I led Luke to the attic and pulled free the access door. He shone the flashlight inside.
“This is where you found it?”
“Yes, in that back corner.”
I waited while he squeezed through the hole, his frame barely fitting through the small space.
“I see it!”
I smiled. I heard some heaving, hefting and manly grunting. I kept myself from giggling. Finally, he appeared in the doorway again.
“Man, that thing’s heavy.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I know. That’s why I couldn’t get it out.”
Luke pulled the trunk through the opening, scraping the hinges across the doorframe. How Lydia had gotten that thing in there in the first place remained a mystery.
We opened the lid together and studied the contents for a moment before I finally reached in and pulled out a delicate cream-colored dress with light pink lace trim. My breath caught.
“Is that the dress she described in the diary?”
“I think it is.”
He let out a low whistle. “Wow. I don’t even know what to say.”
I held the dress up to me and did a slight bow.
Luke laughed and I couldn’t help but join him. I gently laid the gown across a nearby box and pulled two others free. One purple, one green. I don’t know why Lydia chose to put the dresses in the trunk. Perhaps they were already packed there for another occasion and she just threw the diary into a convenient hiding place, not bothering to take the things from the trunk. I suppose it will always be speculation. I laid the heavy dresses aside. Something sitting at the bottom of the trunk caught my attention.
Made from silk and lace, the dress had a draped neckline that would dance across the shoulders. From the bust down, a silky white material fell all the way to the floor, creating a soft waterfall of fabric. At the hem, it was gathered in several places to reveal a layer of lace underneath.
“I bet that’s her wedding dress,” Luke said.
The fabric had slightly yellowed with age, but remained beautiful. I could only nod.
“Well, that looks like all of it.”
We put everything back and closed the lid. We stared at it for several moments, silently mulling over the experience. I had undergone quite a few changes in the last two months since the auction, and I owed most of it to Luke and Dee. Little by little I had told Luke all of my past, and he was faithful to walk me through the difficult obstacle of forgiveness. My battered heart had needed time away from Ironwood, and today was finally the time for my reunion with the house that had birthed freedom in my soul.
I glanced at Luke and my heart swelled. I was glad I’d let him in and let him read the diary. We’d grown very close in just a few weeks. Already I knew his teasing about Ironwood staying in my family felt more and more right. We both knew it would only be a matter of time.
I grabbed Luke’s hand, intertwining my fingers with his. “One more thing.”
Anticipation swirled in the air around us as we hurried down the flight of stairs and to the room at the end of the hallway. Luke opened the door and allowed me to pass through first.
I counted the floorboards. “I think this is the one.”
He pulled out a pocket knife and thumbed open the blade. Kneeling side by side, I held my breath as he pulled the board free.
I gasped.
Luke gently pulled up a small bundle wrapped in cloth and set in on the floor beside us.
“You were right. Lydia did hide something under the floorboard.”
The excitement and wonder in his voice mirrored the feelings swelling in my own chest. I knew it would be there. I’d seen Lydia the night she’d hidden them. How, I have no idea, but I there’s no other explanation.
“I wonder what’s in there?” Luke asked, his eyes wide.
I grinned and grabbed the leather cord binding the package, tugging it open. “There’s only one way to find out, and we will do it together.”
His strong arms wrapped me in a hug. “I hope to do everything together, from now on.”
My heart fluttered. “Me, too. Together. At Ironwood.”
His lips fell on mine, warming my insides. When he finally pulled back, he traced his finger along my jaw. “Yes, together at Ironwood. Our home, and the perfect place for a wedding.”
I could barely contain the joy washing over me. “And just think, I already have the perfect dress.”
He laughed. “There could be no other.” His eyes fell on the bundle in my hands. “Now it’s time to begin our future, but first we will have to figure out the past.”
The past. The future. All in one place.
Ironwood.
I loosed the strings and open the package. There was a necklace wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief. I set the delicate piece aside, planning on studying it further later, too curious to linger on it long. Under the necklace I found a stack of yellowed pages, crinkling with age. I gently unfolded one and then held it up to Luke. “What are these?”
Luke took the pages from me and frowned. “Looks like they are old Confederate bank bonds. Goodness, those things are probably worth a fortune. What do you think?”
I didn’t answer him. Under the pages was a small letter, sealed with wax. My breath caught. Could it be? With trembling fingers I released the seal and looked at the short note.
My dear one,
You come to me in my dreams. You come to me and we talk of things that cannot be explained in this life. How we have been brought together is a mystery, but I wish to someday see you again. I do not know how much time separates us, but I suspect I will be long gone by the time you find these things. I’ve decided they shall remain here for you, for however long it takes. You will find the necklace my Daddy gave me and some of my other worldly treasures. When I finish, I will also leave Ruth’s story here, as well as some more writings on what happens throughout my life. I know you will be the one to find them, because you are the one meant to fulfill their purpose. You, dear one, are my heir of hope. The fulfillment of a promise made to me. Remember what Ironwood is, and tell her tale. I know you will do us proud.
