Lost in the Mist

by Wanda C. Keesey

  The waitress appeared carrying a tray loaded with bowls of the house special, “Hellzapoppin” stew.

  As it has done through the ages, the smell of food coaxed the men away from their game.

  "I demand a rematch. My game was just beginning to warm up,” Brian said.

  "I'll have to check my date card, challenger. Numero-Uno darts champ has to limit his games to those deserving of the honor,” Joe responded.

  "Eat first then talk about a rematch.” Tracey said. “I have a feeling that you'll both be wanting a nap more than another game of darts."

  Trying to concentrate on the tender lamb and vegetables, Connie felt Tracey watching her, and more than once she thought she saw Brian looking at her, too. Had he seen something? Or was she being paranoid?

  "Where are you going from here?” Brian asked Joe.

  Tracey answered for him. “We're going for a long walk by the river, then back to Fraiser's Rest for that nap. We've been up since dawn. How about you, Connie?"

  "I'm going to the church the Brentwells attended. It's not far from here."

  "Do you mind if I tag along?” Glancing at Connie, Brian picked up the last piece of bread and used it to sop up the gravy in the bottom of his bowl. “You know, for my book. This place is a really interesting attraction. I'll be coming back to get some shots of it some morning when the sun's just coming up. This church of yours could be another."

  "I don't mind, but are you sure you want to? I'll be doing research."

  "I have to put information about the places in my book, not just pictures and locations. I need background, something of the past that's not found in other books. Sometimes it's only the architecture, or the fact that it has survived hundreds of years, but I like to add little known details. So you see, I'll be doing some research, too.” His hazel eyes held her captive.

  "Okay, you're welcome to come.” She paused. “As a matter of fact, I'd like the company.” Connie felt a sense of relief knowing that Brian would accompany her. But why?

  "It's settled then. I'll pay the bill and we can go.” The others protested as Brian picked up the check and pulled out his wallet. “This is my treat. After all, I lost the dart game. I owe you something."

  As they walked toward the door, Connie's mind whirled with the stories she could tell Brian about the Blackstone's shadowy history. Stories she had no logical way of knowing.

  Everyone knew the South was a haven for English sympathizers during the Revolutionary War. But how did she know that the Inn's owner backed the freedom offered by a new government and served its founding fathers by supplying information overheard among his English patrons.

  The parade of spies, smugglers, pirates and patriots, the men and women who had graced these cold stone walls with their patronage would make an interesting article. But to what source could she attribute that information? A runaway imagination?

  What about the Westerlys? Where could their history be found? Molly and Zack Westerly had operated the Blackstone as a safe house for runaway slaves and Union patriots and spies before and during the Civil War.

  Connie stopped at the door, turning to look back at the open room. Is that why she's here? Victoria knew I would be here, but I'm not the reason she came.

  Glancing at the wall behind the dartboard, Connie tried to sort out the questions.

  The times were too dangerous. A woman dressed as a soldier would be in real trouble if she were caught. Were the Westerlys friends? Did Victoria help them in the covert operation of the Inn? What kind of escapade was she caught up in?

  Yes, she knew stories about the Blackstone Pub, but not how all of them end.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Nine

  Connie and Brian walked along the cobblestone alley that led to the river. Slender two and three story brick buildings lined both sides of the narrow lane, cutting off the afternoon sun. Two blocks ahead they could see an expanse of sunlit trees.

  The light at the end of the tunnel. “It's the Chapel of Mercy,” she said aloud. “Dr. Brentwell was a church elder and I believe his family should be buried in the cemetery.” Connie told Brian what she knew from her reading of the Brentwell history.

  Without thinking, she turned right at the river and headed south. Soon they were walking between a steep bank that rose above their heads on one side and on the other, the narrow two lane street, and the river. Trees nearly obscured the view of the placid water. The steep banks were covered with weeds and wildflowers.

