The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

by M. L. Bullock

  April 25, 1850

  Dear Diary,

  How can I describe to you the utter depths of my misery? All the joy of life has left us as the search continues for dear Uncle Louis. All of his effects remain carefully stored in his rooms, but alas, we have no word of his whereabouts since these many days past. What an event it had been, Father and Uncle Louis participating in loud and raucous debate, one that echoed through the house and even up the staircase. I had seen the horses ride up the dusty lane but thought nothing of it when another left shortly after. There was always a commotion when menfolk are about, and plenty had been around for days, except for Captain Garrett.

  To listen more closely, I decided to peek out my door and found my mother swaying at the top of the stairs, looking as pale as a beaten sheet. “Mother, why are you standing here?” I said. “Come, dearest, you should not be here in the draft.” I looked down to see her gowns stained red, and blood also dotted the carpeted floor. Her bleeding had come, and no one was to be found! I screamed to see the blood, so much blood. And in a flash, Hooney came upstairs to see what was amiss. She said something in a language I did not understand and ordered me to help her get Mother back to her bedchamber. I caught Muncie peering up the stairs, concerned for me, I’m sure, but I waved him back. Since he was a “man” now, my Father said, “He has no place on the top floor, and I’ll whip the hide off him if he comes back.” I believed him.

  As much as we tried to coax her, Mother would not speak to us but only stared off into space, like someone who was locked in a dream. I cried, “Mother, Mother, what is wrong?” I patted her hands, rubbing them furiously, but she didn’t see me. “Now, look,” Hooney said to me in a stern voice, “You go down them stairs and tell Stokes to send for the doctor. He should never have left the other day—and then go tell your Father—or better still, your Uncle Louis—that Mrs. Cottonwood is in a bad way. Send one of them girls up here too—I need some clean clothes and water. Now, go on! Get going, Miss!” I did what I was told and scurried down the stairs like a madwoman. Unable to find Uncle Louis in the parlor or the Blue Room, I sprinted to my Father’s study and told him the urgent news. He set down his whiskey glass and rushed passed me, looking like a ghost, his face drawn with concern and confusion. How I felt for him in that moment! I could not find Stokes, and I noticed that Early, my father’s constant companion and slave, was also missing. But I did find Muncie, who nodded and left right away to request the doctor’s presence. Dear Muncie!

  That was many days ago, and I am sad to report that the baby quickly passed from this life on into heaven, where my other siblings waited for her with a pair of wings. At least that is what the priest told me. Another daughter, another disappointment for my father. I had not been present when she slid into this world, I imagine in a pool of deathly blood, but I had dreamed of a baby crying in the night. I was supremely surprised to learn that it had indeed been a dream, as the sound was very life-like to me. Mother was still not speaking; Hooney says she only grunted a little when the baby, I will call her Angelique, came forth. There would be no funeral for baby Angelique, only a quiet sliding of the stone door and a quick deposit of a tiny bundle of forgotten life on a cold slab.

  To bring further sorrow, Uncle Louis remains gone from Seven Sisters. The Sheriff rummaged through all of his accoutrements, papers and personal effects but found no clue of where my Uncle may have ventured. Isla and I have been inconsolable, crying and praying constantly for his safe return.

  I pray all day and night that my Mother will return to me. I miss her gentle hands and bright conversation. All our happy days together are too few, and I plead constantly with God to give us more. Why would she be in such a state? What horrible thing did she see or imagine that frightened her, down to her soul?

  Oh, Diary, what shall happen to us all?

  I wiped fat tears from my eyes, careful not to stain the delicate pages. I read the passages over and over again. There was more—much more—but I needed time to process all that I had learned. I looked at the clock; it was close to midnight. I uncurled in the round chair, slid the journal into a manila envelope and replaced it in my bag. I flipped off the light and slid into my cool sheets, thankful again for my kind landlord. It took me a long time to fall asleep, and when I did, I could swear I heard a baby cry.

