Lost in the Mist

by Wanda C. Keesey

  Wasn't it?

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  Eight

  "...that's the news, on this sunny Saturday morning. For an update, listen in at twelve o'clock, that's at noon. Comes everyday about the same time, folks. Stay tuned for..."

  Connie fumbled for the button to quiet the fast talking DJ. Blessed silence filled the room.

  Her sleep had been uneasy, haunted by dreams of horses and houses, candles and brightly burning fires, of Victoria stepping out of the portrait to stand smiling, her arms outstretched, welcoming.

  Her eyes burned and her body was heavy from lack of rest. Connie was as tired as when she had gone to bed.

  What had drawn her to Fredericksburg? To Fraiser's Rest? Was it Victoria?

  Yes, she was doing an article on the B&B, but that had come later. The trip had been planned and the bus ticket purchased before the Fraisers agreed to the article. Since her mother's funeral in November, the compulsive need to make this trip to Virginia had taken over every waking and sometimes, sleeping hour.

  Had she wanted to escape? Is that why she had to get away? Natural enough, but why Virginia? She had friends and relatives all over Pennsylvania.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she searched the floor with her feet for her slippers. Covering a yawn with her hand Connie felt the wide band of the antique ring on her little finger. Smiling she held it up where she could see it.

  Elizabeth Hart, mother, best friend, confessor, and advisor. Images of her childhood whirled in her head as Connie twisted the ring. Mom, I could use your advice. I miss you. She stood and walked to the bathroom.

  The stinging shower spray reminded Connie of her mother's funeral. A steady downpour made the graveside service dismal. The pale sky had been cold and filled with clouds that reflected the sadness of the observance. Less than five weeks before that rainy day, she'd broken her engagement with Phil. His infidelity still brought pain, but nothing like the pain of watching her mother waste away, her body eaten by cancer.

  Connie was left alone. She retreated from the world, until one day she realized how much worse her life might be. She could be planning a wedding to a man who didn't know the meaning of love and her mother could be lying in a hospital bed suffering the pain of prolonged illness.

  Concentrating on the things she'd grown up with, her family and the stories her mother and grandmother had told her of Mandi and Drew Kosgrove, her great, great, great grandparents, Connie tried to build a new foundation.

  When she finished this project, she would take a vacation and dig into Mandi Kosgrove's past.

  The frustration left by her great, great, great grandmother was especially bitter because Mandi lived to be ninety-two, dying in the spring of nineteen thirty-five, but steadfastly refused to share her past. According to Mary Ellen, Connie's grandmother, Amanda would only smile when asked where she had been born.

  Connie's treasured legacy had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations. Memories of long talks with her mother fed Connie's compulsion to know more about the Civil War and the truth of living in a war zone. Wherever Mandi was from, she had lived during that terrible time.

  Brian's smiling face loomed before Connie's closed eyes, interrupting her thoughts and pushing the past out of the way. Over the stinging hot spray of the shower, she remembered his deep voice as he asked what she planned to do today.

  I feel like I'm living in two worlds, a hundred-forty years apart, but I'm not sure which is real ... or if either is.

  Reluctantly she turned off the comforting stream of water, and wrapped her wet body in the lilac scented bath towel. Brian was gone by now, snapping pictures of old buildings, doing what he came here to do.

  What about you, Connie? What did you come here to do? To write a background story on a B&B? To get your life in order? Or to dream about the people who lived here a century and a half ago? You don't know, do you? The shadowy image in the steamed mirror didn't answer.

  Dressing quickly and descending the narrow stairs, Connie wasn't surprised to find that she was alone.

  After a quick cup of coffee she settled in the parlor to read the few remaining pages of the red-bound journal.

  The story of Prudence's surrender to depression reinforced Connie's mood. It had been a sad and gloomy time for Victoria.

  13 March 1857

  Parson Brickton called today. I asked if he would like to take tea with Mama. As he had come to see to her well being, he said he would. I went to prepare Mama for her visitor, before I reached the top of the stairs she called out, “Paul?” she asked softly again as I opened the door, her eyes bright with expectation.

