Lost in the Mist

by Wanda C. Keesey

  I've found it. Opening her eyes Connie discovered she was kneeling on the floor in the corner. Her hand rested on a small rock that didn't fit the general appearance of the rest of the wall. It stuck out just a little too far. The size and shape made it possible to grip the stone. Pushing it sideways and then up and down, Connie found that it was loose. Working it carefully back and forth, she was able to slowly pull out the stone. Placing it gently on the floor, she looked into the dark opening.

  There was something, a darker shadow. Reaching into the void, she gripped the object and pulled it out, bringing a small pile of dirt and dust with it.

  Connie turned the oblong block over in her hands. Was it something Victoria had hidden?

  Absentmindedly, she rubbed the rough dark cloth with her fingertips. Whatever it was, someone had taken the trouble to use a remnant of the wine colored drapes from the parlor to protect it. The cloth was brittle and dry, and caked in a thick layer of dust. It had been in its hiding place for a long time. Connie became aware of the windmill that had taken over her head.

  ...remnant of the wine colored ... Where had that come from? Looking at the block in her hand, she could see that the cloth was dark with soot and soil, no color was visible, yet she knew that it had been a deep burgundy, just like she knew it was there in the first place.

  Closing her eyes, Connie took deep breaths, releasing each slowly. She quietly chanted over and over, “Get a grip. Get a grip,” as she had many times since her mother's death.

  "Dinner's ready.” The muffled call came from below.

  That must be Val. Holding the bundle in one hand, she replaced the stone and stood. “I have some cleaning to do,” she said as she looked at the scattered dirt. “But first I have to find a safe place to keep this.” Walking to the wardrobe, Connie slid it inside her suitcase, under her sandals.

  Satisfied that her strange find was secure, she went to the door, turning before opening it. “I'll be back, Victoria,” she whispered.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Five

  Brian heard voices in the office when he returned with his camera cases. Even though it had taken him longer than he had anticipated, having met Carl on his way back, Ms. Hart had not finished registering.

  The man liked to talk and although Brian thought he had a lot of interesting things to say the urge to get back was strong.

  He gathered the waiting baggage, picked up his own and cautiously climbed the steps.

  They would be neighbors. Betty had told him he would be sharing the bathroom with another guest, a woman, unless he objected. He hadn't. A smile, one of those reserved for the small unexpected pleasures in life, narrowed his eyes. He had expected a matronly school teacher type, with white hair and reading glasses. Instead Ms. Connie Hart was young, and attractive. Her curly blond hair set off her fair skin and dark blue eyes. Her nose had just the right tilt; her lips were full and lightly tinted with lipstick. When she smiled her eyes sparkled like a child's at Christmas time. And she was one of the few women he could look in the eye, beautiful eyes at that, without getting on his knees.

  Setting the bags down next to the tall, narrow door, Brian started humming an old Frank Sinatra song, “Stranger's in the Night” as he went to his own room next door.

  He was almost finished unpacking when he heard muffled voices next door.

  If I wait until I hear her door close, I could escort her to supper. As soon as the adolescent thought formed, he put it aside. I'll go down alone and wait for her there.

  Pulling his notebook out of the larger of the two camera bags, Brian started listing the buildings he wanted to photograph, referring to brochures and guide books. His interest was in the little known and seldom noticed sites, but he would start with the more obvious, looking for the others at the same time. His hand paused, poised over the neatly printed list. Maybe he could coordinate his trips with Connie's research. With a shake of his head, Brian wondered why this woman affected him this way.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Six

  Following the sound of voices, Connie located the dining room. Brian towered over the couple he was talking to as they took turns filling their cups with hot beverages.

  "Hello, I see you found us.” Looking past his companions, Brian greeted her warmly. “Help yourself to coffee, tea ... well, you can see what's here, but first let me introduce you.” Extending his arm toward Connie, he included her in the group. “This is Tracey and Joe Handley. Among other things Joe is a Civil War re-enactor. Folks, this is Connie Hart, she's a writer."

  Connie's eyebrows lifted. “How do you know I'm a writer?"

  "You mentioned an article you were researching,” he reminded her.

  "Of course, I'd forgotten.” She smiled.

  Desperately trying to focus on her companions, Connie's eyes were drawn to the far corner. A gaping hole in the outside wall let the cold winter wind blow into the empty house. In the distance she could hear the thunder of cannon fire.

  Suddenly she felt alone and afraid. Am I going out of my mind? She watched as the hole and debris disappeared, returning the room to its present day appearance.

  "Are you all right?” Brian stood next to her, his forehead furrowed with concern.

  Connie saw that the Handleys, too, were watching her with worried looks. “I will be. It was a long trip and I didn't get much sleep last night.” But she had slept on the bus and had dreamed something about an old woman.

  "You need to sit down.” Brian pulled out one of the chairs at the table and waited for Connie. “Tell me what you want to drink."

  "Just some ice water, thank you.” Connie hated being the center of attention. “What do you do besides re-enacting, Joe?"

  She heard the words as Joe told her that he was a truck driver, local not long distance, but they didn't have much impact. She wondered what visual effects were taking place behind her.

