A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  I maneuvered another left-hand turn and straight-away and another before Luke gave the drop sign. Circling back, I could only grin and wag my head. “Wow!”

  “I’m outta practice,” Luke said, shaking droplets from his hair.

  “Oh, get real,” I replied. “You were amazing.”

  “An’ I’m outta breath.” Then he grinned. “Great pull, Ashby. Now it’s your turn. A slalom ski?”

  “Hey, I only just learned to ski on a pair, you know.” I sputtered, hemming and hawing, but Luke paid no attention to me.

  He rummaged in the locker, eventually extricating a smaller ski for me. “This should do. How tall are y’, anyway?”

  “Five feet six inches.” My voice of reason said I ought to tell Luke to forget it, but my racing pulse drowned it out.

  Luke saw my hesitation. Giving me a quick hug, he said, “Hey, don’t worry, you’re gonna do great. Just keep your arms straight. Butt down. Skis up. Th’ boat’ll do the rest.”

  I guess he knew what he was talking about, because, after a half dozen tries, when my arms felt ready to fall off, I miraculously found myself standing on top of the ski, skimming the surface of the wake, unsteady, but upright, nonetheless. It was like latching onto a jet-propelled balance beam, an electrifying experience. I took a couple of long runs and made a few turns before I lost it and crashed into the water.

  As I climbed back into the boat, Jeff gave me a high five and Luke said, “Ha! Told y’ so. Way t’go!”

  I felt like a conquering hero and had to admit the slalom ski is much more fun than a pair.

  Hours later, as we drifted into the slip, with Jeff on the dock maneuvering the lift switches, Luke took the opportunity to pull me close and whisper in my ear. “Meet me here, on th’ dock, t’night. Aroun’ eleven. I’ll be home from class by then. We’ll take a night swim, sit on th’ dock, an’ look for shootin’ stars.”

  “Shooting stars,” I said, looking into his eyes. “All right.”

  * * * *

  With Luke off to his calculus class, Aunt Monica and Uncle Hunter at their club and Jeff attending a birthday party somewhere, I figured I’d have a good three hours to get back to the attic. I was determined to get into that footlocker where I was betting I’d find the Overton diaries.

  Miss Emma was working in the kitchen. Grabbing a dish towel and drying some pots and pans on the counter, I ventured, “Uh, Miss Emma, could you unlock the attic for me one more time?”

  She shot me a critical look from under her brows. “Curiosity got hold of you?” She reached for her clutch of keys hanging at her waist.

  “While you’ve got those keys out, Miss Emma, uh, I don’t suppose you could locate one to an old footlocker up there? In the closet in the attic?”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “You mean the footlocker full of family diaries?”

  “I really would like to read whatever all those Overton women wrote. Living history, you know?”

  “Unfortunately, Ashby, there is no key.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean, no key? If there’s a lock, there has to be a key, right?”

  “Once upon a time, I suppose there was a key, yes. Lenore and I used to pore over those diaries when we were young girls looking for adventure and romance in the attic. Somewhere along the line, the footlocker got locked up tight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the key.”

  “Then…how did you and my grandmother get into them in the first place? I mean, if they were locked and there was no key.”

  Miss Emma gave me one of her closed-in looks. “Let’s just say somebody unlocked them for us. Can we leave it at that?” She finished her task and then led me to the attic door, which she opened for me.

  “Umm…Miss Emma, you wouldn’t happen to have a dust mask, would you? It’s really sneezy in the attic.”

  “I believe there’s one in the mud room. Shall I get it for you?”

  “Oh, yes. Please. That would be great.” She disappeared from sight.

  With the kitchen to myself, I rummaged through drawers, locating a couple of different sized screw drivers, a sharp steak knife, and a small meat hammer. These I bundled up in a plastic grocery bag, which I stuffed under my shirt.

  Miss Emma returned and handed me the requested mask, watching me pull it over my mouth and nose. “Thanks, Miss Emma! Wish me luck!”

