A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  “W-what are you talking about?”

  “Look!” He pointed triumphantly to a small raised rectangle in the earth. “It’s a tombstone. Just like the ones Dad and I did the rubbings on over at the Baptist church where they moved the family graves.”

  “So…it’s not a garden,” I stammered. “It’s…it’s…”

  “A cemetery.” Jeff knelt again and scrubbed at the stone. “Ashby! There’s words on it! A name!” He looked at me over his shoulder. “I wish I had some paper and charcoal. We could do a rubbing.”

  “Can you make out any of the letters, Jeff?”

  “I need a rag. Something to wipe up the dirt.”

  I fished a tissue out of my pocket and handed it to him. He spit on it and rubbed. Spit and rubbed. “Okay,” he said at last. “Here’s what we’ve got: R-O-S…” he called out the letters.

  “R-o-s-a-b-e-l-l-e? Could it be Rosabelle?”

  “Yep. Those are the letters. And there’s some numbers, too, but I can’t quite read them.”

  “Probably dates.”

  “Oh yeah. The date they’re born and the date they die. I remember how it goes.”

  “Who’s Rosabelle?” he asked after a long moment.

  How could I explain without scaring the bejesus out of my cousin? “Um, I think she was someone who lived here a long time ago.”

  “Is Rosabelle my ancestor?” Jeff wrinkled his nose. There went his freckles heaped in a pile again. “When we did the tombstone rubbings, Dad said they were our ancestors. Their names were on the stones. He said one was my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, or something like that.” He frowned. “ Rose…Rosabelle must be an ancestor, too, right? But what’s she doing here?”

  “Actually, I believe Rosabelle was a servant, someone who lived here and worked for your ancestors.”

  Jeff frowned. “I don’t get it.” He was deep in thought. “Dad said all the slaves were buried in a separate cemetery. He said when our land was flooded to make the lake, our ancestors were moved to the Baptist church and the slave graves were moved to a different graveyard, to a slave graveyard somewhere.”

  “Well, yes. I understand that when the lake was formed the slave graves were moved to an African-American church,” I said, knowing full well Thomas Overton had left them all to be flooded over by the lake. I saw no sense relating what I’d discovered at the Historical Society. It was quite possible a sensitive kid like Jeff would be upset by that information.

  Jeff turned back to Rosabelle’s marker. “Maybe there’s more graves here. Maybe this was the slave cemetery!” He began poking at the scabby ground with his stick.

  “I follow your reasoning. But, you see, Rosabelle was not a slave. And she was not African. She came from Scotland as a free servant. She probably would not have been buried in a slave cemetery, or moved to a relocated slave cemetery, either.”

  It was too much for his seven-year-old mind to encompass, bright as that mind was. Letting the stick drop, he tilted his head and commented. “Well, I’d still like to do a rubbing. Let’s come back here and do one, okay?”

  I nodded agreement and pulled him gently to the gazebo seat beside me. But my mind was racing. I wondered if Miss Emma knew about Rosabelle’s grave here at the gazebo. Did Abe know? Lenore? It was time I had another long talk with the housekeeper who knew everything.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After lunch Jeff and I visited the stables. Sasha tossed his head impatiently. He didn’t understand why we were not saddling up. “Soon, dear Sasha.” I stroked his thick mane. I always knew what Sasha was thinking. Could he read my mind? We offered our horses treats and promises, petted and talked to them, and reluctantly made out way back to the house where Aunt Monica whisked Jeff off for a play date. It was the opportunity I’d been looking for.

  Entering the library, I went directly to the oldest-looking books on the shelves. There was a surprising collection of topics: agriculture, nature, animal husbandry, history, philosophy, religion. Several shelves were dedicated to novels and biographies and there was a whole shelf on the Civil War. I pulled out a volume entitled Birds of Virginia. Looking up bluebirds in the index, I read the brief description of appearance, behavior, call, and characteristics. I wasn’t really surprised to find there was nothing about the tendency of bluebirds to hurl themselves at windows en masse, but it was worth the five minutes’ review.

