TWENTY-THREE

 

Morning. What had happened last night? Moving my eyes slowly so as not to disturb my throbbing head, I saw that I was in a room I recognized only as a guest bedroom on the main floor of Overhome. Sunlight shone through gauze curtains at the window, making me squint and flinch in pain. I tried to sit up, but went dizzy with the effort.

Miss Emma bustled through the door, holding a water pitcher and glass. “Ashby! I’ve been so worried. We all have. When they brought you in last night, you looked, well, you seemed barely alive. All I could think of was Lenore when she fell from her horse.” She held a straw to my lips. “Thank God you’ve come to.” Her eyes held both anxiety and relief.

Again I struggled up from the pillow, but bright slivers of pain slashed through my head and I gave up the effort. “I’m, kinda fuzzy, Miss Emma. I can’t remember what happened.”

“Hush, now. You need rest. You fell from your horse in the woods last night.” She offered the water again, bending the straw so that I could drink without raising my head.

“Oh. Right. The light. Candle?” I struggled to focus—to remember. “I followed it, but we were lost. Sasha and I. Then he reared high, threw me off…” A wave of nausea washed over me. Spots danced before my eyes, making my head feel so light I feared it would float off my neck. Then I knew I would throw up.

Miss Emma, evidently, had anticipated this occurrence, for she whipped out a basin and held it under my chin until I finished. I lay back, panting, too weak to wipe the drops of cold sweat coursing down my cheeks.

“Enough. Be quiet now. You can talk about it later, when you’re stronger.”

“Okay,” I whispered. “Just tell me…how did I get home, Miss Emma?”

“Luke and I carried you.” It was my uncle’s deep voice in the doorway. “I’ve called Dr. Ross and he’s on his way. You must rest now.” He moved to my bedside.

“Don’t try to talk, Ashby. Just listen. As he was closing up the stables, Luke noticed Sasha’s empty stall. When he came up to the house to alert me, we both realized you were missing, also. We went looking immediately, of course. We found Sasha saddled and cropping grass in the meadow. So we headed for the woods, hoping to find you safe and unhurt.” He patted my hand. “You were in the thickest part of the woods, but not so far from home as you might think. It was dark and treacherously slippery. My guess is Sasha stumbled, causing you to fall and hit your head on a rock.”

Tears seeped slowly from the corners of my eyes. It was not the pain that made me cry so much as knowing how deeply people here felt about me. Evidently, my uncle had saved my life. And Luke. Dear Luke, always looking after me.

Miss Emma glided toward the door. “Don’t leave,” I begged her. “I have to tell you…”

“I am leaving, Ashby,” she said firmly. “You’ve exerted yourself enough. Whatever it is you want to say, it can wait.” She pulled the door softly, but decisively, closed.

Wearily I closed my eyes. “I’m not so sure it can wait, Miss Emma,” I whispered before I drifted off. “I didn’t fall and hit my head. I fell and hit my butt. Someone or something hit my head from behind. On purpose.” I had completely forgotten I wanted to tell Miss Emma about Lenore’s diary.

 

 

Dear Diary, It’s been three days since my accident. Dr. Ross said I sustained a fairly severe concussion and ordered complete bed rest. Miss Emma has guarded my threshold like a sentry at Buckingham Palace, keeping all visitors at bay, including Jeff and Luke, though both pleaded their cases eloquently as I listened to their voices in the hall outside my door. My head aches like hell, but otherwise I’m okay. I feel like such a klutz, falling off the horse yet again. I can’t use the dark and stormy night for an excuse. But any way I look at it, I’m convinced someone deliberately spooked Sasha and then clobbered me for good measure. I suppose it could have been a freak accident, but unless a rock fell from the sky as I was getting up, how could my head injury have happened? I’m also sure it had something to do with the ghostly candlelight. The question, of course, is WHO would want to harm me or Sasha and me, and, more specifically, WHY?

Miss Emma says nobody’s saying much, but I get the feeling Eddie Mills is the number one suspect on the part of my aunt and uncle. Poor, dumb Eddie. I know he enjoyed bullying Jeff, but I think he likes me and can’t believe he’d play such a mean trick. On the other hand, I suppose it could’ve been the enigmatic Night Riders. When I try to talk about the accident, Miss Emma purses her thin lips and gazes at something invisible in the distance. She tells me she and Luke are comparing notes on the situation and that I am not to worry my “sweet little noggin” about it. Do they think I’m too fragile to handle the truth? I have to admit, thinking about it makes my head ache worse.