  Chapter 12

  My day began with an impromptu breakfast with Bette in her comfy kitchen. My thoughtful landlady had prepared us praline-pecan French toast with fresh fruit and sausage patties. I have to admit that until I met Bette, I wasn’t much of a breakfast girl. But she definitely made me a believer. I was glad I was starting the day so pleasantly, since I knew I had some unpleasant things ahead of me. At least I had a date with Ashland to look forward to and, of course, all of Seven Sisters to explore. Calpurnia was on my mind heavily; it was so tempting to spend all night diving into that journal, but I had to keep life balanced. It was dangerous to think about the past so much that it took up all my present. I had learned that lesson the hard way.

  “Thank you for fixing the air conditioning. The new unit is working like a charm, and I slept great last night.”

  Bette smiled at me warmly through perfectly applied lipstick. She had a soft, ivory complexion and even whiter teeth. She was attractive, and I imagined she had been striking in her prime. “That’s no problem, no problem at all. This isn’t the old days. We can’t sleep without air conditioning in Mobile. I don’t know if it’s gotten hotter or if we’re just spoiled now. I remember when the only AC around here was at the library. I sure spent quite a few summers reading ridiculous love stories when I was young.” She wasted no time serving me generous helpings of everything. “I know you have to get going soon, but I’m just dying to know how the restoration is coming along. My sisters and I, at the Historical Society, that is, are all atwitter about the commotion. I heard the grounds are looking better and better.”

  I nodded, unable to resist digging my fork into the fluffy French toast. “I wish I could give you the inside scoop on the remodeling, but Matthews has made it pretty clear that I have to keep quiet about the details.” I felt genuinely sad about keeping all the excitement to myself, but I couldn’t break the confidentiality clause in my contract.

  She patted my hands; hers was soft and cool. “I don’t want you to get into trouble. That Hollis Matthews is a strange bird, isn’t he? Okay, okay, I’ll tell the ladies they will just have to wait.” She sipped on her coffee. I loved her coffee cups, fine white china with a gold rim. I appreciated that she brought out the good dishes for me.

  Maybe I was just missing having a friend to talk to, but I felt like I could trust Bette. I blurted out, “I can tell you something, though, something we found that wasn’t in the house…” I whispered, “We found the old Cottonwood mausoleum.”

  She set her cup and saucer down with a clink. “No…oh my goodness. That is something, isn’t it? I bet it was hidden under all those vines and bushes right there on the property. There’s no telling what you will find on that land.” Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh, I wish I could see it!”

  I remembered the pictures on my phone, so I dug it out of my purse and tapped the screen. “Here. I have a few pictures right here.” I did not think it wrong to share with her the details I knew about the cemetery—that was public knowledge. Besides, I hoped that Bette might know something about Calpurnia, so I had to ask. “Ashland was telling me about that missing heiress, Calpurnia—the one who disappeared before the Civil War. Have you ever heard of her?”

  Bette dug a pair of reading glasses out of a nearby drawer and was peering at the pictures attentively. She looked at me with wide eyes. “Oh, yes, most everyone in Mobile knows about her. But I imagine Ashland could tell you all about that. His mother was obsessed with finding Calpurnia Cottonwood. The late Mrs. Stuart was a very intelligent woman, something of a scholar before she married Mr. Stuart. But in the end, it became a kind of obsession with her. Some people say that the Cottonwood girl
ran off with a military man. But I don’t know, they didn’t really do that sort of thing in those days. Others say that one of the slaves probably killed her and buried her on the plantation.”

  Bette looked up from the phone and put one arm of her glasses in her mouth, trying to drum up a forgotten thought. “Now, I’ve also heard that old Mr. Cottonwood did her in when he was drunk. That man, by all accounts, never passed up the chance to tilt a bottle. And he gambled his wife’s money away…well, much of it, anyway. But that was so long ago, it’s hard to know what the truth is and what is simply plain old rumors. You know what they say, ‘Nothing makes a Southern story better than a stretch of time and a few glasses of gin.’” Bette pursed her lips and shook her head; her curls bounced around her face. She handed me back my phone, too polite to ask for copies of the pictures. I was thankful, as I’d have had to say no.

