A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  “Did you just call me Babe?”

  “I believe th’ correct local term’d be Sugar Babe.”

  “Okay, but I only remember Babe as a pig in a movie.”

  “Would you prefer Sugar?” Luke asked.

  “In that case, Babe. I think I can get used to that. And now, what do you say we take it one step further and have nothing but positive thoughts. Like, put ourselves in a happy place.”

  “All right by me, Babe,” he agreed.

  “Hey, let’s plan some outings.” With a flourish, I shook the folds out of the Tourist’s Map and waved it in front of him.

  “Okay. But, first tell me about Sasha. Where’d y’ find him?”

  “Believe it or not, Eddie Mills found him and tied him to a tree. He couldn’t wait to tell me about it. Sasha was dirty and hungry, and as happy to see me as I was to see him.”

  “Mills didn’t give y’ any crap, did he?”

  “Let’s just say his bark is worse than his bite. As long as we’re thinking positive thoughts, you know, let’s not mention Eddie Mills.”

  “Th’ big jerk,” Luke growled. “Okay, okay. I’m ready. Let’s go to that, what’d y’ call it? Happy place?”

  And so, we played the child’s game of “When You Wish Upon a Star,” talking non-stop about our wishes all the way back. We decided to drive someday along the Blue Ridge Parkway and admire the mountain views with a picnic at a scenic overlook. Another day we would visit the D-Day Memorial in Bedford. Some time we’d be sure to check out the birthplace of Booker T. Washington, and we’d make a pilgrimage to Poplar Forest, Thomas Jefferson’s second home. We’d hike up the Peaks of Otter, then have lunch at the Lodge. Ever mindful of history, we’d tour Appomattox Court House, where Lee surrendered. Together, we planned to explore all the wonderful worlds within a short distance of Overhome, knowing full well we would run out of summer way before we could begin to do all these things. But that was hardly the point. We were both acutely aware of sadness and fear below our light-hearted surface, and the very real possibility of the death of a loved one.

  It seemed like in no time we were turning into the driveway to Overhome. “You know, Luke, I can’t help but remember my maiden voyage in your truck, when you picked me up at the bus station that first day. I swear, the roads seemed like something out of one of Jeff’s board game, all loops and curves.”

  “You were sorta pea-green as I recall,” he chuckled. “An’ I thought you were probably a real…something better left unsaid.”

  “I didn’t have such a flattering impression of you, either! So, how did we ever come to this?” I stroked his stubbly cheek.

  Stopping the truck and idling under the leafy privacy of the green tunnel, Luke released his seatbelt and then mine. “Must a’ been fate.” He moved close for a long, deep kiss.

  After a while, I slid back to my side of the seat. “You’re wiped out. You should go home and sleep. And, listen, I have a gut feeling Abe is going to snap back. We just have to keep the faith.”

  “I hear you, an’ I’m doin’ my best with th’ positive energy thing. But I’m afraid you’re right, Babe. I’m ready to crash.” Shifting into low, Luke gentled his truck slowly up the driveway. He stopped at the house and I reached for the door to let myself out. “I haven’t forgotten my promise t’ help.”

  “Help me…”

  “With ol’ Ring-Around-the-Rosie.” For a moment, his tired eyes danced. “I gotta couple ideas an’ I plan t’ speak to my Aunt Emma. I’m sure she knows a whole lot more’n she’s lettin’ on. I’ll pry it outta her. I mean, she’s always had a soft spot for me in her heart an’ she finds it hard to turn me down when I really need somethin’. I’ll just turn on my charm.”

  “Okay. I hope you’re right. And now that you’ve opened the topic, there’s another weird wrinkle to the saga—something I haven’t told you about. Rosabelle left me a message. On my laptop.”

  Luke snorted. “So now we’re dealin’ with a techno-ghost?”

  “I know it sounds incredible. I mean, I can barely believe it myself. First, the radio station and now the computer, but this time it’s not all fun, like the bluegrass music. I am totally freaked, by what she left for me on the screen.”

  “So are y’ gonna tell me, or not?”

  “Blood. She wrote the word blood.”

  “That’s it? One word? Blood?”

  “You got it. I have no clue as to what it means.”

  Luke looked totally baffled. “Blood. What th’… Blood?”