  "No, Mama,” I said.” It's Parson Brickton come to visit."

  "I see,” Mama said but she wasn't smiling anymore, her eyes filled with tears.

  17 May 1857

  I was helping Lacy make bread when we heard the shouts. It was Mama, she was yelling as one possessed. When I went to her room, she was leaning out the window, shouting at a passing wedding carriage. Do you know them, Mama? I asked her. “He's gone now.” was all she would say before allowing me to help her to the rocker, where she sat still as stone, her hair had fallen free of its pins. She was so forlorn, I wondered what distressed her so, but not wishing to renew her anguish, I did not ask. After combing her hair, I read aloud from books she loved until she fell asleep.

  I watch as she rests. Mama's illness disturbs me. Her body is strong, yet she does not find the will to go to the dinning room for meals or to do the marketing. She does not go beyond the doors of her room. God help me, I sometimes get angry at her. I want to shout that the end of Evangeline's life was not the end of hers. And who is this Paul that he can renew her loss by not coming to see her?

  May seventeen, eighteen fifty-seven was the last entry. Victoria was thirteen and destined to a life of spinsterhood caring for her mother. Angry that Prudence could ruin her daughter's life so selfishly Connie almost wished she had never opened the book in the first place.

  Standing, she stretching her long limbs. A quick glance at her watch helped push Victoria back into the nineteenth century, but not out of her mind.

  Returning to her room, Connie prepared to meet Brian and the Handleys for lunch. She packed her canvas bag, while mentally reviewing her itinerary. After lunch, she would go the Chapel of Mercy. Some of the old records may still exist to confirm the journal and possibly answer her questions. If it wasn't too late, she would take a stroll through the old cemetery surrounding the church.

  * * * *

  She arrived before the others. Was this the right corner? Checking her note Connie felt relieved to see that, yes, it was. The red brick building with a sign that proclaimed it to be the Visitors Center crowded the sidewalk. Tourists were gathering on the corner across Charlotte Street under a sign announcing “Trolley Tours” where a sightseeing bus waited. Across Princess Ann, a steady line of patrons were quickly filling the small tables outside a small cafe. What she wouldn't do for a cup of coffee. Better still, what she wouldn't give to see Brian in the milling crowd, a friendly face.

  Why did she feel so ... lost?

  Connie felt conspicuous standing alone on the corner of the busy street. People laughed and talked as they enjoyed the smells of food coming from the many nearby restaurants. The lonely sound of a train whistle warned of an approaching train. She was an observer, watching from inside an invisible box, distant, yet...

  The fog surrounded her. Gripping her bag close, Connie opened her mouth to protest as the world spun. The tourists vanished. The surroundings changed, appearing as they had been over a hundred years ago. Connie watched in stunned silence as the street peddlers moved wares in handcarts down the dirt road, with their sing-song calls, “Fresh Berrrrieeesss, get your fresh berries,” “Milk, butter, eggs, frrressssh Milk, butter, eggs."

  What's going on? How can this be? Am I having another dream? But I'm wide awake. Is this virtual reality? Is someone playing a trick on me? Conn
ie looked up and down the dusty street.

  Behind her, children burst out of the candy store, stopping at the corner to compare surgery delights. Across the street, the general store clerk, a tall muscular young man with a bushy mustache and stained apron helped Victoria pick out a straw broom. Nodding, Victoria accepted one of them and handed it to the black woman waiting quietly behind her.

  It's not a dream ... but how? I'm in their world. In Victoria's world. I don't know how or why, but I'm here. Connie felt the dance of a thousand butterflies in her stomach as she watched Victoria go inside the store, while Lacy waited at the door. A group of boys cleared the street were they'd been playing a spirited game of stick ball to make way for a wagon loaded with the sullen black faces of slaves. The sign nailed to its side, told of a slave auction to be held March thirtieth. Connie gasped as the horror of buying and selling human life became a reality.