  I asked, “Tell me about Mrs. Stuart. What was she like, and why did she become so obsessed with Miss Cottonwood’s fate?”

  “Emily was her name, Ashland’s mother. She was from a very fine family from the northern part of the county. Remember? She was a Hunter, and later she discovered the Hunters were a part of the Beaumonts, one of Mobile’s oldest families.” After dropping that bomb on me, Bette kept talking. “Emily was tall and athletic; she beat me more than once in tennis, but she was very much a lady. I remember when she first got married—oh, she was the talk of Mobile. So lovely in that big old chiffon gown. You know, back in the ’60s, it wasn’t a wedding gown if it didn’t have umpteen ruffles.”

  I nudged the conversation along. I would circle back to the Beaumont comment in a minute or two. I didn’t want to be rude. “You say you two played tennis together?” I poured more syrup on my French toast; I wasn’t really hungry any longer, but I desperately wanted this conversation to continue.

  “Our husbands were members of the same country club; we played doubles a few times. His name was Gerald. I wasn’t crazy about Mr. Gerald Stuart—he liked to talk over her too much. Sometimes I would ask her a question, about her son or something else, and he’d answer for her. That drove me crazy! She did love that boy, though. He was her everything.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and ignored the clock. It was getting late, but the conversation was riveting. “So is Ashland an only child?”

  “Yes. I think she wanted to have more—she did love children, but he was the only one. When her husband died, I half thought she’d marry again. Mr. Stuart had a cousin that she seemed especially fond of—handsome man, can’t remember his name, but nothing happened. However, Mr. Stuart left her an extremely wealthy woman, as well he should have, as unkind as he was at times. Drive through Mobile, and you’ll see the Stuart name all over the place.”

  My phone dinged. I glanced at it and saw Terrence Dale’s name pop up. I hit the ignore button.

  Bette didn’t let my interrupting phone stop her story. “When she bought Seven Sisters, we thought for sure she’d restore that place, but she didn’t. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I think the poor thing kind of lost her marbles. All that money and that sweet boy, and she spent all her time trying to find that girl who was long dead.”

  “When you say Beaumont, you mean that Emily Stuart née Hunter was a descendant of the Beaumonts. As in the family of Christine Beaumont, who married Jeremiah Cottonwood?”

  “The very one!” She looked supremely delighted to be the one to tell me this news. “That means that Ashland is also related to the Cottonwoods.” She smiled, rose from her chair and started picking up plates and dishes. I jumped in to help, wanting her to continue but not wanting to push.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m dithering on. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m just so excited that the big old house is going to get the treatment it needs.”

  “I’m happy to listen. It’s nice to hear what the local community thinks and what stories you can share with me.” I added warm water and soap to the sink. “I’ll wash these while you put the food away. I don’t know where anything goes.”

  “Thank you! I didn’t invite you over to wash the dishes, but obviously you were taught manners growing up.”

  I smiled as I washed the glasses and cups. “You say she lost her marbles. What do you mean?”

  “Well, she started hanging around a different crowd, a lot of psychics and mediums and such. She even tried to get the Historical Society to sit in on one of those séance things; you know to boost the energy or some such. I told her I couldn’t do that, I was a Baptist!” She laughed heartily, and I did too. “I think my friend Cynthia Dowd did, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Poor Emily gave so much money to those charlatans. In the end, all the money in the world couldn’t help her find that girl. Anyway, Emily got pneumonia. Poor Ashland found her in the garden, nearly dead. She died just a few days later.”

  I felt a surge of sympathy for Ashland to have lost both parents so young. Still, he appeared to be coping with life fairly well. He was educated, committed to restoring important historical sites in the city and, of course, independently wealthy. That was the legacy his mother left him.

  “When you can, Carrie Jo, when it’s allowed…will you come speak to the Society? We would love to hear from you. Maybe tell us something about the process or how you got started in the preservation field?”

  “Sure, I’d be happy to. It will probably be a few weeks before I can, though.” I gave her a bright smile and dried my hands off. “Looks like I’d better go; time is getting away from me.” I grabbed my purse and phone and said goodbye.