  Then I saw it, surely a source that would be useful. The Spirit World, by J.J. Dickenson. The copyright indicated the book was not particularly old, but one look told me this was a well-read volume. In fact, it fell open to a section titled “Exorcisms - Freeing Evil Spirits.” Someone had highlighted line upon line of when to hire a priest exorcist, how the spirits are exorcised, and what to expect in the process. Thomas Overton, perhaps? Rosabelle had more than haunted him, she had persecuted him, according to Miss Emma. Flipping through the pages, I came to another highlighted section under the title “Spirits Speak through Birds.” So maybe I was not the only one to be visited by dive-bombing, pecking, huddling, screeching birds. “Sometimes the restless spirit who has not passed over appears in birds. The fowl flock to the source of disquiet, clamoring for attention, willing to die in an effort to bring awareness to the minds of the living regarding the needs of the dead.”

  As I toyed with the idea of tucking the book under my arm and carrying it to my room for an in-depth read, Miss Emma appeared with her feather duster.

  She seemed surprised to see me looking over the library shelves. “Doing a little research,” I said with a laugh. “You know, Miss Emma, we haven’t had any time to talk, what with my accident and all. Can you give your feather duster a rest and sit with me?”

  “Of course, child. I’ve plenty of time. And dusting is my least favorite chore, so I don’t mind putting it off. Have you been looking for some reading material to fill your free time?” She darted a look to the Dickenson book in my hands.

  “Not really, Miss Emma. I just thought I might find some answers here. I feel like I’m always pestering you for information, and…”

  “Don’t be silly. Sit here,” she indicated an overstuffed arm chair beside a reading lamp. Settling herself in a companion chair nearby, she looked at me with bright, expectant eyes. “I’ve come to relish our talks, Ashby.”

  I had to smile. What a dear old thing she is, I thought. So full of life, so caring. What would this family have done without her steady presence all these years?

  “It’s nice to see you up and about,” she said.

  “I had a good nurse,” I told her. I settled into the soft leather chair. The mellow wood-paneled walls, the smell of old books, the quiet, comfy reading niches, put me immediately into a pensive mood. “It’s going to be hard to leave Overhome,” I mused. “Luke tells me there are quite a few colleges close by. Maybe I could stay here, apply to one or two. I’ve heard Hollins has a great writing program.”

  Miss Emma surprised me when she hesitated before responding, as if she disapproved of the idea of my staying, but did not know how to say so without hurting my feelings. “I know a lot of people who would be delighted if you were to make your home here.” She smiled. “Including me.”

  Something in her tone belied the kind words, but I could not, for the life of me, put my finger on what it was. “Well, thanks. But, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said.

  She shifted in her chair and raised her eyebrows. “Go on, please.”

  I took a deep breath and launched into my question. “You know, while you were caring for me, I told you my aunt found Lenore’s diary, which she gave to my uncle. She said Uncle Hunter was excited about the find and that he’s working on a genealogy.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been thinking long and hard about that nugget of information, Ashby. Lenore’s diary, I mean. I believe I’ve sorted it out, or at least some of it.”

  “How about sharing?”

  Miss Emma nodded. “I’ve kept some things from you—things between you
r grandmother and me. You know that. But I’ve had my reasons. Good reasons.”

  “I know how important your promises to Grandmother Lenore are. I have to respect that.”

  She was quiet for many minutes. When she began again, her face reflected both her devotion to her long-ago friend and the realization that the confidences she was about to reveal were important. “Let me begin with your uncle. It’s hard growing up without a mother. For Hunter, it was more than that.”

  “My uncle was there that day when his mother fell from the horse, wasn’t he, Miss Emma? Only five years old and he witnessed the tragic accident.”

  She looked startled.

  “I read the fine print in one of the articles about my Grandmother Lenore’s accident. In Abe’s scrapbook.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Luke told me he’d given it to you. There’s more,” Miss Emma said. “For reasons I’m not entirely sure of, Hunter evidently thought that he had caused the horse to shy, to run Lenore under the tree branch. Something about waving a handkerchief, I believe.”