  "This was once a dirt track. To make room for progress, the bank had to be cut away.” Connie was talking to avoid thinking about what happened at the Pub, but Brian agreed that hers was an obvious assumption.

  The boughs of trees hung over the top of the embankment. Their great roots growing through the soil struggled to retain their precarious hold.

  "I hope they didn't move any of the graves to put in the road,” Connie said.

  Brian watched her face. “Are you thinking about the Brentwells?"

  "Yes, I hope their graves weren't disturbed.” Connie glanced up at the bank.

  The road cut its way close to the stone church at the bottom of the rise ahead. Grave markers filed in neat rows around the Chapel.

  Connie stood on the first step leading to the door. She read the placard set in gray granite.

  Chapel of Mercy

  Church of the Episcopalian Faith Built Seventeen hundred and Eighty-five,

  Served the Community as a Hospital during the War of Northern Invasion

  Brian said something about taking pictures. Connie couldn't fight the pull of the closed door. She had to go inside.

  A wood sign hung on the door with the carved message, “Everyone Welcome". Accepting the invitation, Connie found the heavy door opened easily on well-oiled hinges.

  The interior was cool, like that of the pub, but without the benefit of the overhead fans. Particles of dust hovered in the streams of light from the high, narrow windows. Goose bumps rose on Connie's arms as she studied her surroundings. Remembering.

  The rubber soles of their shoes made only little scuffing sounds on the worn plank floor. High-walled box pews lined both sides of the small sanctuary. Deep scars and layers of paint covered the hard used seats.

  The first camera flash took her by surprise. She watched as Brian positioned himself, focused and shot pictures of the church interior.

  "Afternoon, folks.” The shadows near the altar shifted, changing into the figure of a short, plump man holding a broom. He stepped into the light. “I'm Harvey Bender, sexton of this here church since fifty-one. Can I help ya? Maybe ya'd like to look around."

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Bender. I'm working on an article about the Brentwell family,” Connie explained. “They lived in Fredericksburg in the mid-eighteen hundreds and attended this church. Dr. Brentwell was an elder, I believe. Do you think I ... we could look at the old church records."

  "Sure. That's why I'm here.” The old man seemed pleased.

  Connie stood beside Brian, aware of his body heat and the faint scent of his aftershave. Strange, how right it felt to be here, in this church, with this man.

  Harvey's gnarled fingers scratched at the yellowed stubble on his cheek as he searched his memory. “Brentwell, I know that name. He's one of the good ones. Ya know, a real good churchman. Real popular in town, too."

  "I saw a church register inside the door.” Connie thought of the big book on a scarred pedestal, a ballpoint pen chained to the table. “Do you have any of those records from eighteen forty to eighteen sixty-five?” She held out little hope the books had survived the years.

  "Yep, the church kept'm. We got'm in the Records Room. It's really a storage room, but it's always been called the Records Room. The oldest books I remember go back to just before the turn of the century, the nineteenth, that is. Some are missing, lost, destroyed, who knows? Anyway, ya can look at what we got. Come on, we'll see what we can find."

  Connie's heart quickened at the prospect o
f touching history. It didn't occur to her to question Harvey's willingness to show a stranger the ancient books without authorization from the church elders. Clutching her bag, she followed him through a small door. Brian brought up the rear.

  Shadows filled the short hall, darkening it as the light drifting through two small windows began to fade.

  "Careful, light's not real great in here. Afternoon sun's behind us, ya see. This hall's an anteroom for the minister and his helper. A waiting place before starting the service. It's okay in the mornings; the sun comes in here then, but not afternoon.” Harvey filled the silence between speeches by humming softly.

  The hall ended at another low door that opened with a series of sharp squeals as metal worked against metal. “Hinges should be oiled,” the old man mumbled to himself.

  They entered a small office. A lamp on an otherwise bare desk gave off an eerie yellow glow. “Through here,” he said.

