh, yes. Luke told me about it. Blood. Is that right? Blood?”

“Yep. That was the word. Of course, I was puzzled. Puzzled and scared.”

“Well, Lenore and I discovered several entries in the earliest of the diaries, one written by Emilie Overton herself. Remember, Emilie and her husband, Francis, were the original owners of the Overhome property. The date was in the 1780s. Emilie wrote fondly of a Scottish servant who had come to work for her under the oddest of circumstances. A young lady with a most extraordinary background and experience. Her name was Rosabelle O’Connor.”

I caught my breath. “Did you say the 1780s?”

She ignored my interruption. “Born in Scotland around 1740, Rosabelle O’Connor, some twenty years later, boarded a ship bound for America. But Spanish pirates shanghaied the vessel, and she spent several years imprisoned on an island off the west coast of Africa, forced into slavery. Rescued, she again set sail for America, arriving in Virginia about 1765, and working for several years as an indentured servant. Living through the Revolutionary War, she settled in Staunton, where she got wind of the Overton family’s need for a nanny, or nursemaid, as the position was called in those days. The name Overton rang a bell. Evidently, there was some family connection in Scotland with the O’Connor family. Using that slim tie, Rosabelle requested an interview and Emilie Overton granted her a trial period as nanny.

“Emilie was quickly impressed with Rosabelle’s skill with children, the wee babbies, as Rosebelle called them. Since she was possibly a remote relative anyway, the Overtons moved Rosabelle into the great house, giving her a room in the wing newly constructed from the barn. Your room, Ashby. As I told you that first night, it was Rosabelle’s room.”

“What an amazing story, Miss Emma! And it’s all in Emily Overton’s diary?”

“Oh, there’s more. Much more, Ashby. By the turn of the century, Emilie and Francis ran a grand estate with some 2,000 acres of land and dozens of slaves. The Overtons had a large brood of children, all under the loving care of Rosabelle, but the youngest, evidently, was the apple of Emilie’s eye. Mary Frances was just a toddler when the nanny took her on a picnic in the north field one spring day. Rosabelle had taken along her sewing basket, since her Scottish work ethic did not allow for any idle time. As Mary Francis toddled about the field picking dandelions, a bull broke through the fence and headed straight for the child. Rosabelle stabbed the bull in the nose with her sewing scissors, then swooped up the child and ran to place her safely over a secure part of the fence. Sadly, the bull recovered in time to gore poor Rosabelle from back to front and through the heart. The nanny died instantly, though Mary Frances lived to a ripe, old age.”

“So, Rosabelle died over two hundred years ago,” I breathed. “The same Rosabelle who—”

“The same. The diaries confirm it. Rosabelle died a violent death in the line of duty. Who knows? Maybe she felt her work was left undone. Maybe she was too shocked or too angry about her death to cross over to the other side. But she stayed on at Overhome. I don’t pretend to know how such a thing happens, though I have some ideas as to why. But I do know that her spirit has arrived regularly as a protector for Overton women.” Miss Emma caught my eyes. “She is here with us now.”

I could not stop myself from looking over my shoulder. Though Miss Emma’s words were a shock to the rational mind, hearing her voice what I had already sensed, that some kind of spirit resided at Overhome, was, if anything, reassuring. I knew there was more. “But what about the word? You know, the word blood. You said you understand what it means.”

“I’m getting to that. Please bear with me. You see, Rosabelle has appeared over the last two hundred years only to bloodline Overton women, not to women who marry into the family and simply carry the Overton name. By reading the diaries and sorting out the branches of the Overton family tree, Lenore and I figured out why Rosabelle turned up in some of the diaries, but not all of them. Over the years it became accepted that an ancestral ghost appeared, at random, or so folks thought. Lenore and I knew better and we were convinced we were the only ones alive who knew. Before she died, Lenore asked me to watch for you, to tell you the truth.”

“So, with the word blood Rosabelle was telling me I am a bloodline Overton? That Washington was my father and not simply an excuse by the Mills family for a shotgun wedding with Marian? Is that what you believe?”

“Yes it is. She’s telling you, and, inadvertently, she’s telling me.”

“But, why, Miss Emma? I’m afraid I still don’t get it.”

“There’s more, of course. But as dawn’s almost upon us, I’ll try to make it short. I told you earlier that Lenore implored me to keep two wishes just prior to her death. Actually, she laid a third request on me that night.”