On a happier note, after some time in the downstairs guest suite, it’s good to be back in my old room. I sense Rosabelle’s presence in every inch of space, every breath of air. This morning I woke to find the antique coffeepot full of roses, not the usual solitary bud. It’s as if she’s saying, “I would never lead you astray, Ashby. It wasn’t MY candle you followed, and here’s my gift to prove it.” Ha! Rosie is one visitor Miss Emma can’t bar at the door. Her bouquet marks a Red Letter Day, as the doc says I can be up and about, as long as I take it easy.

In my absence, it seems there’s been a bluebird population explosion. What a noisy crew they are, clamoring on my balcony like they’re making up for lost time. At home bluebirds seemed so shy. This is nothing like the birdies chirping at Cinderella as she works. It’s more like a choir of squawking, brawling kids.

Wonderful news! Luke is bringing Abe home from the hospital this afternoon. Miss Emma has found a nurse friend of hers to take care of him as long as necessary. Everyone hopes he’ll be as good as new.

Oh, when I told Miss Emma about Lenore’s diary, I got a very curious reaction. Or, to be exact, I got no reaction at all. Just a stoic look and an “Interesting” from Miss E. Very curious, indeed.

 

 

Jeff threw his arms around me and hugged me until I was dizzy. “Gently now, Jeff, gently,” Aunt Monica said, giving me her own careful embrace.

“Can we go ridin’ today?” he asked, with a flicker of his eyes toward his mother.

My aunt laughed. “Let’s let Ashby get used to walking again before she rides, Jefferson. All in good time,” she added when his face fell in disappointment.

“I can’t wait to hop up on Sasha, Jeff, but for now, I’d be delighted just to give him a hug and a kiss and brush out his mane.” I reached for my cousin’s hand. “Tell you what. After lunch we’ll walk to the stable and have some quality horse-time, just you and me and the four-legged boys. Okay?”

Jeff flew at me with another hug. “Man, Ashby. I’ve missed you.”

“I know somebody else who’s missed you,” my aunt said with a sly smile. “Luke’s been up to the house every other hour checking on you.”

“He couldn’t get past the guard at the gate to my room,” I said.

“Miss Emma held firm. ‘Bed rest means complete rest. No visitors, and that’s that,’ was how she put it to everyone,” Aunt Monica said.

“Nobody messes with Miss Emma.” Jeff’s earnest look made me smile.

“I just want to walk outside a bit. It’s amazing how I’ve missed fresh air these past few days.” I turned to Jeff. “Would you be my escort, kind sir?”

Jeff grabbed my hand. “I’m not sure what an ‘escort’ is, but I can walk real careful with you, Ashby.” His eagerness to help left me weepy-eyed, but fortunately Jeff was too focused on his role to notice.

“You’re sure you’re strong enough?” My aunt had not missed my emotional response to Jeff’s sweet expression.

I flashed her my biggest smile. “Jeff will take care of me. No need to worry.”

We made a slow, steady tour of the estate, avoiding the dock because of the steep steps. It was a clear, bright morning. In the sun Overhome was picture book pretty, all white and green, solid and wise, old and important. Moore Mountain and the rolling hills that announced it encircled the lake like a jade necklace. I’d learned to love the look and feel of Overhome on a summer morning. Jeff burbled and babbled the whole way, causing my mood to lift with each passing minute, as I breathed the fresh, fragrant air, enjoying the feel of the sun on my arms. When he mentioned returning to “real school” in the fast-approaching fall, I realized with a sharp pang that I would, by then, have gone back to Jersey, separated from Jeff and Luke and Sasha, and all I’d come to love about Overhome. With effort, I pulled my mind away from the unpleasant reality, letting thoughts flow free with the up and down of Jeff’s expressive voice as he chattered on.

After some time, we approached the gazebo garden. “Let’s sit in the gazebo,” I suggested. “I’m out of breath.”

“This place is kinda creepy, huh, Ashby?” Jeff looked from side to side, pointing out the overgrown vines that shrouded the stone walls as we descended the stone steps. “Did somebody die here?”

I felt a chill at the suggestion, but tried to sound lighthearted. “It’s only an old, old garden, Jeff. A garden where people enjoyed the flowers and played hide-’n-seek in a maze and sat in the gazebo.”

“Amazed? What’s that?” Jeff’s freckles bunched over his wrinkled-up nose.