  I sprinted up the attic stairs two at a time, jerking off the mask along the way. So, there is no key. Okay. Then, I’ll just try to pick the lock, I thought, retracing my steps to the camouflaged closet, my bag of burglar’s tools in hand. Slipping the smallest screw driver from the bag, I tried inserting the tool like a key, into the lock of the footlocker. No luck. It was too big to fit in the lock. “Maybe a hammer to break it open.” I was talking out loud now. Tentatively I tapped at the lock with the hammer, not hard, more of a love tap. To my surprise, the lid cracked open a few inches, creaking on old hinges. Hello! What happened? That was easy.

  Raising the metal lid wide, I took in volume after volume of leather-bound books, more than a dozen, overlapping one another like shingles on a roof. It was much as I had expected, the stored and preserved memoirs of a family prominent enough, or arrogant enough, to consider its own history a valuable archive.

  What caused me to catch my breath in astonishment was something else entirely. Scattered over the proliferation of diaries was a handful of fresh red rose petals. I almost dropped the lid. Opening the footlocker had been easy all right. Way too easy. Someone else had already unlocked it for me, just like Miss Emma had said. Cupping the petals in my hand, I couldn’t resist a sniff.

  Gently laying the petals aside, I opened the covers of the books, one by one, to glance over the title pages and dates. Judging by the condition of the covers, it was evident that some were much older than others and there seemed to be no particular order to them. Had they lain scattered here since Miss Emma’s childhood days? Had she and my Grandmother Lenore read them and then flung them back willy-nilly? Susan Hunt Overton - 1900 to 1920, read one. Margaret Overton Blair - 1821 to 1825, another. Carefully, I piled the volumes in chronological order. Where to begin? I checked my watch. I would have to get a move on. I set to my task.

  SEVENTEEN

  I quickly discovered that, owing to the faded ink and cramped, flowery penmanship, anything predating the 1850’s was all but illegible. Putting those diaries aside for when I had more time, I moved on to Susan Hunt Overton’s early 1900’s memoir:

  The ice was cut from the millpond today and packed with straw in the icehouse. The children, Lenore and Frederick, particularly, relished jumping onto the straw pile. The thrill increases, it seems, as the level falls with use. I have warned them of the dangers of this activity, and they promise to cease, yet they always laugh when little wisps of straw turn up in the iced tea. “But, Mother,” Lenore says, “you know that finding straw in the tea is good luck.” Lenore is high-spirited and clever, both a delight and a challenge to her parents.

  Lenore, my grandmother as a child. Fascinating. Flipping pages and scanning, I read on until something caught my eye:

  The dining room candles were all ablaze tonight for our dinner party of a dozen. Roast venison and potatoes and fresh watercress from the stream pickt earlier in the day. Afterwards, some of the young people paired off and strolled to the gazebo. I could not help but notice that young Thomas Overton and our Lenore exchanged serious looks. Thomas is quite a distant cousin on my husband, Harry’s side. I believe he and Lenore to be as far removed as fifth or sixth cousins, so there’s no natural hindrance to a romance. However, I have my own reservations about his being a beau for our Lenore. He seems quite taken with himself and perhaps too willful for his own good. I must say our feisty Lenore stands up to him, but still, ’tis a worry.

  The same long table in the dining room. The same candelabra. I could easily place myself at turn-of-the century Overhome, engaging in family gatherings, climbing the stairs to the catwalks in the oldest part of the house, strollin
g through the garden maze, carrying out love affairs at the gazebo. It was a romance novel just waiting to be written. Reluctantly putting Susan’s diary aside, I reached further down into the pile and selected one diary after another, speed-reading and gathering historical moments in my mind without finding any mention of what I sought most: some mention, any mention, of Rosabelle.