“I remember clearly, Miss Emma. My Grandmother Lenore asked you to see that Uncle Hunter grew up to be a gentleman and she wanted you to watch for me to come to Overhome. But…what was the third wish?”

“You must understand, child. Lenore came to fear and hate her husband, Thomas. She laid it all out in her own diary—his violent temper, his intolerance, his verbal abuse of her and physical abuse of their sons, his fraudulant land deals and other crimes, his ill-got riches. Her diary and I were the only ones privy to all the details. She was afraid Thomas would destroy such an inflammatory record as her diary, and that the record itself might be important one day, so she entrusted it to me for safety, made me promise to keep it to show the next Overton woman, so that she would understand. Believe.” Miss Emma’s face fell, her voice dropped to a whisper. “But, I failed Lenore. My dearest friend. I failed to keep my promise to her on her deathbed.”

Moved, I reached for her hand, keeping my silence. At last, she recovered.

“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t get over the fact that I lost Lenore’s diary.”

“Lost it?”

“Rather, it was stolen from my personal belongings. Oh, from time to time things disappeared, you know. Stolen by a new cook or borrowed by a day worker and never returned, I assumed. Then, one day when I went looking for it, perhaps two years ago, Lenore’s diary had simply disappeared. I’ve known since then that I would have to somehow make a believer of you without the evidence. Without the diary. And I’ve waited…oh I hope I haven’t waited too long. I hope I’m not too late.”

“Too late for what?” I pressed her hand.

“Don’t you see? Whoever stole Lenore’s diary—he or she knows everything Lenore meant to keep secret. In the wrong hands, it might be, it could mean danger.”

“Danger? For me? I don’t understand.”

“There are other reasons why I can’t… Let me just caution you to be careful about revealing what you’ve learned. Careful about where you go and what you do. I realize I should have told you this long before now.” She frowned and shook her head. “Luke made that clear when he spoke to me yesterday.” She gave me a knowing look. “The dear boy is in love with you, you know.” She stood stiffly. “I only hope there’s still time… Now, we need to get ourselves in before the sun hits the lake and the household arises.”

As we made our halting way back to the house, I could see that Miss Emma was worn out. She had been up for much of the night, had walked a fair distance over dew-wet terrain, and had poured out her soul in emotional memories. I remained silent as we worked our way along the stone wall, but when we reached a flat stretch of land, I could no longer resist asking something that had been gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. “Miss Emma, if Rosabelle was Lenore’s protector, how come she didn’t take it out on her dirtball husband, my Grandfather Thomas?”

“Oh, but she did, Ashby. She bedeviled that man in every way possible.” The house keeper shook her head.

“Bedeviled? What do you mean?”

She drew a breath before answering. “Well, Rosabelle caused Thomas never-ending trouble by wreaking havoc on the property, upending the heavy watering troughs for the horses, breaking boards in the bridge, opening the barn doors at night, and such.”

“You mean, like the Night Riders?” I gasped.

Miss Emma appeared not to hear my comment. “It was almost comic, at times,” she went on. “Almost like annoying, practical jokes. But, after Lenore died, Rosabelle outdid herself abusing Thomas.” Again, she wagged her head slowly from side to side. “And when they were damming up the lake, and it was up to Thomas to move Rosabelle’s grave and the slave graves, why her fury was unleashed, for sure. She began ripping up trees by the roots, denting his truck, pouring sand into the gas tank of his tractor, actually threatening bodily harm by luring him into danger with a candle. She deliberately killed his prize-winning cow. It won a blue ribbon at the county fair one day. The next it lay stretched out, stiff and bloated, with flies swarming all over it.”

“So, you’re sure it was Rosabelle doing all these terrible things? Not just some horrible string of bad luck or something?”

“No doubt about it. She always left her sign, you see.” The old woman yawned and wearily rolled back her shoulders one at a time. “For the cow she left a whole bouquet resting beside the corpse.”

“God. No wonder you’re reluctant to dredge up the past.” I put a sympathetic arm around her stooping shoulders. “You must be exhausted, Miss Emma. Thank you for telling me all of this. I know what an effort it’s been, but you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“I’m afraid I’m all done in, Ashby. My voice is raw and my bones ache. I plan to take to my bed and stay there all day, if possible.”

As I watched her let herself into her quarters on the lower level of Overhome and made my own way to the back entrance, I pondered the surreal events of the past few hours.