  Brian and Connie followed him into another, larger room. The cool, damp air smelled of old leather, mold and years of dust. The windowless room stretched across the back of the church. Four light bulbs, covered by metal shades and hanging from chains at even intervals across the high ceiling, provided light.

  Sets of candleholders, small tables, and stacks of straight backed chairs lined the north wall. Shelves, standing eight feet high lined the back wall, objects protected by plastic filled most of them. Connie could make out the shapes of vessels used to hold flowers along with oblong and flat packages that probably contained linen vestments.

  At the south end of the room a long battered table waited.

  Connie saw rows of old books, big volumes with dates on the spines. The ones on the bottom shelves were bound with cloth covered wood, while higher up the books had leather covers. Many of the books had suffered damage from heat and dampness, the leather cracked and peeling, the cloth discolored, and separating from the warped boards.

  "Pull up some chairs and I'll get ya some books down,” Harvey talked while he looked at the laden shelves. Finding a corner for his broom, the sexton wheeled a step stool under one of the shelves.

  After putting his camera away, Brian pulled out two of the old wood chairs at the table. He cautiously tried their strength, before nodding his approval.

  "Can you feel it?” Connie whispered, then without waiting for a response she continued. “The people, they're all here, the people from the past."

  Harvey gently laid the first of the books on the table in front of his guests, reporting the dates noted on each.

  Brian helped Connie read the faded writing. They searched for mention of the doctor or his family.

  The eighteen forty-seven volumes were nearly illegible, the ink faded to blurred shadows. After the third book she asked Harvey to move to the eighteen fifties, hoping the ink had held up better. It hadn't, but they looked anyway.

  "I think I see something.” Brian stood and leaned forward peering intently at the middle of a page. The year was eighteen fifty-two.

  "Can I see?” Connie moved closer, squinting at the faded ink. “You're right. It could be ‘Dr. Maxmillian Brentwell'. I can't make out all of it, but I think it's something about being made a church elder.” She lowered herself into her chair. “Great. We've established that the Brentwells did worship here, and the doctor was an elder. I have to check another date. What do you say, Brian? One more and I treat you to an old fashioned ice cream sundae."

  "I can't remember ever getting a better offer.” Brian smiled as he closed the book in front of him.

  Connie could see Harvey waiting. He probably wanted to get home. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly two-thirty. “Can we see late February, eighteen fifty-seven?"

  "Ya got it.” He was spry for his age, pulling the step stool to the next set of shelves and climbing to reach the second row of books from the top. He started scanning the dates with care, repeating each to himself until he located the requested book.

  "What's important about that date? Is it something you read in the journal?” Brian moved to Harvey's side taking the heavy book from the old man's short arms.

  "Yes, that was the time period when Victoria's sister was born and died.” Connie's thoughts went back to the troubling events she had read the evening before. “I want to confirm the entry."

  "Here you are.” The book raised a small cloud of dust as Brian laid it on the table.

  Carefully turning the stiff pages, they searched for the right date.

  "I think I found it.” A tremor in her voice revealed Connie's sadness as she studied the pale letters.

  The date was February twenty-fifth, eighteen fifty-seven. The top of the first letter was clear. It was an “E". Some of the other letters were evident. The first name was Evangeline. The second name and last were faded beyond recognition except for the last few letters, “twell". A paling ink smudge marked the end of the entry.

  As she read, Connie's nose almost touched the yellowing page in her effort to decipher the hundred and fifty year old entry.

  The air grew thick with mist. Pushing herself upright, Connie leaned against the table, trying to stop the change. “Not now,” she whispered. The world around her disappeared. She could hear Brian calling her name, but she couldn't respond.

  The past closed in. Helpless as a baby, she fell through time. The caretaker and Brian were left behind. She was alone on this journey. Where was she going? Why?

  The foggy shroud thinned. She looked around the dim room. The shelves were gone. Leather trunks lined the walls, stacked three high. A collection of candleholders and spent candles stuck out of a large wood barrel. Connie was crouched over the area where the table had been. Rodent droppings and cobwebs were evident. The air was thick with dust. The old books were stacked on top of another set of trunks. There were far fewer of them.