  With growing despair, I picked up a heavy diary whose title page read: “Written by Angelina Elisabeth Overton.” The beginning date of December, 1861 revealed the young adult Angelina living through the turbulence of the Civil War:

  All the men of the family, Father, three uncles on the Overton side and two of Mother’s brothers, and others hereabouts have enlisted in the Confederate Army. Both of my brothers, Robert and Johbe, have joined Early’s Brigade of the Virginia Infantry. They drill on the flat commons behind Henderson Store under command of Captain Board. Soon they will join up with Early himself. Only the women and the old men are left at Overhome to tend to crops and horses and property, along with the slaves, of course. We quilt and sew and preserve fruits and vegetables and pray constantly for our brave men to return home to us uninjured in body, mind, and spirit.

  Our Christmas this year is a mix of joy and apprehension. Joy that our Confederate Nation proved victorious at Manassas and that President Jefferson Davis presides over our capital in Richmond. Joy that so far none of our own family have been killt or injured, but apprehensive that this war we thought we would win so quickly may persevere. President Lincoln seems determined to reverse secession and pull the Confederate states back into the Union. Too, a new Yankee general, Ulysses Grant, looks to be building strength to the west. I hear so often that our Cause will stand firm against the North because of our brilliant generals, Lee and Jackson, especially, but I also can sort fact from hope.

  One year and many pages later, Angelina wrote:

  Shall we ever again see the easy calm of life at Overhome? Though no one will admit it, we all know our brave Rebel stalwarts grow weary. Our reduced forces encourage invading Yankee soldiers to have their way with us. None of us could believe week before last with what braggadocio the Union troops mounted the steps to the porch and forced us to provide them meals while the Negro kitchen help looked on. And when they had glutted themselves with our precious rations, they invited the slaves to occupy our own seats at table while we served them! Both we and our slaves were mortified. The next time we saw the approach of the enemy, we fled to the slaves’ cottages where they willingly hid us til ’twas safe to come out. We were gratified that not a single one of our slaves betrayed our sanctuary, though Lincoln’s troops had arrived at our door with shouts of freedom for all of them.

  As discomforting as the incident was, I shan’t dismiss entirely the motives of those Yankee soldiers. It is common knowledge, the cruelty some of the plantation masters lay upon their slaves. Lulu, my personal slave, has related horrible stories of how she was treated before coming to Overhome. She was fed subsistence provisions, whipt and beaten, traded wantonly and separated from her own family. Why, she and the other slaves at her former master’s manor were fed scarce more than scraps left over from the big house table.

  I thank God that at Overhome, our slaves have freedom to gather what they need from the gardens. There is always milk for their children, and we would not conscience physically abusing a one of them. How unfortunate, I believe, that slavery has become so important to our economic survival. Even with the best of masters with the best of intentions, in my heart and mind I know slavery to be a cruel and inhumane practice. A growing number of us here in Virginia feel this. Indeed, it is rumored that General Lee himself strongly opposes slavery, yet, we are helpless to remedy the situation.

  This Christmas our elders pretend good cheer, but underneath they harbor many fears for our future. Western Virginia is now solidly commanded by the North and we have only just heard news of less than a victory in Dranesville to our north. For Christmas dinner we managed a festive table bedecked with silver, crystal and linens which we have been able to hide from the marauders. And traditional foods—from stufft goose to plum pudding—graced our table. But the absence of so many still at war cast a pall upon the season. Oh, that this war were over.

  A Civil War Christmas recorded by an eye-witness. Talk about bringing history alive. The reality of slavery hit me full force. Slaves working for their masters—right here on the land, in the house. I flipped some pages and read on:

  My faithful servant, Lulu, has finally succumbed to “the misery,” as she called it. Without being able to pinpoint her age, I would surmise she lived into her sixties, a ripe old age for the kind of abuse she endured as a young slave, before Father purchased her and sent her up to the manor to be a house slave for the rest of her life. Here at Overhome our slaves are like family to us, though I doubt they would feel the same way about us.

  For Lulu’s funeral, her people carried out their own curious burial rituals; I know Lulu would have been pleased at how they sent her on her way back to Africa for a better life. Lulu explained it all to me. Burials are a time for celebration, a chance to return to the homeland, with the promise of freedom and the hope of achieving nobility there in afterlife. Death for our slaves is not just the end of life, but a gateway into another world. They take much pride in their burial traditions. So many fellow slaves from surrounding plantations, with singing and dancing and such vast quantities of food that we cannot fathom where it all comes from. Though not all plantation owners are so inclined, we at Overhome are more than willing to grant our darkies their grieving rituals. God knows they have little else in their bleak lives to celebrate. Is it not sad that the only way to freedom is through death?

