Lost in the Mist

by Wanda C. Keesey

  Connie curled up on the sofa with the bundle of yellowed letters, content to read the past, and avoid the present.

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  Three

  Am I dreaming? Of course I am. Connie watched the fog swirl slowly in the muted light. Nothing to fear, there is nothing to fear in this dream. It is peaceful and ... safe, yes, safe.

  A figure appeared, her form slowly taking shape. The brim of a battered man's hat hid her face, gnarled fingers wrapped around a garden hoe. Her drab brown dress dusty, the limp colorless apron spotted with smudges of soil.

  Who are you? I know you, but ... Connie tried to remember the woman's name.... so familiar...

  One soiled hand reached for the hat. Connie held her breath.

  The woman's weathered face looked back at her. Wrinkled skin, darkened by a lifetime of working in the sun, still couldn't hide the sparkle of her dark blue eyes. As Connie watched the lines around the ancient mouth and eyes deepened into a broad smile.

  The fog thickened, the light dimmed, consuming the figure.

  "No,” Connie groaned, as the image faded. “I need to talk to you.” Stirring, she moaned with frustration, the dream was lost, the woman was lost, and Connie was forced back to reality.

  "Are you all right, child?” A voice, quiet and trembling with age whispered.

  Reluctantly, Connie opened her eyes, rubbing her forehead as she tried to push sleep away. “Yes, I guess I was dreaming."

  The bus must have stopped while she was sleeping. When they left Harrisburg, she was alone, the aisle seat remaining unoccupied.

  Connie turned, looking into watery blue eyes. The wrinkles on the old face framed by gray hair, softened as the thin lips smiled. I know her.

  A butterfly caress caused Connie to glance at her hand. She shivered under the old woman's icy touch, curling her long fingers into her palm, she moved her hand to her lap.

  "That's a unique ring.” The old woman pointed to Connie's hand.

  Connie smiled, holding the ring up so they could look at it. “It was my great, great, great-grandmother's wedding ring.” Connie put her hands back in her lap. She twisted the ring, a habit she developed since inheriting the heirloom as part of her mother's estate last fall. “I wish I knew more about my great, great, great-grandparents. All I have are some old pictures, a few letters, and an incomplete genealogy."

  Still smiling, the old woman listened. For a second Connie thought she had placed her companion, but just as fleetingly the feeling disappeared.

  "Tell me about yourself, dear.” The woman's voice barely carried over the hum of the bus tires.

  "There's not much to tell. I'm on my way to complete an assignment.” As she talked Connie strained to grasp the thread of memory. “What about you? Where are you headed?

  "You work, then. What do you do?"

  She doesn't want to talk about herself, Connie realized before answering the question. “I'm a freelance writer."

  "Are you a good writer?"

  Tilting her head, Connie answered. “Yes, I am and I enjoy what I do. I like to travel and meet people."

  "Good. Your great, great, great-grandmother is proud of you."

  What a strange thing to say. Connie looked thoughtfully into the blue eyes. As she opened her mouth to speak, her companion abruptly stood and turned to face the back of the bus.

  "I'm sorry, dear,” she was saying, “I must use the necessary. When you get old, you can't wait too long. I've enjoyed our little talks."

  For the first time, Connie noticed the drab brown dress the old woman wore. Its high necked bodice, with buttons from neck to waist and skirt that almost reached the ground, marked her as a throwback from another time. I'd be willing to bet that she's wearing high-topped button shoes. All those old photographs, is that why is she so familiar? She looks like she just stepped out of an ambrotype. Deep in thought, Connie watched as in spite of her obvious age, the woman seemed to glide down the narrow aisle. What did she mean she's “enjoyed our talks"? Closing her eyes, Connie put her head against the high seat. I'll ask her when she gets back. Her thoughts drifted as sleep once again took over. She smiled at the old woman's antiquated choice of words, the “necessary".

  * * * *

  The white mansion of the Bradford family was no longer silhouetted on the horizon. All that remained is an empty field. Stunned, Connie wondered what happened to it.