* * * *

 

Dawn painted the horizon as I let myself into my room. Faint pink streaks bleeding into the sky cast a rosy glow onto my stucco walls. But it was my sense of smell that drew me, the odor of strong, black coffee. Coffee was something I had missed at tea-drinking Overhome. Now, there was no mistaking the rich smell wafting me to the bedside table where I was surprised to find a daintily-set tray. Beside a folded linen napkin sat an exquisite cup and saucer of pale, delicate bone china. A scalloped pink flower designed the edges with graceful, hand-painted roses. It was identical to the china stored in my parents’ trunk in the attic. Next to the cup and saucer was a tall, slim china pot. Creamy white, with tiny cracks spreading like veins over its patina, it looked ancient. Fragrant steam curled from the spout.

Throwing off my robe and kicking out of my flip flops, I propped myself against the headboard, staring for a long time at the graciously-laid tray. Any other day I might have considered the tray a pleasantry provided by Miss Emma. Unusual, but not completely unlikely. But this morning, of course, that would have been impossible. As I reached for the napkin to spread on my lap, from under the soft folds, something dropped to the floor. I retrieved it, knowing already what it must be. Lifting the delicately fragrant flower, I held it to my cheek, inhaling the freshness. Placing it on the night table, I leaned forward and poured myself a cup of coffee, then turned on my radio to reflect against a background of Garth Brooks.

In reflective solitude, in the blushing light of sunrise, I sat drinking the strong, hot coffee from the antique cup. Coffee with Rosabelle. In my room—our room. I was warmed from the inside out as I consumed the entire pot, cup by cup.

Morning was well on its way when I reached for my laptop. For once, the bluebirds had taken a break from pecking at my door. The silence was most welcome. Where to begin? So, so much had happened in a few short hours.

 

 

Dear Diary:

Since when does two and two not equal four? How many books have I read where spirits are to be feared? A Christmas Carol. The Exorcist. Beloved. Wuthering Heights. Speaking of that, Miss Emma’s soulful cries of “Ashby, Ashby” were chillingly like Catherine’s “Heathcliff, Heathcliff.”

And I’ve seen horror movies like Poltergeist and the Amityville Horror. Cold, scary, blood-curdling stories about spirits. When Miss Emma describes Rosabelle’s fury and her violence when she’s pissed off, okay, so then my ghost fits the stereotype.

Yet, here I lie in Rosabelle’s presence. Warm. Contented. Grateful! My ghost puts me into a trance, where I can feel and hear her and smell her perfume, where I can sense her in every way, even see her in my mirror or in my dreams, but where I seem to have no control over myself, my actions, or my feelings. Today I tasted her strong-brewed coffee. Took it for a love offering and enjoyed every drop.

Miss Emma says to beware the danger. Does she mean danger from Rosabelle? I simply cannot equate danger with my loving, watchful Rosabelle all around me. And, Miss Emma says my spirit is a protector and a champion for Overton women. For sure, I am a legitimate Overton woman. Where, then, is the danger? Who, then, should I be wary of? My own kinfolk? Eddie Mills? Someone lurking in the woods? Someone who knows more than he or she should? How should I conduct myself any differently? What is this old family retainer holding out on me? And, why?

Also, how very odd it is that Rosabelle’s vendetta against Grandfather Thomas parallels what Luke and Abe call pranks of the Night Riders. If it is, indeed, Rosabelle who is now vandalizing the property, the question that looms large is why? Surely, she doesn’t have a bone to pick with poor old Abe. Or, does she take revenge on men, in general?

I’ve learned a lot from Miss Emma, my “ghost” on the lawn, but I have the feeling it is only the tip of the iceberg. I am as confused as ever.

Oh, Diary, I need Luke. Need to let him know that he was successful—that he convinced Miss Emma to let go of some secrets, if not all she knows. Need to confide in him that there may be danger for me here. Need him to put his strong arms around me and tell me everything will be all right. Then, I think, how can I be so selfish, knowing that Luke is rightly centered on Abe’s critical condition. I never imagined that the home of my ancestors would dredge up so many conflicting emotions and events as to change my life forever.

Well, on with my day. I’ll catch some Z’s, and then I can look forward to an afternoon playing mindless games with Jeff, riding my beautiful Sasha, paddling away my worries in the lake. I vow to put the night’s revelations behind me for as long as the sun shines on this day and place all my thoughts and hopes, instead, on Abe’s recovery.

The antique cup can hold my little pile of saved rose petals.