Until we meet again,
Lydia
My hands trembled. I handed the letter to Luke and lifted a thick envelope, sealed with the same symbol as my letter, from the recess. I clutched the ancient package to my chest. Luke scanned the letter and looked at me with a strange expression. I could only lift one shoulder in a half-shrug response. How was I to explain that?
He pointed to the package in my arms. “So, uh, do you think that’s it?”
My words lodged in my throat, so I simply nodded and slid my finger under the seal and gently pulled it free. The pages were covered in the same graceful, flowing handwriting from the diary. I could barely contain my excitement. “This is it! This is the story she went through so much trouble to save!”
Luke slipped his arm around me. “Looks like she got her wish. Who better to find it than a descendent who also happens to be a writer?”
“It’s always about the story,” I said.
My story, Lydia’s, Ruth’s, and the other women who called Ironwood home. Lydia had left the story for me to find, and right then I knew what I was always meant to do.
This house had seen many lives, and it held many secrets. Luke was right. Who better than a writer to find these hidden tales? I ran my fingers over the words, and became overwhelmed with the task entrusted to me. It was up to me to share the story.
Tears glistened in my eyes.
“What is it? Are you all right?” Luke asked.
I whisked away a stray droplet that slid down my cheek. “Yes. For once, I believe I am. I know what I need to do.” I wrapped all of Lydia’s treasures back into a bundle and clutched them gently. “It’s time to write the story.”
Luke gave a lopsided grin. “Oh? And what story is that?”
I smiled and tapped the bundle. “Her story. Our story. The story I was destined to tell, and the story I never intended
to write. The one that pushes its way into my dreams and fills my heart.”
Luke wrapped me in his arms, and joy surged though me.
I’d found both my past and my future at Ironwood, and there was nowhere else I would ever want to call home.
They say every writer has that one idea that will not give them rest until it finds its way to the page. Months after I’d made my decision to make my writing dream a reality, the perfect story found me. It is one of tests and trials, love and loss, dreams and redemption.
It is the story of Ironwood.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed returning to Ironwood with me. If you haven’t read The Whistle Walk yet, that is where you will find Lydia and Ruth’s complete story.
Please stick around for a few more pages to meet Annabelle Ross who, along with Matthew Daniels (Charles’s cousin from The Whistle Walk), gets caught up in a dangerous plot to kidnap the president in the upcoming release of Leveraging Lincoln.
For more about my books visit me at www.StepheniaMcGee.com. To receive the first glimpse of a new cover reveal and to get a notice when a new book releases, you can also sign up for my newsletter.
Excerpt: Leveraging Lincoln
“No man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.”
Abraham Lincoln
Rosswood Plantation
Jefferson County, Mississippi
February 4, 1865
Let the dead bury the dead, Annabelle thought as the spade sank another few inches into the ground. She paused a moment to wipe the sweat from her brow with a dirty sleeve. Dead, indeed. Her arms were numb from digging, and her back and legs were starting to cramp. A heart hardened against the gristly task beat rapidly with exertion underneath what had once been the gown of a privileged heiress. But, that was before the war, her father’s death and…. Well, it didn’t matter now anyway.
She hadn’t had time for anything other than the soldiers from both North and South who at one time or another had filled her home to overflowing. Annabelle slammed the spade into the earth, her fingers so numb from the cold she hardly noticed the forming blisters. She gave these men the best she could—a too-shallow grave and a few parting words. She recorded every name, should their families ever come to look for them. Until then, Annabelle had no choice but to share her land with the dead.
“Miss Belle, you’s done enough diggin’ today.”
Annabelle looked up from the hard ground and into a face that looked as tired as she felt. The waning light of another long day cast shadows on Peggy’s dusky skin and made her look older than she should have. Peggy lowered the rear legs of the makeshift cart to the ground, giving a soft grunt as she finally released the weight. Annabelle mustered a smile she hoped would soothe away some of the worry lines creasing Peggy’s brow.
“I know. But I didn’t think we could stand to leave him out another day.”
Peggy pressed her lips together but said nothing. She was less fond of leaving dead men in the house than she was of Annabelle digging. Annabelle reached down and grabbed one of the worn boots, and gave the body a tug. He felt twice as heavy as when they’d loaded him in the cart. “Help me get him in.”
Peggy hesitated, and Annabelle wondered if this would be the time she refused, but, as usual, Peggy clamped her jaw tight and grabbed the other boot. They heaved and struggled until the body fell from the cart, scraped over the rough earth, and finally landed in the hole with an unceremonious thud just as the sun began to dip below the trees. Annabelle resisted the urge to place her dirty fingers under her nose in a futile effort to hold off the stench.
Peggy sighed. “It’s a right shame we ain’t got no preacher for them. You sure buryin’ them here is a good idea?”
Annabelle pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a weary sigh. “Peggy, you’ve asked me that question a dozen times, and a dozen times I’ve given you the same answer.”
“Still don’t like it.”