  Even though she had never been within a hundred miles of Fredericksburg, Virginia before today, she was as certain that the classic southern plantation house had once graced the hilltop, as she was that her name was Constance Amanda Hart. An icy chill crept down her spine.

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  Four

  Connie waited until the other passengers cleared the aisle before leaving the bus herself. What was she forgetting? She checked her belongings again. No, she had everything. But there was something ... What could it be?

  Claiming her dark blue suitcase, Connie pulled the recessed handle up and balanced her briefcase and laptop against it, securing them with a bungee cord. She walked the length of the platform, intent on finding a taxi.

  Travelers coming and going filled the air with the excitement of beginning vacations, and meeting friends and relatives.

  She stopped and turned. Had someone called her name? Glimpsing a stooped woman wearing a tattered brown coat, a cold wave of déjà vu overpowered Connie. Taking a step toward the bent figure, her hand raised in greeting, Connie watched a middle-aged couple take their elderly relative under wing. She didn't know this woman at all, but there was someone ... someone very old ... Suddenly self-conscious, Connie lowered her hand, looking around. No one seemed to take notice of her. She headed toward the cab stand.

  Entrusting her luggage to the first driver in line, she gave him the address of Fraiser's Rest.

  Once settled in the cool interior, Connie tried to relax and survey the city, as the cab skillfully dodged between and around cars and tour buses. New structures cluttered the outskirts of the city trying to lure the tourist trade. Nearer the town, they passed rows of buildings, most of them old, some left to the elements, many turned into antique shops and businesses that supported the tourists; clothing stores, pharmacies, restaurants and boarding houses.

  As they approached a light on busy Princess Anne Street, Connie leaned forward. “Can you drive down by the river? There's something there I'd like to see."

  "Sure.” The driver's reply was followed by a chorus of horns blowing in protest as he changed lanes.

  Sophia Street followed the Rappahannock River. They edged into the line of traffic headed back into the center of the town.

  "Can we go the other way?” Connie asked looking to her right. The road seemed to end a block away.

  "Yes, but there isn't anything out that way. Buildings are falling down and..."

  "That doesn't matter. Please, go that way."

  They passed the last of the many small parking lots used by sightseers so they could walk along the river. Noticing them only briefly, Connie focused on the distant gray steeple. She knew that place.

  Soon the houses fell behind the dirty red and white cab.

  The little church stood alone. Two wide steps led to the double doors. “Stop here a minute,” she instructed as they approached the old structure.

  "Amazing.” Leaning forward, Connie's blond curls bobbed as she shook her head. “How did I know?"

  "What'd you say?” The driver looked over his shoulder.

  "Just thinking aloud. It's an attractive little church,” she added. I know that it isn't featured in any of the travelogues I've read—at least I don't remember any mention of it. Her head spun. But it must have, how else would she know so much about it. Still too far away to read the plaque next to the door, Connie whispered the words, “Chapel of Mercy, A Church of the Episcopalian Faith. Built in the late eighteenth century it served the community as a hospital during the Civil War."

  Louder she sai
d, “Okay, You can go back."

  As the cab approached the corner, Connie knew the driver would go to the corner past the cemetery, and turn right, then turn right again at the fourth intersection, the house is a few more blocks.

  Every turn followed as she knew it would. But how did she know? She had never seen or been anywhere near here in her life, before today.

  The cab stopped ten minutes later in front of a narrow, two story building. The sign in front announced that it was “Fraiser's Rest, Bed and Breakfast, inquire within". Connie searched her purse for the fare with shaking hands. Giving the driver a generous tip, she took charge of her baggage and stepped onto the narrow porch.

  The late afternoon sun cast the building's shadow onto the cobblestone sidewalk, making the porch cool, but not cool enough to explain the icy knot in her stomach.

  The door was different than she remembered. Connie expected to see the scarred wood planking still serving as a weather and security barrier. Instead it was replaced with a modern hollow steel door, designed to look like the original, but they had forgotten the miniball holes and the scars left by cannon ball fragments. The porch too, was a new addition, replacing the short brick path leading from the wood sidewalk to the entrance. And of course, the wood was now concrete.

  The door swung open as Connie reached for the ornate doorknocker.

  "...a few more things.” A dark figure backed through the door, his attention on someone in the interior. He turned short of making contact with Connie, filling the doorway. “Well, hello."

  He's so tall! Connie smiled up at the man, at five-eleven not something she was often able to do. And handsome, too. Quickly she took in the tousled dark hair, streaked with sun bleached strands, surrounding his rugged good looks, the heavy brows shading hazel eyes, not too straight nose, square clean shaved jaw, and the wide mouth, smiling down at her. His skin was tanned an even bronze, not the splotchy pattern her own took on after hours in the sun.

  "Hello, I'm looking for the Fraisers.” Connie watched the smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. He had to be at least six-four.

  "You've found them.” The man's deep mellow voice vibrated the air.

  "I'm Connie Hart, Mr. Fraiser.” Her disappointment surprised her. “I have a reservation. Your wife and I talked about an article I'm writing."

  "Welcome, Connie Hart.” His hand swallowed Connie's in a warm grip. “I'm Brian Eckart. Betty's inside. I'm a guest."

  A flood of relief threatened to embarrass her as Connie smiled. So he wasn't Carl Fraiser.

  "Let me help you with your bags.” Without waiting for an answer, he set the luggage inside the threshold and with a gallant sweep of his arm welcomed her to the house.

  "Betty, you have a new guest,” Brian raised his voice to call into the building's depths. As he went out the front door, he explained, “I have a few more things to get from my car. Leave your luggage here. I'll bring them up when I come back,” and he was gone.

  Connie felt the force of his absence. A strange loss of stability, an anchor cut loose from a boat, she was left to drift on her own.

  The foyer seemed dark after the afternoon sun. The cool air made the hair on her arms stand up, or was it something else? Was it the feeling that she had returned? Was it the feeling that she was home?

  As she studied the prints on the walls, a matronly woman emerging from the shadows, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Hello, you must be Connie Hart. Welcome to Fraiser's Rest. I'm Betty Fraiser.” The newly dried hand felt warm, soft and slightly damp in Connie's.

  "I've been anxious to meet you, Mrs. Fraiser. Yes, I'm Connie Hart. I couldn't find much more than the background material you gave me, I hope you had better luck.” Connie followed her hostess through open doors on the left side of the narrow hall.

  Having learned the history of the house from the letters she and Betty had exchanged and from some research she did on the area, Connie was ready to do an “on site” investigation into the house's history.

  All she knew for fact was that Dr. Maxmillian Wolfgang Brentwell had the house built and moved his wife and two small children to Fredericksburg from Boston in eighteen forty-four.

  "Please, we're very informal here. Everyone is on a first name basis. I'm Betty, and my husband is Carl. Val is our day-girl. You'll meet the other guests at supper.

  "We have some paperwork to deal with, but it won't take long,” Betty explained as they walked through the room. Among the many wood chairs lining the room were small tables holding dried or silk flower arrangements and several glass display cases. “This was the Doctor's waiting room. We use the room in the back, the examination room, as a library/office combo."

  They entered the cluttered office. “I've put some things together for you.” She indicated the stack of folders and envelopes sitting on top of a thin, red bound book. “I'm excited about the article you're going to write."

  Connie tried to concentrate on her words, but her eyes kept wandering to the many antiques around them. The jumble of past and present. A PC monitor perched on the corner of the old desk, looked natural and right among the old books and pictures. They were her past and her present. She knew them all as familiar friends, the doctor's instruments, the old mantle clock that at one time had graced the fireplace mantle in the master bedroom, and a PC was her own instrument of work. They all blended to make up her world.

  "I think you'll find these papers interesting. And of course, I'll be happy to answer any questions you have."

  Betty went around the desk and started putting information on a card, asking questions as she wrote. “Okay, all done, you sign here.” The pen pointed to an “X” next to a blank space at the bottom of the printed form.

  Leaving by the hall door, Betty led Connie back to the front of the house. Her bags were gone. “Ah, Brian must've taken your luggage upstairs. Your room is next to his. You'll be sharing a bathroom. I hope that's all right. You each have an adjoining door that locks on both sides. I think you'll find the room comfortable. We've added air conditioning, a small concession to the comforts of modern man, and it helps preserve the antiques.” Betty climbed the stairs as she talked.