  I left him muttering under his breath, but I felt a warm surge as I zeroed in on what he’d said: “We can connect the dots…we’re dealing with a techno-ghost.” We. I loved the sound of that plural pronoun.

  * * * *

  It had been a draining day. Late in the afternoon Luke emerged from his house claiming he was rested, but still looking haggard. He’d had no word about Abe’s condition, and the tension was wearing on him. He planned to attend his calculus class and then drive directly to the hospital, no matter what. While we both wished I could go along, it just wasn’t practical, since Luke was planning to stay overnight in Abe’s hospital room.

  Ready to crash myself, I cracked the lid of my lap top and took a moment to record some thoughts in my diary.

  Dear Diary, I am a whirling blender of emotions: Happy that Sasha is safely home, though no closer to understanding how he got out. Happy that Luke and I are, at last, on the same wave-length about my favorite ghost. Sad about Abe, but hopeful he will recover. Hopeful, too, that Luke will follow through with whatever his plan is to help me find some answers: Who is Rosabelle? What is she trying to tell me? And why? While I’m on the hopeful motif, dare I mention how hopeful I am that Luke loves me as much as I love him? Okay, so I’m no Jane Eyre and Luke’s, for sure, nothing like Mr. Rochester, but why does the pace of our relationship seem as slow as a Charlotte Bronte novel? I’m ready for some plain old modern action, with, like, a touch of Victorian commitment. Yeah, yeah, I know. That makes me for sure a romantic fool. Just call me Jane Babe Eyre.

  I was too weary to write more. I’d just have to wait to see what tomorrow would bring.

  TWENTY

  I sat up, wide awake, my heart pounding against my ribs. Ashby. Ashby. Paralyzed, I waited for the haunting sound of those syllables to whisper again through the night air. Ashby. Ashby. I had not dreamed it. Someone was calling my name, someone outside my balcony. Scrambling from the covers, I flew to the French doors, where slanting streaks of moonlight filtered through the old-fashioned panes. I moved onto the balcony, feeling the damp roughness of the floor on my bare feet, following the sound. Ashby. Ashby. Leaning over the railing, I looked to the lawn below. Bleached in the silvery light of a full moon stood a figure clad in a pastel robe, long, flowing draperies cascading from the shoulders to the ground. I gasped, clutching the railing to steady myself, my eyes fixed on the ashen figure.

  Slowly the head moved, tilting all the way backward, revealing a face whose features blurred into the moonlight. Ashby. Ashby. The voice was eerie and hollow.

  My mouth opened but no sound emerged. Fright had frozen my vocal cords.

  Ashby, don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to fear.

  “W-who are you? What do you want?” I finally managed to articulate through numb lips.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s only me. Emma Coleville.”

  I slumped against the railing, closing my eyes on the vertigo, and trying to catch my breath. I did not know whether to laugh or cry as I looked down at the old housekeeper basking in the moonlight, dressed in her long, pale bathrobe. “My God, Miss Emma. What are you doing out there in the middle of the night? You scared me to death.” Gradually, my senses awoke to the damp chill on my bare arms, the smells of dew on grass, the distant rippling of the lake.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her voice hoarse from projecting in the night air. “You see, Luke talked to me before he left for his class tonight, urged me to te
ll you what I know. He made me realize I’ve waited long enough, that I need to let you in on…on things I know. Things that concern you.”

  “Don’t move. I’m coming down to talk to you. Please don’t leave.”

  I shot back into my room, grabbed a short robe and some flip-flops and dashed through the hall, down the stairs, and out the back door to the lawn. Miss Emma eyed my night clothes. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have awakened you, Ashby. Perhaps I should have waited…”

  “No, no. It’s all right. But let’s find a place to sit. Do you want to go inside?”

  “Oh no. I never feel right talking about Lenore, about Rosabelle, about the past when I’m inside the house. Call it superstition, but it creeps me out, as Jeff would say.” She shivered slightly.

  “Let’s go down to the dock, then, Miss Emma.”

  “I’d feel more comfortable in the gazebo. It’s where Lenore and I spent so many hours together. Do you mind a little ramble over the fields? I’ll hitch up my robe so it doesn’t drag in the wet grass.” She reached for the rope-ties at her waist.