  Straightening, she glided across the room, at first hearing nothing but the sound of her own erratic breathing. Then she heard the voices. They carried down the hall. She moved toward them.

  A man's voice, giving gentle and reassuring council. “She is resting in the arms of our Lord. Don't be concerned for your sister, my dear.” Another voice, too quiet for Connie to make out the words responded then the man again. “Go home, and rest. Take care of your poor mother. You will find peace in the work."

  With a gasp of surprise, Connie whispered, “Someone's talking to Victoria."

  She hurried forward taking steps that carried her effortlessly over the plank floor.

  The outer door in the vestibule was closing. As she approached from the empty sanctuary, Connie caught a glimpse of a dark green cloak against a heavy snowfall. The hand on the latch belonged to a thin man in the somber black garb of the clergy.

  Connie watched as the pastor bowed his head. He remained in place for a moment before turning to walk down the narrow center aisle to the altar. He stopped when he reached Connie. His eyes narrowed as he put his hands on his arms rubbing them as if to ward off an unexpected chill. With a small shake of his head, the minister turned and continued his walk.

  This is no dream. I'm here, in the vestibule of the Chapel of Mercy in February eighteen fifty-seven. It's like this afternoon in the market. So real. Not like the dream of last night, or the daydream in the Pub. Not this time.

  The crackling of the fire in the iron stove and whisper of the wind trying to find a way through the cracks around the door told tales of winter, not the budding spring she had left in the future.

  I'm here, but for how long? I could be pulled back without warning—or stuck here forever. She stepped into the vestibule. How? Why? So many questions, so few answers.

  Looking around the small annex, Connie walked to the pedestal table that held an open record book. Today was the day of the funeral. She had to see the entry.

  Her senses were alert to every sight and sound, every snap made by the fire, every moan of the settling building. The sound of icy snow hitting the stained glass windows, the flickering wick of the oil lamp in the
vestibule bouncing shadows on the walls, the smell of new leather mixed with the polished wood and burning oil, they are all real. Connie felt a chill, but it wasn't the winter winds that made her shiver.

  The leather-bound book loomed before her, its presence larger than life. The new pages lay open on the waist-high stand, not yellowed and brittle, but crisp paper. An old-fashioned pen lay next to a small jar of black liquid its nub still glistened with wet ink.

  Connie drew near. She had to read the entry on the open page. A thrill ran through her body, whether it was from excitement or fear, she couldn't tell.

  The words jumped off the page. Every letter as clear as the day they were written—This is the day they were written, she reminded herself as she read the script.

  Evangeline Amanda Brentwell, stillborn 23 February 1857, put to rest 25 February 1857. Father, Maxmillian Brentwell, Mother, Prudence Chessman Brentwell.

  The wet ink sparkled in the unsteady light. With a trembling hand Connie touched the page. As her fingers brushed its edge, she left a smudge.

  She watched her fingerprint dry. The air thickened, swirling around her. Connie didn't resist, as the mist engulfed her, she held the small table for support.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Ten

  Stepping from the pub onto the historical street, Brian was glad Connie didn't object to his joining her trek to the Chapel.

  Something had happened at the Blackstone. But what? Had he imagined that Connie appeared out of thin air? It had to be a trick of the light, or his mind.

  At least I know this is real. What am I thinking? He looked at his companion, of course this was real. There was an explanation for what happened back there, if it happened, and for Connie's strange moods.

  By the time the little church was visible at the bottom of the cemetery, Brian admitted to himself that he'd like to pursue a relationship with Connie. In spite of the strange way she acted in the dining room yesterday. And earlier when he took her hand to cross the street, she was trembling and pale. What was that about? Was she afraid of something? Of someone? Surely she wasn't afraid of him. If she were, why would she let him come with her?