  And so, my dear Lulu was buried with her most prized possessions: a tiny ivory figurine brought over from Africa by her ancestors on a slave ship; a silver medallion stolen from a former master and sneaked away, hidden in a place so secret, she refused ever to reveal it; a lace doily passed down by her grandmother. How she managed to hold on to these treasures is a mystery to me. She rests now in the cemetery on our grounds, situated on an east-west axis, in the flower-bedecked pine coffin so lovingly placed in the earth by her friends.

  Because of the expense, most of the slave graves lack named headstones. We Overtons have always provided headstones for our own slaves, though they are but rough stones compared to Overton family markers. Many plantation owners consider their slaves to be merely property; we know they are people. Yes! Flesh-and-blood people just like us. Legend has it that periwinkle will find its way to a slave’s grave. I will check for it from time to time, perhaps coax it to grow strong on Lulu’s grave, as thick as the Virginia creeper we deliberately plant to hide our own graves from Yankee marauders who will actually dig them up, looking for valuables.

  How sorely I shall miss Lulu, not as a servant, but as a friend and confidante. In these perilous times, she was ever the first soul I sought out for comfortable conversation. I shall miss her soulful songs, her nimble seamstress fingers, her sage advice, her always pleasant temperament, and her undying faith in God. May she find her way in the next life to the nobility she deserves.

  What a terrible time my ancestors and their household lived through here at Overhome. It was fascinating to read about, but, it was not what I was looking for, so I read on, Volume II, Angeline Elisabeth Overton:

  Christmas, 1863. The war is interminable. We won two Virginia battles, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, very impressive victories, both. However, my Uncle Chandler on Mother’s side was killed, and Father has returned from the battle at Gettysburg with a disfiguring wound, a musket ball through his cheek bone. He plans to cover the scar with his still-thick beard, and to spend his time fashioning an oak spindle bed for him and Mother. He says he will never leave this bed for another as long as he lives.

  Alas, our invasion of the North failed. Then, July 4th, Vicksburg fell. It is impossible to keep up a brave front here at home. Still, I managed to wear my fine
st dress, purchased from Paris before the war, as we went to Christmas dinner with the Chestnut family, or what is left of it, for they have suffered sore casualties among their kinfolk. We enjoyed the oyster soup, mutton and ham and wild partridges, and wines. I suspect they have been scrimping and hoarding for weeks in preparation for this holiday dinner. For one day, at least, we were able to pretend our lives would forever be blessed with the plenty and camaraderie of the past.

  Remembering that the Civil War ended in the spring of 1864 and, by now, completely engrossed in the saga, I continued turning pages of Angelina’s diary, wondering how that last Christmas could have been celebrated.

  December, 1864. All is lost. Sherman’s march through Georgia delivered the state to Lincoln as a Christmas present and sounded the death knell of the Confederacy. We hadn’t the heart, nor the resources, to celebrate our own holiday in any way, due to news that both of my brothers, Robert and Johbe, have perished and that at least one Overton uncle is sorely wounded and may never recover. How can we go on living, knowing that we will never again see Johbe and Robert, my dear, dear brothers, joking and roughhousing, and enjoying life amongst our beautiful mountains? It is too sad to dwell on.

  All the younger slaves have bolted for the North where they hope to work as freemen. I wish them Godspeed. Only white-haired Micah and his wife Mary remain as hired help now. Father is helping them enlarge one of the outbuilding where they are welcome to live out their natural lives at Overhome. I cannot say I am sad to see the death of slavery. I only wish we had seen fit to take the moral stand and free our slaves long before Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. I shall go to my grave with that burden of guilt.

  That was all Angelina wrote about the saddest Christmas of all. There were no more entries until several years had passed: