I closed the file. How very interesting. I approached the check-out desk and spoke to the attendant. “I’m, um, doing a genealogy. Can you tell me where I might find the catalogue of grave removals and re-interment done during the building of the dam at Moore Mountain Lake?”
The middle-aged man gave me a curious look. “Must be a run on genealogies.” He smiled. “You’re the second person to ask for that catalogue this week.” He disappeared for a moment, then handed me a bound volume. “This is for reference only. It can’t be checked out, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I’m just going to make a few notes here. If I can find what I’m looking for, that is.”
“Good luck.”
Checking my watch, I gave a silent plea for the antique shoppers to take their time, then I dived into the data. It did not take long to actualize what I’d begun to suspect. The listings for grave removals and re-burials from Overhome were quite lengthy and detailed; the power company had done a thorough job. I found many names I’d come to know—Emilie and Francis Overton, Johbe and Robert, and Angelina Elisabeth Overton. But, there was not a word about the slave graves. No Lulu. Nothing about Micah and Mary mentioned in Angelina’s diary. When I turned to the documentation section in the back of the catalogue, there was a copy of the signed agreement authorizing the power company to leave all the slave graves on the Overhome property where they were, undisturbed. The agreement was signed by Thomas Overton. Those graves would all be at the bottom of the lake.
And one more thing—nowhere was there any mention of a gravesite for Rosabelle O’Connor.
* * * *
As soon as my aunt and I returned, I went looking for Miss Emma, but she was nowhere to be found. She must have gone to town for groceries with one of the hired hands. I’d have to catch her later when we could be alone. I watched Jeff burst through the door, charged with pent-up energy.
“Yuck! I hate piano theory!” he growled. “My teacher makes us listen to classical music. It sucks, Ashby. Long and boring and deary.”
“Don’t you mean dreary?” I laughed. “And watch your language.”
“Even the girls were itchin’ to leave.”
“What say we saddle up the horses? I’ve been wanting a ride myself.”
His face brightened immediately. “All right!” He bolted down the hall toward his room.
“Change into long pants and boots, Jefferson,” his mother said as she came out from the library. “And remember to wear your riding helmet.”
Unexpectedly, Hunter appeared in the hall. He was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt and a golf hat. “What say we go out on the boat, all of us. Make it a family outing. It’s a beautiful lake day. Monica, my dear, we can shelter you under the Bimini top, if you’re worried about sun damage.”
My aunt melted under her husband’s suggestion. “Oh, my, Hunter. What a wonderful idea. Give us time to lather up with sunscreen and collect some beach towels.” She flashed me an I-told-you-so look. “Ashby? Jefferson? Are you game for an afternoon on the lake?”
Jeff stopped in mid-flight. “Sure, Mom.” He looked at his father. “We can ski, right, Dad?”
“Of course,” Uncle Hunter said. “Ashby?”
“Count me in,” I said. To my horse I made a vow, “Sasha, I’ll get to you later. I will get to you, I promise.”
* * * *
By the time we came off the lake, the sun had slipped below the mountain, streaking the sky with flamingo feathers of light. While my aunt and uncle whisked Jeff away to the house, I had to decide whether to hunt down Miss Emma to talk about Aunt Monica’s discovery of Lenore’s diary or to grab the last few daylight moments for a quick run on Sasha. It was not much of a contest, as emotion won out over logic, and I changed into jeans and bolted for the stable. Sasha greeted me with knickers and whinnies. “Yes, yes, I know dear Sasha,” I crooned, stroking his muzzle. “You want a canter as much as I do, don’t you?” He whinnied in what I was sure was complete understanding.
Saddling Sasha quickly in the growing dusk, I thrust my foot into the stirrup and flung my leg over my horse’s back, giving him a nudge and a cluck. With a snort and a jerk of his head, Sasha took off. We rode without stopping, cutting a path through the soft, heavy Southern air, horse and rider as in tune with each other as the creek and the trees that whistled past, Sasha and I, rolling like the hills around us in a rhythm as mesmerizing as a poem. I lost track of time and place. My horse and I were united, breathing one breath, living one moment. When, at last, Sasha slowed to a trot, I realized the day had turned to night and that I did not have the slightest idea where we were.