  "Wait. I want to talk to you.” Hearing the hollow voice, Connie tore her eyes from the wagon of misery to see Victoria leaving the store, her hand raised in greeting.

  The younger woman's eyes were locked on Connie. Lifting her long skirt, Victoria started to cross the busy thoroughfare.

  With sudden awareness, Connie knew Victoria was the reason she was here. Here in Fredericksburg, but why? She had to ask her, she thought as she moved to the edge of the wood plank walkway.

  Feeling herself sway, Connie watched the world grow dim. Not yet! She fought to remain in the world of the past. I have to talk to her.

  Stumbling backward, she fought to stay upright. The warm bark of the tree behind her bit into the light material of her blouse as she leaned against it, closing her eyes, Connie knew she was home.

  "Connie."

  The sound of her name, called from nearby, filled her with relief. She loosened her death grip on the canvas bag and tried to steady her shaking hands. Never questioning that it might not continue Connie hoped the time travel would get easier.

  She saw Brian first, the top of his dark head above the crowd. The Handleys followed in the path he made through the tourists. Brian waved when he saw Connie look his way. Waiting, Connie wondered what they would think if she told them her secret.

  "Sorry we're late. It's my fault. I had the opportunity to shoot a praying mantis eating her lunch. And while her table manners were impeccable for an insect, she was in no hurry. The Handleys waited for me,” Brian said as he neared.

  "It's all right. I know how easily I get absorbed in something special.” Like traveling to the nineteenth century, Connie added to herself.

  Brian's hand was warm on her elbow as he guided her back across the busy street, where the Handleys waited. Connie was filled with pleasure when, instead of releasing her, he threaded his fingers through hers as they started down a shadowy side street.

  Leading the way, Joe put his arm across Tracey's shoulders as the couple moved between the old buildings and were swallowed by the gloom. After several turns Connie saw the black sign, high over the narrow lane. Letters of dull orange/red proclaimed that they had found the “Blackstone Pub and Inn". The three story stone building was dark from years of weathering. Joe and Tracey waited near the low door, its black paint dull and scarred with age.

  "I wonder when the door was replaced,” Connie mumbled to herself.

  Brian looked at her, puzzled. “What makes you think it's been replaced?"

  How did she know? “Just a feeling, like it's not right. It should have big iron hinges. You know what I mean. They're marked where they were pounded with hammers to flatten and shape them."

  "Yeah, I know the ones. You see them on old barns. But how can you be so sure that they were used here?"

  "I'm a writer, remember? Imagination.” Connie knew she was right. The door had been painted red.

  Inside, the elongated room was dimly lit. The stone walls provided a natural insulator, keeping it cool. To their left, a long bar, lined with high wooden stools, ran most of the room's length. A short section at each end remained open. A single bartender drew beer and ale from modern taps. He wore the loose shirt of the seventeen hundreds covered by a dark bib apron. His mutton chop sideburns and armbands added to the flavor of the past.

  "Can't you imagine the wooden barrels behind the bar?” Connie admired the pewter plates and mugs that lined shelves, next to old jugs and wooden kegs on display. “I guess it isn't practical to serve from barrels today. It's a shame, it would add to the eighteenth century theme.” The large assortment of liquors and mixers didn't escape her. The drinking demands of the present intruded on the desire to visit the past.

  The right side of the long room was filled with tables for dining. Each held a bottle with a candle in it, melted wax bound bottle to table.

  "How about a game of darts?” Brian nodded toward the bar, an official game board hung in the front corner. He watched Joe rub his whiskered chin.

  "Thought you'd never ask."

  "And a small wager,” Brian challenged.

  Connie laughed. “Men and their toys. Why don't we get a table and we can order, then you can go play?"

  He was looking at her; Connie realized he still held her hand, with a smile she thought how natural it felt. Had they met only yesterday? “You're right. And we are being rude. Would you ladies like to join us at the dart board?"

  "No,” both women answered at once.