  "What type of writing do you do?” Tracey asked from across the table, a steaming cup of in front of her.

  The question tried to bore through the fog in Connie's head. She looked at Tracey, as she mentally shook free of the cobwebs. “My specialty is the Civil War...” She heard herself complete the dialog on her career. “I'm doing a series of articles for a travel magazine on bed and breakfast vacation spots. Fraiser's Rest is the first."

  The woman's dark brown eyes studied Connie. “You picked a good place to begin. Fredericksburg is packed with history.” Smiling at her husband, Tracey pushed long, silky brown hair off her shoulder, revealing more of her face. “We've been here at least twice a year for the last six years. Joe's re-enactment group, the 23rd Virginia Volunteers, they're also known as the Richmond Sharpshooters, make the tour every year. Then we come back for a vacation."

  Her bearded husband nodded in agreement. His hair was almost as long as his wife's but lighter in color, and thinner. It was caught at the nape of his neck with a rubber band. Connie had no trouble envisioning him as a Confederate soldier. He looked the part right down to the belt buckle displaying the “CS” of the Confederate States.

  "I'd like to interview you, if you're willing to be the subject of an article.” An idea began to form, a feature for one of the Civil War magazines that bought Connie's work, maybe several articles from different angles. She looked from Joe to Tracey and back. “Both of you? I would like to get the wife's point of view, too."

  With a shrug Tracey agreed. “Sure, why not?” She looked at Joe.

  "Okay. I hope I don't bore you. I just do what hundreds of other guys do.” His voice was quiet. The pale brown eyes watched Connie's face.

  The couple's intense scrutiny was unnerving. Could they sense her misgiving?

  Backing through the swinging door, an attractive woman with the smooth unblemished skin of twenty-something looked around the room. “Good, you're all here. I was going to call you. I'm Val. Please feel free to ask if you have any special needs.” She carried a steaming platter of thick ham slices. As sh
e set it down, she quickly checked to see that the table was ready.

  The hungry guests voiced their appreciation as they started to fill their plates.

  Connie looked around the table. Didn't they hear the call to supper? If it wasn't Val, then who? Betty? But wouldn't Val know if Betty made the announcement? Maybe I am going out of my mind?

  "Tracey and I had lunch at a place off of Caroline Street on the other side of the railroad tracks. A small pub built around the turn of the eighteenth century. It's rumored to have been a safe haven for Union soldiers during the Civil War,” Joe said as he passed a bowl of sweet potatoes to Tracey. “Lots of atmosphere."

  "I'd like to go there.” Trying to concentrate, Connie added the pub to her list of tourist attractions for her article. “What's it called?"

  "The Blackstone Inn and Pub. How about tomorrow? If we get there early we should be able to get a table without waiting."

  "Sounds great, but do the two of you mind going back so soon?” A fuzzy image of an old weathered building on a narrow street formed in Connie's mind. She ignored it. Her mother used to say she had the imagination of three children. It was working overtime today.

  "No problem, we love the place.” Joe looked across the table. “What do you say, Brian, make it a foursome?"

  "Sure, I'd like that,” Brian replied, “it should be a good addition to my book."

  "How would it be if we met somewhere ... the railroad station is easy to find, but it's not in the best of neighborhoods. The Visitor's Center is close by. We can meet there around eleven,” Tracey said.

  "What do you have planned for tomorrow? Other than lunch, that is,” Brian asked as he handed Connie the basket of homemade bread. Tracey and Joe began lining up their activities for the morning.

  "I'm not sure yet. I have a pile of stuff to go through tonight. Then I can see where to go from there. How about you? You mentioned a book?” He was a personable man, but so was Phillip.

  "I'm on a working holiday. I teach American History at a private school near Hazelton in Pennsylvania, Augusta Prep. But I'm on sabbatical this year. I'm working on a photographic record of historic buildings in Virginia. Like I said, this pub sounds like the kind of place I'm looking for."

  "Really, what type of places are you recording?” Connie tried to listen as her companion began telling her about the many places he had already visited. She had to force her encounters with the Twilight Zone into a private corner of her mind.

  This too will pass. She tried to enjoy the company and the conversation.

  * * * *

  Carrying a white ceramic pot filled with hot coffee, and a cup, Connie climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor room.

  "Are you sure I can't help you? How are you going to open your door?” Brian followed her.

  "Well maybe you can do that for me.” She remembered the luggage. “By the way, thank you for bringing my things up this afternoon. It was a big help.” They stopped outside her room.

  "No problem. I was happy to do it.” He didn't show any sign of leaving. “May I ask you something personal?"

  Connie shrugged. “How personal?"

  "I'll tell you what, I'll ask, and you don't have to answer. In fact you can tell me to bug off if you want."

  Connie suspected what was coming. “Okay, fire."

  "I noticed the mark on your finger. Are you attached and trying to get a no lines tan? Or are you...?"

  "Unattached,” Connie said. “I've corrected a bad decision.” She thought of Phillip and the blind affection she'd had for him. Right up to that day—I'll think long and hard before I trust another man as completely as I trusted Phillip.

  "How about you, any strings?” She waited for his answer, discovering against her better judgment, she found pleasure in his smile and the sound of his voice.

