The Dowry

by C W Lamb

  “Picked it up while I was in Charlotte, thought that was appropriate,” he said as he accepted the kiss of gratitude from his wife.

  Charlotte and Jefferson had become much closer since he had to leave to fight for the South. She had felt a growing affection that she was certain was becoming true love. This gift was a sign to her that he was experiencing the same. Besides these infrequent short visits, their letters had created a line of communication that allowed them both to see inside the other.

  “This belongs right here, in the heart of our home,” Charlotte said as she placed the bowl in the center of the table set in the middle of the kitchen, after breaking from the kiss.

  “Ma’am, they’re coming!” one of the boys cried as he ran from the dock.

  Looking out the kitchen window, she could see the soldiers in blue coming up the dock at a clip. She watched them split up into two groups; the regular routine was for one to search the house while the other scoured the grounds. It was for that reason that she had Jefferson’s horse in the carriage house unsaddled so it would appear as one of the many there.

  “Hurry, come with me,” she said to Jefferson as she took his hand and rushed from the kitchen.

  Heading up the stairs, she led him across the landing and into the study, where she crossed over to the secret door to the tower room above. Triggering the hidden latch, she opened the door and ushered her husband inside.

  “Quickly, in here,” she said as she gave him a quick kiss in the process.

  “Don’t come out until I come get you,” she instructed before closing the door.

  Rushing back downstairs, she entered the kitchen just in time to see the first of the soldiers entering the back door uninvited.

  “Back again, Lieutenant?” she said to the officer that followed the troops as they entered the house.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Waters. I have my orders,” he replied as she listened to the sounds of the men stomping around in her house, searching.

  “Might those orders include taking great care in your duties?” she asked as a crash in the room behind her indicated more broken items to add to those from the last visit.

  With a shrug from the officer, the two stood in silence as they listened to the boots on the second floor, moving quickly from one room to the next. Her heart skipped a beat as the Lieutenant picked up the blue bowl from the table and began examining it.

  More of a platter than a bowl, it was made of blue on white, a china platter. Ornate designs surrounded the image of a riverboat, steaming up a waterway not unlike the one east of her home.

  “This is new,” he stated more than asked.

  “Since your last rampage through my house? Yes. I traded some food for it from a family passing through,” she replied.

  As the war north of them had intensified, refugees from Georgia and the Carolinas were a common sight as they tried to get away from the fighting. Charlotte knew the story was real enough to explain the bowl without creating suspicion.

  At this point they paused in their conversation with the sudden stop of the noises from those upstairs. They had entered what she thought was the study, based on the direction of the sounds previously. For what seemed like an eternity, they heard nothing but muffled conversation from above, before the men finally filed down the stairs and out the back door they entered through.

  “Well, you find anything?” the Lieutenant asked as the sergeant came forward, the last in the line heading out the door.

  “Nothing but this, sir,” he replied as he held up the shotgun Charlotte kept in the house. She knew that it was forbidden for them to be armed, but guns like that were a common find in every farm and country house.

  Handing the gun to the Lieutenant, who was already holding the bowl in one hand, the sergeant acknowledged Charlotte and then exited the house.

  “Sorry for interrupting your day,” the Lieutenant said as he placed the bowl back on the table, closest to his side. He then set the gun next to the door and followed the sergeant outside.

  “It belongs here, in the center,” Charlotte said to his back as she slid the bowl back to where she had placed it earlier.

  Once she was sure the soldiers had left and with lookouts in place, Charlotte hurried upstairs to release her husband from his hiding place. With the secret door barely opened, she was surprised to feel herself swept up in his embrace, the warm kiss a welcome gift.

  “How long can you stay?” she asked as they paused.

  “Not much longer,” he replied sadly.

  “Then we should hurry,” she replied as she took his hand and led him into their bedchamber, closing the door behind them.

  Foxworth House, Present Day

  Hanging up his cell phone, Robert was fit to be tied. He had just spent the last hour on a call with Sandra, attempting to repair the damage caused the night before. However, nothing he had to say would mollify the young woman. In her opinion, something or someone in that house hated her and there was no way she was ever having anything to do with it or him until he was out of there for good.

  Glancing up at the portrait of Charlotte, uncovered earlier by RD as he explained the history of the house to the marble delivery crew, he swore she was still smiling at him. As he considered all the unexplained activity at the house, he was coming to the conclusion that there really was something going on here.

  What he couldn’t explain was the why. If Charlotte was haunting this house, what was it she wanted? Unlike the typical stories one saw in the movies, where the ghost was trying to drive the occupants away, she seemed content to let him work on the house, restoring it as he did so.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked as he stared into the face of the woman in the portrait. “Better yet, prove to me you are here!” he declared defiantly.