Reining Sasha in, I peered in all directions, trying to form a sense of place. A darkening cloud cover blurred the line between trees and sky. I listened for the gurgle of the creek, but the night air was as still and thick as blackstrap molasses. Sasha snorted, asking me to lead the way, but I held the reins tight, looking for a signpost of some kind. I don’t know how long we stood until I saw it, a spark of light. A flare? A flashlight? No bigger than a pinpoint, the light flickered, died, and reappeared.
Turning Sasha, I followed the bobbing light. On and off. On, off. Hypnotized, I pressed my horse forward. The glowing light shifted slowly, glancing off one shadowy branch after another in a random pattern. Sasha stumbled occasionally over the uneven incline of the path, but I urged him on, pressing my legs against his barrel, in pursuit of the elusive firefly light. Sensing only that we had strayed far from the beaten path, I found myself ducking under ever lower-hanging branches that seemed to grab at me with gnarled fingers as the light played its game, flaring to my left, then to the right. I felt myself go dizzy as I sensed we were going in circles.
I thought I heard a shuffling in the underbrush, but when Sasha stopped, so did the sound. On auto-pilot now, I pressed on, following the light that was like a laser pointing haphazard directions on a map. In the opaque velvet of the forest night, I had completely lost my way. At length, I realized I was shivering, whether with cold or fright or anticipation, I could not say. A damp chill had descended like a fog, bringing me, at last, to my senses.
“Ashby, you are a moron! You’re so fixated on Rosabelle and her candles, you’ve lost your marbles,” I said to my horse. Forget the Bronte sisters and their foggy moors. I mean, this setting was more like the one in “The Hound of the Baskervilles” by Sherlock Holmes. And this guiding light was not Rosabelle’s doing. There was no music, no sweet Afton, no warm, protective aura of her presence. Now I was lost in a black tangle. Suddenly, Sasha stumbled. I sensed a movement just ahead when, without warning, Sasha shied, then reared on his hind legs. Clutching at the reins and then the saddle, I couldn’t stop my swift slide to the ground. I landed with such a thud it jarred my teeth. Rolling away from Sasha’s flailing hooves, I sat up and came to my knees, reaching for Sasha’s reins. Something hard and sharp struck me from behind. Everything went black.
TWENTY-THREE
Morning. What had happened last night? Moving my eyes slowly so as not to disturb my throbbing head, I saw that I was in a room I recognized only as a guest bedroom on the main floor of Overhome. Sunlight shone through gauze curtains at the window, making me squint and flinch in pain. I tried to sit up, but went dizzy with the effort.
Miss Emma bustled through the door, holding a water pitcher and glass. “Ashby! I’ve been so worried. We all have. When they brought you in last night, you looked, well, you seemed barely alive. All I could think of was Lenore when she fell from her horse.” She held a straw to my lips. “Thank God you’ve come to.” Her eyes held both anxiety and relief.
Again I struggled up from the pillow, but bright slivers of pain slashed through my head and I gave up the effort. “I’m, kinda fuzzy, Miss Emma. I can’t remember what happened.”
“Hush, now. You need rest. You fell from your horse in the woods last night.” She offered the water again, bending the straw so that I could drink without raising my head.
“Oh. Right. The light. Can
dle?” I struggled to focus—to remember. “I followed it, but we were lost. Sasha and I. Then he reared high, threw me off…” A wave of nausea washed over me. Spots danced before my eyes, making my head feel so light I feared it would float off my neck. Then I knew I would throw up.
Miss Emma, evidently, had anticipated this occurrence, for she whipped out a basin and held it under my chin until I finished. I lay back, panting, too weak to wipe the drops of cold sweat coursing down my cheeks.
“Enough. Be quiet now. You can talk about it later, when you’re stronger.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “Just tell me…how did I get home, Miss Emma?”
“Luke and I carried you.” It was my uncle’s deep voice in the doorway. “I’ve called Dr. Ross and he’s on his way. You must rest now.” He moved to my bedside.