  “Oh, God. That makes it even worse.”

  “It was untrue, of course. But no manner of argument on my part could convince Hunter otherwise. He was haunted by that guilt. And I’m afraid his father did not help matters much. Thomas was a bully of the worst sort, the kind who takes out his frustrations on his own defenseless children. Lenore and her husband never saw eye-to-eye when it came to disciplining their children.”

  “Please, go on.”

  “Lenore put it all down in her diary, about Thomas’s domineering and brooding temperament, how he was jealous of her devoted crowd of friends and admirers and of her skill and success as a horse woman.” Miss Emma shook her head sadly. “That’s why Lenore asked me to see that Hunter was brought up properly. She knew she could not count on his father to do the right things.”

  “She really laid a job on you.”

  “Hunter watched his mother fall, never saw her alive again, felt it was his fault. It affected him deeply. Well, after that he trusted no one. I tried my best to take Lenore’s place, but he needed his mother. Oh, in many ways Hunter turned out well. He’s a prominent, successful man, but there was just so much working against him in his formative years.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand. Those steely eyes. The cold, unreadable exterior that makes him so different from Dad.”

  “Perhaps I should not be telling you this, but Hunter did spend some time in a mental hospital, right after Washington and Marian died. There’s a lot of grief bottled up inside your uncle, Ashby.” She looked sad enough to cry. “Since the day she died, I’ve been convinced Lenore is watching me try to carry out her wishes and has found me wanting.”

  I was at a loss for words and so sat quietly while Miss Emma gathered her thoughts, fidgeting, frowning, opening her mouth to speak and then shutting it again. Finally she seemed to come to some kind of resolution, for she spoke. “You know I don’t feel comfortable speaking of the past here, inside these walls, Ashby. I just feel Lenore’s presence here so strongly. But we may not have another chance to talk.” She paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “I want you to know that I have my own theory about what spooked Lenore’s horse.” She stood, then, and went to the window, pulling open the heavy draperies and throwing wide the window, as though to let out any spirits who might be hibernating in the wooden walls.

  “You know, Miss Emma, I read something else in Abe’s scrapbook. And I also have a theory about what spooked my Grandmother Lenore’s horse.”

  “Well, let’s have it. What’s your theory, Ashby?” She turned from the window and sat down.

  “One article on the accident said she was riding Capitola, you know, Cappy. Uncle Hunter said Cappy was my grandmother’s favorite horse.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. That’s one reason no one could believe Lenore’s horse could possibly be spooked. They were so…so attuned to one another.” She looked at me and waited for me to go on.

  “I remember Uncle Hunter told me once that my grandmother and her horse were so close that it seemed she could telepathize with Cappy. I didn’t question it myself. I often feel Sasha and I understand each other’s feelings. But…”

  “But if Rosabelle was storming around persecuting Thomas, and hovering over Lenore, your grandmother could have been very upset. Emotionally distraught. Possibly, fearful,” Miss Emma said.

  “And Cappy, sensing Lenore’s distress, might have bolted unexpectedly…”

  Miss Emma gave me an approving look. “It seems we’ve reached a similar conclusion, Ashby.”

  Deep in our thoughts, we sat in silence. I was the first to speak. “So, do you think that might explain why Rosabelle seems so angry? Why the bluebirds play Kamikaze on my balcony? Why she might set my fingers to the keyboard to write FREE? “To set the record straight, or something?”

  “Rosabelle was always the friendly, helpful spirit. Then the worst possible thing happened to her ‘mistress.’ It very well could be like that.”

  “Free Rosabelle,” I mused. “Free her from feeling responsible for Lenore’s death? Are we talking a guilty ghost?”

  “Free Rosabelle to cross over to the other side. She died a violent death saving her young charge centuries ago. If she caused a violent death—Lenore’s death …I believe it’s possible. Who knows? I told you, Ashby, Luke and I have put our heads together while you were convalescing. He explained the, what did he call it? The automatic writing on your computer screen: FREE. Like you, Luke and I both think it was another message from Rosabelle. As I said, I’ve done a lot of thinking about your situation.”