  No sooner had he uttered the words than both of the open vertical sliding parlor windows facing out to the front of the house dropped closed with a loud bang. That in itself wasn’t unexplainable, but the addition of the slamming pocket doors separating the parlor from the foyer sealed the deal.

  “Ah, ok, you win,” he replied hesitantly.

  “What was that?” a surprised RD asked, rushing in from the other room and opening the closed pocket doors as he stuck his head in.

  “The wind,” Robert replied flatly.

  “OK……” RD replied as he slowly closed the doors after withdrawing his head.

  Syncing his cell phone to his laptop for an internet connection, he began to research paranormal activity, but was having a hard time separating the nuts from the genuine article. He couldn’t find any of the local universities offering research studies on the topic, although nearby Flagler College in St. Augustine did have rumors of a local haunting to offer.

  He did find a long list of paranormal societies and organizations in the area dedicated to the study. As he bounced from website to website, he eventually created a list of places to check into. Satisfied everything here was on track, he excused himself and hit the road on a quest to find someone who might be able to tell him what the hell was going on.

  ----*----

  It had been several days since Sandra had left Foxworth House in a panic and the incident in the parlor. Since then, Robert had been splitting his time between the house restoration, his two renovation contracts in Jacksonville and his search for paranormal information. He had driven all over the Jacksonville area with no luck, so he currently found himself in St. Augustine.

  As the oldest continuously occupied city in the U.S., and with paranormal legends galore, he held hope that someone here could assist him in his search. The city itself held quite a few ghost stories, including the Spanish Fort, which was also known as the Castillo de San Marcos, and Flagler College, a local school right in the middle of the historic district. Both had rumors of their own ghosts.

  Once a hotel, Flagler College was built in the late 1800s and it was popularly held that the man the college was named after, Henry Flagler, as well as his wife and a few
guests, all still haunted the location. It and the surrounding area had a multitude of stories relating to the dearly departed.

  It was here in St. Augustine that he had been told he could find a shop that held what he was looking for. Wandering the many back alley streets of the Historic District, he eventually found the shop on a side street near the college. Entering the shop, Robert was immediately taken aback, as it was nothing like he expected. All of the other places he had visited in the last few days had been more… well, like you would expect a shop about ghosts to be. They had schmaltzy items like knick knacks, candles, and ghost hunting equipment with videos, which were all one step above Ouija Boards.

  This was a bookshop, plain and simple.

  “Can I help you with something?” an older woman said from behind the counter next to the entrance.

  “Maybe. I’m looking for information on hauntings. You know, ghosts,” he replied, trying not to appear as embarrassed by the statement as he felt. Unlike the other places where he had asked that question, here it seemed almost out of place.

  “I see. Can you be more specific? Is it an actual haunting that you are researching, or more of a curse?” she asked thoughtfully.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know the difference,” Robert answered honestly, relieved that she didn’t laugh.

  “Well, curses are hauntings usually attached to a thing. The Hope Diamond comes to mind. Some believe that the stone is protected by the ghost of the thief who stole it from a Hindu idol. His spirit is cursed, bound to the object, locked to it until it is restored to the place it was taken from. Only after it is returned will he rest in peace.”

  “OK, well this is a house,” Robert said, now understanding the context.

  “Ah, a residential haunting. These are quite common. Is it Intelligent or Poltergeist? Or does it simply replay the same actions over and over, like a residual haunting?” she asked, a concerned expression appearing with the Poltergeist reference.

  “All I know about Poltergeists is what I see in the movies, and this is nothing like that. And no, it involves various interactions with a renovation I am doing on the house,” he said.

  “Interesting, so these interactions, are they spontaneous or reactionary?” she asked as she started wandering the book aisles.

  “I would have to say reactionary. In one case, we were discussing wallpaper and the person kept receiving a sharp pain when they recommended a particular style. In another, we came to work one morning to find all the electrical wiring had been ripped out of one room where it wasn’t installed properly,” he explained.

  At that, the woman stopped and turned back to Robert.

  “How do you know the wiring wasn’t right?”

  “I do historical renovations for a living. The wiring needed to be installed in a way that ensured it kept the integrity of the original design of the house. Whomever pulled it out was right to do so.”

  “Definitely intelligent,” she said proudly as she returned to her search.

  Apparently reaching the aisle she had been looking for, she began to scan the books on the shelves. Pulling out three different volumes, she turned and led Robert back to the front counter where she laid them out for him to see.

  “These might help you. From what you have described, I think you have an Intelligent Haunting. It’s where a person passes unexpectedly, and rather than moving on, they bind to a particular location. There are usually no violent events related to these hauntings, they are more territorial in nature. They show concern with the living making changes to their home, business, or whatever. You say there has been no violence?”

  “There have been some deaths, but always family members, never outsiders,” Robert informed her, hoping it relevant.

  “Oh dear. You might have a split on your hands,” she replied as she picked up one of the volumes and began flipping through the pages.

  “Here,” she said as she handed him the book, opened to a particular page.

  “A split is where the soul is ripped in two at the time of death, due to the emotional state of the person dying. Half of the soul becomes bound to a place or a thing, in your case the house, and the other half is left free to wander the earth, reincarnating.”

  “So now I have a ghost and a reincarnation to worry about?” Robert asked, confused at the mix.

  “Do you have any idea who it is that may be haunting the house?” she asked, quite seriously.

  “I think it was the woman who built the house in the 1850s. She drowned just after the Civil War. Since then, two more women have drowned in the exact same place over the last 150 years.”

  “And are you a member of the family?” she asked, concern once more in her tone.

  “No, the last remaining member of that family sold me the house on the condition I restore it,” he replied, giving more thought to Victoria’s motives now.

  “In a split, the reincarnate appears once in each generation of the same family, in hopes of reuniting with its other half. Only under very special circumstances will the joining occur. As both a male and not being a relation, you are not in any danger.”

  “Why would I be?” he asked, unsure of the explanation.

  “As I said, the reincarnate and the bound are two halves of the same soul. These two are trying to mend, driven to do so even. If the attempt goes awry, the reincarnate half is released for another attempt,” she explained cryptically.

  “By released, you mean they die.”

  “Precisely. Once freed, it reappears in a birth from the next generation and they try once more.” She pointed to the pages in front of Robert.

  “And if there are no more generations?” he asked as he considered Victoria.

  “Then, sadly, the bound half is condemned to the house forever, while the reincarnate simply ceases to be.”

  Chapter 13

  Foxworth Landing, 1862

  The scare from the Union soldiers on his last visit could not keep Jefferson away from his wife when the opportunity arose. While the man was assigned to units north of the Florida state line, he would take every assignment that allowed him a moment at home with his beloved. Those opportunities were few and far between.

  Charlotte was thankful for whatever time they could make for each other. While a pragmatist for most of her life, she was beginning to find true romance in her marriage, and she was lonely without him. The thought of how she had changed as love bloomed between them had her questioning a new concept she had recently read about. A book she had borrowed from a friend referred to romantic soul mates. It talked of the romantic destiny between a husband and wife.

  She knew of many other military wives in the area, and all complained of the hardships the war was causing their families. All related the loneliness and longing for those they had proclaimed their true love. It was these that she had welcomed into her home as both boarders and companions.

  Together in the evenings the women would gather on the porch after dinner and talk of love and life. Charlotte would listen and gauge her own feelings and desires, measuring them against the words of the older women. Still years younger than most of them, she burned inside over her separation from her man.

  Charlotte was not one to speak of such things, but in her diaries and letters to Jefferson, she allowed her heart to explore the possibilities. That was the romance she wrapped around the blue bowl, presented as a gift of love from her husband. In her mind it personified all that life and love could be, and as such she guarded it jealously.

  In addition, she continued to use her private time to study, using the books provided to her by Jefferson. In war the rule of law hardly applied, but she continued to study, looking to the days beyond the current fight. She had already mastered the business and economics texts, applying her hard-earned life lessons to the principles within their pages.

  Foxworth House, 1904

  Sarah Foxworth Baines Atkins was visiting her older brother, Cyrus, who had recently been gifted their Aunt’s home on the St. Johns
River. Her husband, a product of an arranged marriage, had chosen not to participate in her family reunion, as he had done on many other occasions in the past. Augustus was the son of a business partner of her great uncle, and not of the caliber his father was.

  The situation didn’t trouble Sarah overly as she considered herself a bit of a family disappointment as well. Unlike her brother who excelled at everything he did, she was constantly adrift, with a lack of focus in her life. It had been thought a marriage might help her but, to date, it hadn’t mattered in the slightest. Fortunately for her, Augustus mostly left her alone.

  Born the year of her Aunt’s passing, though many months later, she had never been in the presence of the woman. She was constantly reminded by others, however, of the unbelievable family resemblance. As the youngest of three children, she had delighted in the attention it provided back then.

  “Augustus couldn’t come?” Cyrus had asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. Pressing business keeps him in Boston,” she had lied.

  “Well, I for one am delighted that my baby sister could be here regardless!” he said with a beaming smile.

  “You have done wonders with the house, Cyrus,” she replied while indicating the newly painted structure on the rise.

  “Do you recall when we would swim from here,” he said as he waved to the river.

  “You mean when you would throw me into the water from here and then you would dunk me!” she countered with a laugh.

  “Yes. Well, I must see to my guests. Care to join me?” he asked as he motioned toward the crowd up at the house.

  “Not just yet, I wish to enjoy the peace of the river for a little while longer,” she answered while pointing in the other direction.

  “Well, don’t stay long. I worry for you, little sister. You desire solitude far too much,” he said as he took her hand affectionately before releasing it and heading toward the gathering.