“Don’t try to talk, Ashby. Just listen. As he was closing up the stables, Luke noticed Sasha’s empty stall. When he came up to the house to alert me, we both realized you were missing, also. We went looking immediately, of course. We found Sasha saddled and cropping grass in the meadow. So we headed for the woods, hoping to find you safe and unhurt.” He patted my hand. “You were in the thickest part of the woods, but not so far from home as you might think. It was dark and treacherously slippery. My guess is Sasha stumbled, causing you to fall and hit your head on a rock.”
Tears seeped slowly from the corners of my eyes. It was not the pain that made me cry so much as knowing how deeply people here felt about me. Evidently, my uncle had saved my life. And Luke. Dear Luke, always looking after me.
Miss Emma glided toward the door. “Don’t leave,” I begged her. “I have to tell you…”
“I am leaving, Ashby,” she said firmly. “You’ve exerted yourself enough. Whatever it is you want to say, it can wait.” She pulled the door softly, but decisively, closed.
Wearily I closed my eyes. “I’m not so sure it can wait, Miss Emma,” I whispered before I drifted off. “I didn’t fall and hit my head. I fell and hit my butt. Someone or something hit my head from behind. On purpose.” I had completely forgotten I wanted to tell Miss Emma about Lenore’s diary.
Dear Diary, It’s been three days since my accident. Dr. Ross said I sustained a fairly severe concussion and ordered complete bed rest. Miss Emma has guarded my threshold like a sentry at Buckingham Palace, keeping all visitors at bay, including Jeff and Luke, though both pleaded their cases eloquently as I listened to their voices in the hall outside my door. My head aches like hell, but otherwise I’m okay. I feel like such a klutz, falling off the horse yet again. I can’t use the dark and stormy night for an excuse. But any way I look at it, I’m convinced someone deliberately spooked Sasha and then clobbered me for good measure. I suppose it could have been a freak accident, but unless a rock fell from the sky as I was getting up, how could my head injury have happened? I’m also sure it had something to do with the ghostly candlelight. The question, of course, is WHO would want to harm me or Sasha and me, and, more specifically, WHY?
Miss Emma says nobody’s saying much, but I get the feeling Eddie Mills is the number one suspect on the part of my aunt and uncle. Poor, dumb Eddie. I know he enjoyed bullying Jeff, but I think he likes me and can’t believe he’d play such a mean trick. On the other hand, I suppose it could’ve been the enigmatic Night Riders. When I try to talk about the accident, Miss Emma purses her thin lips and gazes at something invisible in the distance. She tells me she and Luke are comparing notes on the situation and that I am not to worry my “sweet little noggin” about it. Do they think I’m too fragile to handle the truth? I have to admit, thinking about it makes my head ache worse.
On a happier note, after some time in the downstairs guest suite, it’s good to be back in my old room. I sense Rosabelle’s presence in every inch of space, every breath of air. This morning I woke to find the antique coffeepot full of roses, not the usual solitary bud. It’s as if she’s saying, “I would never lead you astray, Ashby. It wasn’t MY candle you followed, and here’s my gift to prove it.” Ha! Rosie is one visitor Miss Emma can’t bar at the door. Her bouquet marks a Red Letter Day, as the doc says I can be up and about, as long as I take it easy.
In my absence, it seems there’s been a bluebird population explosion. What a noisy crew they are, clamoring on my balcony like they’re making up for lost time. At home bluebirds seemed so shy. This is nothing like the birdies chirping at Cinderella as she works. It’s more like a choir of squawking, brawling kids.
Wonderful news! Luke is bringing Abe home from the hospital this afternoon. Miss Emma has found a nurse friend of hers to take care of him as long as necessary. Everyone hopes he’ll be as good as new.
Oh, when I told Miss Emma about Lenore’s diary, I got a very curious reaction. Or, to be exact, I got no reaction at all. Just a stoic look and an “Interesting” from Miss E. Very curious, indeed.
Jeff threw his arms around me and hugged me until I was dizzy. “Gently now, Jeff, gently,” Aunt Monica said, giving me her own careful embrace.
“Can we go ridin’ today?” he asked, with a flicker of his eyes toward his mother.
My aunt laughed. “Let’s let Ashby get used to walking again before she rides, Jefferson. All in good time,” she added when his face fell in disappointment.