  “Miss Emma, did you know there’s a grave marker for Rosabelle at the gazebo?” The thought surfaced suddenly.

  “Rosabelle’s grave and stone were moved from the family plot to the gazebo when the dam was built. Though he didn’t consider Rosabelle worthy of relocation along with the family in the Baptist cemetery, your Grandfather Thomas was mortally afraid of her spirit and he did not want to incur any further wrath from her by allowing her to languish in a watery grave.”

  “But Rosabelle’s name did not show up in the catalogue. Neither did the slaves’.”

  When Miss Emma looked blank, I explained my findings at the Historical Society.

  “Well, you have been busy, haven’t you?” Miss Emma patted my arm. “I expect Thomas figured with Rosabelle there’d be no next-of-kin around to contest his actions.” She was quiet, thinking, for a few moments. “But the slave graves…now I understand what must have happened. And I never would’ve thought of going to the reference room at the Historical Society. You’re a genius, Ashby!”

  “Ha! It was an opportune moment, is all, Miss Emma.”

  “Well, you see, like the family cemetery, the slave graves were situated on a portion of the estate that was to be flooded for the lake. But, your Grandfather Thomas did not consider the slaves to be people, to be human. They were property, as far as he was concerned, nothing more. Lenore and he stormed about that issue more than once, as I remember. I can believe he couldn’t be bothered to have them relocated.”

  “That makes sense to me. It was a pretty rotten thing to do but it seems to track with his character as I’ve come to know it.”

  She nodded. “There’s no proof, of course. Most likely he simply removed the crude headstones, really not much more than large rocks, and tossed them away. Even though the power company was prepared to remove all graves without cost to land owners, your grandfather, no doubt, considered it frivolous, a non-issue. It sounds like the actual graves of those poor souls now rest under the lake.”

  “Didn’t their descendants find out what my grandfather did? I would think they would be furious.”

  “Actually, most of the freed slaves were widely dispersed after the war, but I would not be at all surprised to see some local action. If I remember correctly, some of the descendants that are still hereabouts have launched inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Overton slave graves
.”

  “What a low-life my grandfather was,” I said. Then another thought surfaced. “So, where are the headstones? The slaves’ headstones? Do you think he threw them in the lake? After the fact, I mean.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible they were simply dumped somewhere on the property where they could not be easily discovered. We may never know.”

  She stood stiffly. “Well, I may have cooked my own goose with all this talk today, but I must say, for once, I’m feeling Lenore’s approval.”

  “Why is that, Miss Emma?”

  “Because I am nearly positive I know who stole her diary from me and I think I know why.” She picked up her duster and began her task again. “It’s not something Lenore could be happy about, which is why I must be sure before…before I do something…drastic. Lenore would expect nothing less. For the time being, all I can say is please be careful, dear Ashby. Watch your step. I realize there may be compelling reasons for you to remain here; however, Overhome could be a dangerous place for you to stay. You need to go back to your mother and father in New Jersey—and the sooner the better. Now, I’d best get to the kitchen,” she said. “Have courage. I’m this close to full understanding.” She held her fingers a fraction of an inch apart.

  Unable to move, I sat and tried to digest it all. Any way I looked at it, there it was again: the danger card. A buzz from my cell phone brought me back to earth. It was always a surprise to realize that only my room, Rosabelle’s room, was a dead zone for my cell. I flipped it open.

  “Hi, Babe. It’s Luke,” a familiar voice said. “I’m still at th’ hospital. How are y’ feelin’?”

  “Oh, Luke. I’m fine. Jeff and I meandered all over the estate today. I had a long, heart-to-heart talk with Sasha, and now I’m in the library where Miss Emma and I had a…a very interesting talk. I’ll tell you all about it when you and Abe get in tonight.”

  “That’s why I’m callin’.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “We won’t be comin’ home today. They want t’ keep Abe overnight. Somethin’ about his blood pressure. They want it to come down to normal before they release ’im. I’m gonna stay with ’im. So we won’t be home until tomorrow, probably late. I’ve already talked to Hunter about it.”