  I left Bette’s feeling happy, having found out a little more about Ashland and Calpurnia. Did I believe a slave killed her? No, but Mr. Cottonwood was certainly a likely suspect. The Hometown Donut Shop was on the way, and I decided to stop and pick up a few pastries for the crew. We’d have at least six of us working inside the house today, not to mention all those that would work outside. A couple dozen donuts would be a nice treat. I pulled into the packed parking lot, grabbing the last spot. Fortunately, the line wasn’t long. I stepped up to the counter and ordered three dozen plain donuts and two cartons of orange juice.

  The little diner was bustling; even the counter was full. I surveyed the crowd and locked eyes with William. He didn’t say anything to me, but he raised a foam cup as a greeting and then quickly turned his attention back to his donut. Hmm…I guess this is how it’s going to be now. The perky server brought me my order, and I clumsily stacked up the boxes and tried to get out the door without losing any. William was on his feet in an instant, pushing the door open for me. He followed me to my car and opened the rear door. I slid the donuts in and arranged the juice cartons on the floor. “Thank you.”

  “I want to apologize for last night.” William ran his hand through his dark hair. “I was wrong to go off on you like that. I guess, well, I guess I was really hoping for a different conversation.”

  “I’m sorry too. I should have had this conversation with you before I left, but to be honest, I was a coward. I like you, and I value your friendship. I wasn’t fair to you.”

  He tucked a wisp of my hair behind my ear to stop it from whipping my face in the morning breeze. “Always worried about someone else, CJ. It’s okay, I promise.” As I drove away, I wiped a tear off my cheek. I did like him only as a friend. Right?

  The crews were working outside, setting the grounds free from choking vines and gnarly underbrush. Junk trees, like old “popcorn” trees, were being cut down. But of course, no one was touching the live oaks. Rotten wooden siding was being replaced, and I could see the beginnings of Mobile’s newest living museum come to life.

  I waved one of the crew over and handed off two of the boxes of donuts and one carton of juice. I headed indoors with the remaining goodies, feeling confident and happy. Inside were Mia, Chip, three interns from the University of South Alabama and, of course, Matthews. Somewhere in the house, I could hear TD working on wood. Except for the finishing touches, the Blue Room and
a small side room were nearly completely restored and ready for use. The rest of the house would be restored in sections, with careful attention to detail. I could see TD had placed heavy plastic over the doorway to the Blue Room, since the door had not been hung yet. That would keep dust from collecting on our equipment. I was happy to feel cool air in our room. Someone had brought in a tower AC unit. What a brilliant idea! I was relieved to hear the upstairs was cool as well.

  Seven Sisters was a unique project compared to the few others I had worked on. Those had involved off-site planning projects, and here, we had the opportunity to work right in the environment. I would be deciding on how the home would be restored and what we would be presenting to the public. I felt the weight of that responsibility even more now that I had seen firsthand what life here had been like. I took the donuts and juice to a little table we had set up in the Blue Room. I opened the box and set out some paper cups.

  Matthews was the first to arrive at the table. “Thank you, Carrie Jo.”

  “My pleasure. Have you heard anything from C. M. Lowell on those mantelpieces? I know it’s only been a few weeks, but TD is going to need to install them before they cut the molding for the rest of the room.”

  “Right. I’ll put a call in to them this morning. I’d forgotten about that. I’ve got some leads on paintings for the two main parlors. One is pretty incredible; I emailed you photos of both of them. Don’t forget, we’ve got boxes of paintings in the attic. And good news—we have air up there now, too. If you can’t find what you want, there is plenty of room in the budget, but many of the local families are willing to allow us to use their pieces. With all credits, of course.” I couldn’t figure Hollis Matthews out: one minute he was cold and distant, and the next he was kind and friendly. One thing I knew for sure—he was always a man with a plan.

  “Great. I’ll check out those pictures and let you know. I’ve got some plans ready for the ladies’ parlor, including a significant display of Augusta Evans books. I’ll have those to you by the end of next week.”