  "You go and play your game, but Connie's right. We should order first.” Tracey nodded toward the far end of the bar. “There's a waitress now."

  One of a set of swinging door leading to another room swung open. A young woman wearing a long full dress with a white bib apron, cloth cap, and a tag that said her name was Mary came to seat them.

  Mary led the way to one of the larger tables, near a huge fireplace where a coat of arms hung over an oak mantle lined with more pewter plates and mugs. Not many of the other tables were occupied.

  Releasing Connie's hand, Brian moved his chair closer to hers.

  When the waitress went to get their drinks, Connie leaned toward Tracey. “What do you think? Is she wearing period shoes or Nikes?"

  "I'd say it's a toss up.” They giggled together.

  Taking their tankards of beer, Joe and Brian went to the bar. Connie watched as the bartender provided darts and the game started with a shot off to see who would go first.

  * * * *

  Connie and Tracey shelled and ate peanuts from a basket on the table while they talked.

  "How did you find this place? It isn't on a main street. There isn't even a sign to tell you it's here,” Connie asked.

  "You didn't seem to have any trouble finding it. I thought we'd lost you two."

  Connie responded with a shrug. “You weren't far ahead.” Unable to explain how she found her way through the side streets, she rationalized that other tourists found the pub, a steady flow of people were filling the tables, among them locals in costumes of the Revolution and Civil War eras, who offered themselves to visitors for picture taking and sometimes as guides, but many were obviously tourists.

  Tracey excused herself to visit the ladies room, leaving Connie with her thoughts.

  Connie idly watched the dart game, smiling at the good-natured competition. The wall behind the dartboard undulated in the gathering mist, fading and changing as it moved. Connie grabbed the table to steady herself as the room swayed. The fog thinned.

  The red door made no noticeable sound as it swung open allowing the entrance of a Confederate soldier.

  The frail figure walked without challenge through the bustling crowd of patrons, most wearing tattered pieces of the same uniform. Parting the heavy curtain blocking the opening behind the bar, the soldier hesitated, turning.

  Tilting his head back, Connie wasn't surprised to see that the soldier was Victoria. She scanned the room quickly from under the brim of her kepi, hesitating briefly when she saw Connie. With a sober nod of recognition, Victoria disappeared through the drapes, unnoticed by those in the bar. How did she know I was h
ere? She wasn't any more surprised to see me than I was to see her.

  The room tilted. The mist gathered. Connie was sweep through time. She fell against the table where she sat, her knuckles white from the death grip. Opening her eyes she slowly regained control of her trembling body.

  "Are you all right?” Tracey's voice strained to remain calm as she held Connie's arm.

  "Yes, I'm okay,” Connie answered weakly. “Just a little dizzy.” She struggled to sort out what she had seen.

  "Where were you just now? I went to the rest room. When I came out you weren't here—then you were.” Tracey leaned forward to study Connie's pale face.

  "What do you mean? I was here. I didn't go anywhere.” Lifting her head, Connie stared at the wall where the opening had been. Or had it? Was she going out of her mind? What did Tracey mean, “you weren't here—then you were"?

  Joe was taking his turn at the dartboard while Brian leaned on the bar looking in their direction. He didn't seem to hear Joe's barbs.

  Connie rubbed her arms to rid them of goose bumps. “It was just a dizzy spell. A combination of stress and heat. Please don't say anything.” Connie looked at Tracey, pleading. How could she explain?

  "You don't know, do you?” Tracey whispered. “I think you should talk to—"

  "What are you talking about? Know what? Please, Tracey. It'll pass.” Connie searched for some sanity. “I'll feel better after I've eaten. I promise. I don't want a lot of fuss."

  Reluctantly Tracey dropped the subject, appearing to accept Connie's explanation. “All right, I'll keep quiet for now.” She smiled in response to Connie's relieved nod.

  Lifting their mugs, the two women drank. The refreshing mint tea helped clear Connie's churning mind, but did nothing to still her trembling hands. She hoped Tracey would keep her word.