  And so we followed the old stone wall, not talking, just breathing in the fragrance of night, our path guided by the lantern of the moon, until we approached the fence and lampposts surrounding the gazebo. Down the stone stairs, through the maze of boxwoods, we moved to the wooden benches under the arch of the ancient structure.

  “There.” Miss Emma settled her slight frame onto the seat. “Just let me catch my breath.”

  “This is really beautiful at night. The moonlight hides all the imperfections, you know, the weeds, the peeling paint, the crumbling wood. This must be the way the garden looked long ago.”

  Miss Emma took her time and I worried that all of her energy had been spent. For a long while, she sat with eyes closed, leaning against the back of the gazebo bench, until I began to fear she would go to sleep.

  At long last, she opened her eyes, took a deep breath and began. “I think I’ll start with the attic. Or, perhaps I should say it all started in the attic.”

  I nodded, encouraging her to go on, afraid to break her momentum with my voice.

  “Lenore and I spent hours and hours in the attic, the same attic you explored, Ashby. Why, even to this day, one whiff of the dusty, musty air up there takes me back immediately to those girlhood forays. We felt so clever sneaking into the diaries in the locker. Little girls up to devilish deeds, deliciously vowed to secrecy. We knew the diaries were supposed to be hidden away from prying eyes, but, with a little help from Rosabelle, we always got to them when we wanted to, and what we read was, well, it was simply irresistible! Love and lust and envy and pride. Family feuds, war, retribution. It was all there, all human, all real, and more fascinating than any romance novel or movie could ever hope to be.”

  “I felt the same way, Miss Emma. About the attic and about the diaries. I know exactly what you’re saying. But some of the older diaries were so faint and faded. Were you and Lenore able to read all of them?”

  “Oh yes. But, of course, we had the luxury of days and days and weeks, years really, to do so. Sometimes we would sneak one out and bring it here to the gazebo to decipher the flowery old script, using a magnifying glass.” Her eyes glowed with the memory. “What a thrill it was, to be conspirators like that. And what we learned was amazing. Unbelievable, and yet we had to believe. Can you understand how it was, Ashby? With Lenore and me?”

  “Absolutely, Miss Emma. But, please, go on. Tell me everything.”

  “All in good time, child. All in good time.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’ve thought and thought about how I would do this, and I aim to do it right, if it’s the last thing I do. You see, I believe I may understand something you’ve found puzzling.” She raised an eyebrow. Pausing for effect. “That word that appeared on your laptop?” She paused again when she saw my surprised look.

  “Oh, yes. Luke told me about it. Blood. Is that right? Blood?”

  “Yep. That was the word. Of course, I was puzzled. Puzzled and scared.”

  “Well, Lenore and I discovered several entries in the earliest of the diaries, one written by Emilie Overton herself. Remember, Emilie and her husband, Francis, were the original owners of the Overhome property. The date was in the 1780s. Emilie wrote fondly of a Scottish servant who had come to work for her under the oddest of circumstances. A young lady with a most extraordinary background and experience. Her name was Rosabelle O’Connor.”

  I caught my breath. “Did you say the 1780s?”

  She ignored my interruption. “Born in Scotland around 1740, Rosabelle O’Connor, some twenty years later, boarded a ship bound for America. But Spanish pirates shanghaied the vessel, and she spent several years imprisoned on an island off the west coast of Africa, forced into slavery. Rescued, she again set sail for America, arriving in Virginia about 1765, and working for several years as an indentured servant. Living through the Revolutionary War, she settled in Staunton, where she got wind of the Overton family’s need for a nanny, or nursemaid, as the position was called in those days. The name Overton rang a bell. Evidently, there was some family connection in Scotland with the O’Connor family. Using that slim tie, Rosabelle requested an interview and Emilie Overton granted her a trial period as nanny.

  “Emilie was quickly impressed with Rosabelle’s skill with children, the wee babbies, as Rosebelle called them. Since she was possibly a remote relative anyway, the Overtons moved Rosabelle into the great house, giving her a room in the wing newly constructed from the barn. Your room, Ashby. As I told you that first night, it was Rosabelle’s room.”

  “What an amazing story, Miss Emma! And it’s all in Emily Overton’s diary?”