  Connie followed carrying the historical papers. Her hands burned with anticipation, but the smells from the kitchen reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the stale donut and weak coffee in the bus station snack bar early that morning.

  She found her luggage next to the door Betty opened. The two women put the bags inside the room. Carefully Connie deposited the pile of documents on the straight-backed Victorian sofa.

  A pair of teenagers stared at her from a painting hung in the center of a grouping of silhouettes and ambrotypes on the wall behind the sofa. Connie asked over her shoulder, “Who are the children in the picture?” She knew the answer before Betty confirmed it.

  "Max, Jr. and Victoria, Dr. Brentwell's children. The red book is a transcript of Victoria's childhood diary."

  The voice went on, but Connie didn't hear the words. She was caught up in the images before her. The daughter standing beside a wing backed chair, and the boy sitting. Young Max's carefree attitude showed in his unruly hair and the mischievous smirk on his handsome face. The girl by contrast looked somber and uncomfortable, but determined. She stood to the right of the chair, holding a book at her waist. Enough of the title was presented to show that it was a Bible. Victoria had the same dark hair as her brother, but hers was neatly parted in the center, pulled back and tied in place with a ribbon. The loose bodice of the high necked dress was a typical mid-nineteenth century costume. Victoria's dark eyes held Connie captive. Why was she drawn to this child?

  Brother and sister shared many of the same features, dark eyes and hair, full lips and slightly turned up noses. While Victoria's cheeks were high and rounded, and her chin firm, Connie wondered if she was clenching her teeth, Max Jr.'s face was broader, the lines straighter, his jaw heavier.

  This boy wooed the girls and frustrated his sister. Connie knew it was hard f
or them to sit for the portrait.

  "...when you're ready."

  Connie's thoughts shattered, she turned her attention to her hostess. “I'm sorry, Betty, my mind was drifting. What did you say?"

  "That's all right, I know you're tired. I just said I'll leave you alone so you can unpack. Supper will be ready in forty-five minutes.” Betty opened the wardrobe, checking the pile of fluffy blue towels on her way to the door. “If you need anything, just ask me or Val. Enjoy your stay.” The door closed quietly behind her.

  Connie needed something, answers. Why did she feel as though she'd been here before? Not just once or twice as a visitor, she knew everything about this house, the mantle clock in Betty's office—even the chip out of a stone on the fireplace mantle.

  Connie looked toward the empty grate. The fire built there in the fall and winter served to heat the room, she remembered the feel of its warming blaze.

  Slowly Connie moved past the canopy bed, and found the damaged stone near the wall. Her trembling fingers traced its rough edge. Max, Jr. had broken the marble after coming home from a weekend of drilling with the home guard. He had been drunk with excitement, full of adventures to tell his sister. His enthusiasm made him careless as he demonstrated his prowess by brandishing his hunting rifle with a butcher knife fastened to its barrel to serve as a bayonet. Connie remembered the incident clearly.

  She could see Victoria hanging sprigs of lilac in the wardrobe to freshen her garments. She thought of the black servant who brought fresh candles and put water in the pitcher for washing.

  How...? What...? I have to get a grip. Connie's hand shook as she took it away from the cold marble. I'm here to work, not to indulge in fantasy. Always a practical person, she decided the job of unpacking would keep her feet on the ground and mind in the twentieth century.

  She started toward her suitcase. I'm forgetting something, something important. Something I have to do here, at the fireplace.

  Taking a step back, Connie searched every inch of the wall with her eyes. She didn't know what she was looking for, but she knew she had to find it. Leaning over she looked in the open mouth of the fireplace. No, it won't be in there. The chance of damage was too great. A loose stone then. In the hearth? No, they were all solid. Letting her hands and inner feelings take over, she closed her eyes, and felt the rough stone wall. It wasn't built from the marble that served as a mantle. This stone had been gathered from the riverbanks nearby. It had been a hot summer that year. Connie could sense the workers, the heat that sapped their strength, their pride in a job well done.