  "No ties or commitments beyond my job and hobby.” Brian didn't offer further explanation. Silence filled the air while they avoided looking at each other.

  Brian ended the awkward moment. “I know you're working on a deadline, but you still have to eat and I have a car. My schedule is flexible, so what do you say? We could team up. It might make the work easier.” His voice was light, promising only friendship.

  Connie was unreasonably happy to accept the offer. “Okay if you're sure it's not an inconvenience.” Had Phillip ever made her feel this good? “We can plan one day at a time. If you're serious about the driving part, there are a few places I was planning to catch a bus or cab to visit. The transportation would come in handy."

  "No problem. I'm sure we can work it out.” He reached past her to turn the glass doorknob, pushing the door open. “Good night. Try not to stay up too late, and if you need company, just knock on the bathroom door. I'm on the other side."

  Connie stepped inside the room, still facing Brian. “Good night. I'll see you for lunch tomorrow.” She hesitated, deciding she had said enough she smiled as she stepped back, letting him pull the door closed.

  Seconds later, she heard his door close.

  Having him near makes me feel safe. That's really stupid. I don't have anything to be afraid of. And for that matter, what do I know about him? He could be an axe killer, a serial rapist, a cat burglar, or a sadistic sex maniac. The thoughts milled around in her head.

  With a smile at her own silliness, Connie set the pot on top of the chest after filling her cup. She went to the pile of papers on the sofa. The material titillated her.

  From experience she knew she had a difficult task ahead. Reading the faded and blurred scribbles on old documents was major eye stain. No, she thought with a sigh, it wasn't going to be easy at all.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Seven

  The evening hours slipped by as Connie examined the official documents, making notes on a yellow legal pad. One proclaimed Maxmillian Wolfgang Brentwell to be educated in the practice of medical procedures, including surgery and dentistry. Another gilt-edged paper declared the same Dr. Brentwell was qualified to serve as an instructor in these fields. A letter of acceptance to a position at a school of medicine in Boston indicated that he had held this latter position for a period of time.

  A small package of yellowed papers, proved to be correspondence with a fellow physician who lived and practiced in Richmond. In answer to Maxmillian's letters his friend wrote of his envy that his friend had found true love in a beautiful woman. Peter Sanson, an old college pal, encouraged Max to move south and to “bring your lovely Prudence. Virginia is in need of men with your skills in medicine, as well as gentlemen of good common sense,” he wrote. “There is no place better to make a home. The South, while having an abundance of plantation owners and businessmen, shop owners and politicians, is always ready to welcome men of medicine."

  Max had been convinced, feeling it was time for him to start a full time practice and leave his teaching job. He took a trip to Richmond, but didn't like the city. It was too crowded and didn't need another doctor, or so he wrote to Prudence. Instead he chose the smaller, but busy metropolis of Fredericksburg where he could make a difference. He found the historical colonial town and its citizens to be “charming, relatively quiet, and potentially prosperous."

  Through copies of letters to a builder and the replies, Connie was able to follow the construction of the building where she sat. When word came that it was completed, Max took his wife, their two year old son and six month old daughter and moved to the new home in the Spring of eighteen forty-four.

  There were a few more letters from Dr. Sanson, but the two had nearly stopped writing by eighteen fifty-two, or perhaps Max hadn't saved the letters, or they were lost.

  A brown accordion folder with a tie down flap, held a certificate of marriage made out for Max and Prudence, filed at Boston courthouse in eighteen forty-four, birth certificates for the children, Max Jr. was born on the twelfth of March eighteen forty-two, Victoria's was badly faded all Connie could make out was November forty-three, the deed to the property where the house
now stood, tax records for the real estate based on the property's frontage (that explained the narrow but tall front and deep structure of the house), and the contract for the construction of a stable and carriage house behind the house, now used as living quarters for the Fraisers. Other everyday papers filled the fat envelope.

  A separate package held orders for large quantities of drugs and tonics checked off as received by the doctor from the drug suppliers in Philadelphia, Boston and Baltimore. There was a gap in late eighteen sixty-one to early in eighteen sixty-six. What had the doctor done for drugs during the Civil War? From history, Connie knew that what was available went to the army, and most of those had to be smuggled past the sea blockade, leaving the private citizens to fend for themselves or rely on the kindness of visiting hospital aid workers. Connie made a note on her pad. The problem would be a good starting point for another article.

  The strain of reading the faded ink was giving Connie a headache.

  She made an executive decision to read something easier to make out. Later, when she felt fresher, she'd finish the faded documents. She put the pile of brittle papers aside, and reached for the hard bound book.

  The only marking on its cover was the word “Victoria” in gold against the bright red background.

  Realizing that the evening had darkened, she switched on the converted oil lamp next to the wing back armchair. After settling in with a fresh cup of tepid coffee, she opened the book.

  A brief forward explained that the book was a transcript of a diary written by Victoria Elizabeth Brentwell and found when the house was being sold in nineteen oh-six after her mother, Prudence Brentwell's death. The editors explained that passages were skipped in the transcription when the words were unclear, and notes added to clarify others.