“I can’t wait to hop up on Sasha, Jeff, but for now, I’d be delighted just to give him a hug and a kiss and brush out his mane.” I reached for my cousin’s hand. “Tell you what. After lunch we’ll walk to the stable and have some quality horse-time, just you and me and the four-legged boys. Okay?”
Jeff flew at me with another hug. “Man, Ashby. I’ve missed you.”
“I know somebody else who’s missed you,” my aunt said with a sly smile. “Luke’s been up to the house every other hour checking on you.”
“He couldn’t get past the guard at the gate to my room,” I said.
“Miss Emma held firm. ‘Bed rest means complete rest. No visitors, and that’s that,’ was how she put it to everyone,” Aunt Monica said.
“Nobody messes with Miss Emma.” Jeff’s earnest look made me smile.
“I just want to walk outside a bit. It’s amazing how I’ve missed fresh air these past few days.” I turned to Jeff. “Would you be my escort, kind sir?”
Jeff grabbed my hand. “I’m not sure what an ‘escort’ is, but I can walk real careful with you, Ashby.” His eagerness to help left me weepy-eyed, but fortunately Jeff was too focused on his role to notice.
“You’re sure you’re strong enough?” My aunt had not missed my emotional response to Jeff’s sweet expression.
I flashed her my biggest smile. “Jeff will take care of me. No need to worry.”
We made a slow, steady tour of the estate, avoiding the dock because of the steep steps. It was a clear, bright morning. In the sun Overhome was picture book pretty, all white and green, solid and wise, old and important. Moore Mountain and the rolling hills that announced it encircled the lake like a jade necklace. I’d learned to love the look and feel of Overhome on a summer morning. Jeff burbled and babbled the whole way, causing my mood to lift with each passing minute, as I breathed the fresh, fragrant air, enjoying the feel of the sun on my arms. When he mentioned returning to “real school” in the fast-approaching fall, I realized with a sharp pang that I would, by then, have gone back to Jersey, separated from Jeff and Luke and Sasha, and all I’d come to love about Overhome. With effort, I pulled my mind away from the unpleasant reality, letting thoughts flow free with the up and down of Jeff’s expressive voice as he chattered on.
After some time, we approached the gazebo garden. “Let’s sit in the gazebo,” I suggested. “I’m out of breath.”
“This place is kinda creepy, huh, Ashby?” Jeff looked from side to side, pointing out the overgrown vines that shrouded the stone walls as we descended the stone steps. “Did somebody die here?”
I felt a chill at the suggestion, but tried to sound lighthearted. “It’s only an old, old garden, J
eff. A garden where people enjoyed the flowers and played hide-’n-seek in a maze and sat in the gazebo.”
“Amazed? What’s that?” Jeff’s freckles bunched over his wrinkled-up nose.
I laughed. “Not amazed. A maze. It’s like a puzzle made with bushes or trees, with starts and stops and dead-ends so people get confused and sometimes lost.”
“Oh! Like the treasure hunts in my Highlights magazine! Where you take a pencil and try to find your way to the reward at the end.”
“Exactly.”
“So…where’s the reward?” he asked, puzzlement displacing the freckles once again.
Well, he had me there. “I suppose it could be the gazebo itself.”
Jeff took my hand. “Come on, Ashby. Let’s try the amazed!”
And so we made our way along the paths, once trimmed and landscaped, no doubt, but now studded with tussocks of grass and weeds and moss. It was sometimes necessary to assume single file to avoid the briary branches that crawled from the once trimmed sides of the hedges. Content at those times to let Jeff lead, I could sometimes anticipate a dead-end before he did, possibly because my height allowed me to see over some of the foliage. Eventually, we did, indeed, find ourselves in the clearing, facing the peeling skeleton structure of the old gazebo.
“Was I right? Have we found our reward, Jeff?”
Without appearing to hear me, he let go my hand and headed straight to the periwinkle patch for the rose bushes I’d found my first time here. “I think somebody died in here.” Grabbing a stick from the ground, my cousin poked at the bushes for a good while, before leaning down and brushing at the dirt with his hands. “Look, Ashby! I told you so!” Jeff exclaimed.
A Red Red Rose Page 18