I laughed. “Not amazed. A maze. It’s like a puzzle made with bushes or trees, with starts and stops and dead-ends so people get confused and sometimes lost.”

“Oh! Like the treasure hunts in my Highlights magazine! Where you take a pencil and try to find your way to the reward at the end.”

“Exactly.”

“So…where’s the reward?” he asked, puzzlement displacing the freckles once again.

Well, he had me there. “I suppose it could be the gazebo itself.”

Jeff took my hand. “Come on, Ashby. Let’s try the amazed!”

And so we made our way along the paths, once trimmed and landscaped, no doubt, but now studded with tussocks of grass and weeds and moss. It was sometimes necessary to assume single file to avoid the briary branches that crawled from the once trimmed sides of the hedges. Content at those times to let Jeff lead, I could sometimes anticipate a dead-end before he did, possibly because my height allowed me to see over some of the foliage. Eventually, we did, indeed, find ourselves in the clearing, facing the peeling skeleton structure of the old gazebo.

“Was I right? Have we found our reward, Jeff?”

Without appearing to hear me, he let go my hand and headed straight to the periwinkle patch for the rose bushes I’d found my first time here. “I think somebody died in here.” Grabbing a stick from the ground, my cousin poked at the bushes for a good while, before leaning down and brushing at the dirt with his hands. “Look, Ashby! I told you so!” Jeff exclaimed.

“W-what are you talking about?”

“Look!” He pointed triumphantly to a small raised rectangle in the earth. “It’s a tombstone. Just like the ones Dad and I did the rubbings on over at the Baptist church where they moved the family graves.”

“So…it’s not a garden,” I stammered. “It’s…it’s…”

“A cemetery.” Jeff knelt again and scrubbed at the stone. “Ashby! There’s words on it! A name!” He looked at me over his shoulder. “I wish I had some paper and charcoal. We could do a rubbing.”

“Can you make out any of the letters, Jeff?”

“I need a rag. Something to wipe up the dirt.”

I fished a tissue out of my pocket and handed it to him. He spit on it and rubbed. Spit and rubbed. “Okay,” he said at last. “Here’s what we’ve got: R-O-S…” he called out the letters.

“R-o-s-a-b-e-l-l-e? Could it be Rosabelle?”

“Yep. Those are the letters. And there’s some numbers, too, but I can’t quite read them.”

“Probably dates.”

“Oh yeah. The date they’re born and the date they die. I remember how it goes.”

“Who’s Rosabelle?” he asked after a long moment.

How could I explain without scaring the bejesus out of my cousin? “Um, I think she was someone who lived here a long time ago.”

“Is Rosabelle my ancestor?” Jeff wrinkled his nose. There went his freckles heaped in a pile again. “When we did the tombstone rubbings, Dad said they were our ancestors. Their names were on the stones. He said one was my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, or something like that.” He frowned. “ Rose…Rosabelle must be an ancestor, too, right? But what’s she doing here?”

“Actually, I believe Rosabelle was a servant, someone who lived here and worked for your ancestors.”

Jeff frowned. “I don’t get it.” He was deep in thought. “Dad said all the slaves were buried in a separate cemetery. He said when our land was flooded to make the lake, our ancestors were moved to the Baptist church and the slave graves were moved to a different graveyard, to a slave graveyard somewhere.”

“Well, yes. I understand that when the lake was formed the slave graves were moved to an African-American church,” I said, knowing full well Thomas Overton had left them all to be flooded over by the lake. I saw no sense relating what I’d discovered at the Historical Society. It was quite possible a sensitive kid like Jeff would be upset by that information.

Jeff turned back to Rosabelle’s marker. “Maybe there’s more graves here. Maybe this was the slave cemetery!” He began poking at the scabby ground with his stick.

“I follow your reasoning. But, you see, Rosabelle was not a slave. And she was not African. She came from Scotland as a free servant. She probably would not have been buried in a slave cemetery, or moved to a relocated slave cemetery, either.”

It was too much for his seven-year-old mind to encompass, bright as that mind was. Letting the stick drop, he tilted his head and commented. “Well, I’d still like to do a rubbing. Let’s come back here and do one, okay?”

I nodded agreement and pulled him gently to the gazebo seat beside me. But my mind was racing. I wondered if Miss Emma knew about Rosabelle’s grave here at the gazebo. Did Abe know? Lenore? It was time I had another long talk with the housekeeper who knew everything.