  “Oh, there’s more. Much more, Ashby. By the turn of the century, Emilie and Francis ran a grand estate with some 2,000 acres of land and dozens of slaves. The Overtons had a large brood of children, all under the loving care of Rosabelle, but the youngest, evidently, was the apple of Emilie’s eye. Mary Frances was just a toddler when the nanny took her on a picnic in the north field one spring day. Rosabelle had taken along her sewing basket, since her Scottish work ethic did not allow for any idle time. As Mary Francis toddled about the field picking dandelions, a bull broke through the fence and headed straight for the child. Rosabelle stabbed the bull in the nose with her sewing scissors, then swooped up the child and ran to place her safely over a secure part of the fence. Sadly, the bull recovered in time to gore poor Rosabelle from back to front and through the heart. The nanny died instantly, though Mary Frances lived to a ripe, old age.”

  “So, Rosabelle died over two hundred years ago,” I breathed. “The same Rosabelle who—”

  “The same. The diaries confirm it. Rosabelle died a violent death in the line of duty. Who knows? Maybe she felt her work was left undone. Maybe she was too shocked or too angry about her death to cross over to the other side. But she stayed on at Overhome. I don’t pretend to know how such a thing happens, though I have some ideas as to why. But I do know that her spirit has arrived regularly as a protector for Overton women.” Miss Emma caught my eyes. “She is here with us now.”

  I could not stop myself from looking over my shoulder. Though Miss Emma’s words were a shock to the rational mind, hearing her voice what I had already sensed, that some kind of spirit resided at Overhome, was, if anything, reassuring. I knew there was more. “But what about the word? You know, the word blood. You said you understand what it means.”

  “I’m getting to that. Please bear with me. You see, Rosabelle has appeared over the last two hundred years only to bloodline Overton women, not to women who marry into the family and simply carry the Overton name. By reading the diaries and sorting out the branches of the Overton family tree, Lenore and I figured out why Rosabelle turned up in some of the diaries, but not all of them. Over the years it became accepted that an ancestral ghost appeared, at random, or so folks thought. Lenore and I knew better and we were convinced we were the only ones alive who knew. Before she died, Lenore
asked me to watch for you, to tell you the truth.”

  “So, with the word blood Rosabelle was telling me I am a bloodline Overton? That Washington was my father and not simply an excuse by the Mills family for a shotgun wedding with Marian? Is that what you believe?”

  “Yes it is. She’s telling you, and, inadvertently, she’s telling me.”

  “But, why, Miss Emma? I’m afraid I still don’t get it.”

  “There’s more, of course. But as dawn’s almost upon us, I’ll try to make it short. I told you earlier that Lenore implored me to keep two wishes just prior to her death. Actually, she laid a third request on me that night.”

  “I remember clearly, Miss Emma. My Grandmother Lenore asked you to see that Uncle Hunter grew up to be a gentleman and she wanted you to watch for me to come to Overhome. But…what was the third wish?”

  “You must understand, child. Lenore came to fear and hate her husband, Thomas. She laid it all out in her own diary—his violent temper, his intolerance, his verbal abuse of her and physical abuse of their sons, his fraudulant land deals and other crimes, his ill-got riches. Her diary and I were the only ones privy to all the details. She was afraid Thomas would destroy such an inflammatory record as her diary, and that the record itself might be important one day, so she entrusted it to me for safety, made me promise to keep it to show the next Overton woman, so that she would understand. Believe.” Miss Emma’s face fell, her voice dropped to a whisper. “But, I failed Lenore. My dearest friend. I failed to keep my promise to her on her deathbed.”

  Moved, I reached for her hand, keeping my silence. At last, she recovered.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I can’t get over the fact that I lost Lenore’s diary.”

  “Lost it?”

  “Rather, it was stolen from my personal belongings. Oh, from time to time things disappeared, you know. Stolen by a new cook or borrowed by a day worker and never returned, I assumed. Then, one day when I went looking for it, perhaps two years ago, Lenore’s diary had simply disappeared. I’ve known since then that I would have to somehow make a believer of you without the evidence. Without the diary. And I’ve waited…oh I hope I haven’t waited too long. I hope I’m not too late.”