Annabelle nearly agreed, but she knew that would only give Peggy more footing to try to wear down her resolve. “Come on. It’s getting dark. We need to get him covered. Lord willing, he will be the last soldier we lay to rest at Rosswood.”
“Humph. You done said that ’bout the last two.”
Annabelle threw a scoop of dirt on the body and ignored her. Peggy grunted and grabbed the other shovel. By the time they patted down the mound and tossed on a few rocks in a scant attempt to keep the coyotes at bay, darkness had descended and blanketed Rosswood in a shroud of shadows.
“I’s got some water on the stove so we’s can get you a good bath tonight.”
Annabelle looped her hand through Peggy’s arm as they trudged back to the house. “No, I don’t want you carrying all that water up the stairs again. It’s too much trouble. I’ll just wash from the basin.”
They walked across dry ground that had once sprouted fields of cotton that had made Annabelle imagine what a thick covering of snow might have looked like where Momma had grown up in New York. She’d told Annabelle stories of snow that had fallen so heavy it had blanketed the ground like a quilt instead of huddling in icy patches as it did here, clinging to the shady places and crunching beneath her too-worn boots.
“Now you know’s your uncle might be here any day,” Peggy said, interrupting her recollections of Momma. “Won’t do for him to see you lookin’ like a field hand and not a lady.”
Annabelle drew in a long breath of air that smelled like soggy earth and the faint aroma of death from which she could never truly escape. “He’s not my uncle,” she mumbled. Peggy didn’t respond.
It was bad enough she’d had to live under Grandfather’s rule. She didn’t welcome Andrew’s. She clenched her hands at her side. “What does it matter? What does he expect to find here? Rosswood spent two years as a hospital and now as a makeshift haven for the wounded they left behind. Our slaves have long since run off, and war has stripped us all of what we once were. This place is a wretched waste. What will it matter if I look like a field hand? I work like one.”
Peggy’s fingers squeezed her own and she knew she’d let fatigue tinge her words with bitterness. Still, Peggy did not chide her because they both knew her words rang true.
“Forgive me, Peggy. You are right,” Annabelle said, her shoulders slumping as they neared the house. “I should look presentable, even for him. Though I know Father would have preferred his own brother looking after Rosswood until I wed. Not Andrew.”
Peggy nodded, her scarf-wrapped head bobbing in the darkness. “Ain’t no doubt of that. But since he ain’t responded to your letter, I don’t see how you’s gonna be able to count on him to come instead of Andrew.”
If only Father hadn’t died….
Annabelle huffed and turned the subject back to the original topic. “I still won’t have you lugging all that water up the stairs. We’ll move the tub into the kitchen. I can bathe by the hearth while you cook.”
They stepped onto the back porch and Peggy lifted a lamp from the hook on the post, producing a match from her apron and birthing a tiny flame. Soon the flame filled the chimney with a warm glow, and a shiver ran down Annabelle’s spine that hadn’t been caused by the chill. She’d grown too afraid of the shadows. The flickering light danced across Peggy’s face, illuminating worry lines that seemed to grow deeper with each passing day. Finally, Peggy nodded. “I guess I don’t sees no harm in it. Ain’t like no one’s gonna notice no ways.”
Grandfather had retired hours ago. He’d started staying in his chamber more and sleeping longer. Annabelle suspected he did it to hide how rapidly the sickness was getting worse. Or at least try to hide it until his son made it to Rosswood. And Grandfather would be the only one who would care if Annabelle bathed in the kitchen.
They turned from the dark house and descended the steps again, two of which had begun to sag. Only two soldiers remained within, and she’d already seen to their supper and bandages. Surely they would not need her again tonight. Guilt tugged at
her anyway, and she paused at the bottom of the steps.
Peggy turned. “What’s wrong?”
“I better check on them once more. I’ve been out of the house for a good while. What if something happened again?”
Peggy’s brows drew together. “You’s done enough. You gonna run you self into the grave.”
“Do you think you can get the tub set by yourself?”
Peggy tilted her head. “Child, who you done think toted that thing up and down them stairs all those years? I think I can get it into the kitchen.”
You used to have help, Annabelle thought. But why bother saying it? “Thank you. I’ll be along in a few moments.” She turned to find another lamp, wondering if it would have any oil.
“I got a bad feeling about that one,” Peggy said to her back. “Won’t be long before we’s draggin’ him through the yard, too.”
Annabelle cringed. She knew little by way of nursing, only what she had observed when the house was used as the hospital, but she prided herself in having learned enough to care for the few who had been left behind. She refused to lose another one. She looked over her shoulder. “I only want to be sure Lieutenant Monroe’s fever has not returned again. I won’t be long.”
Peggy dipped her chin and lifted her lamp. “Here. Take this ’un. I can gets to the kitchen without it.”
Annabelle hesitated, but realizing that arguing would only delay the comfort of warmed water to her tired muscles, she consented and took the lamp. She unlatched the rear door and stepped into the house as quietly as she could, careful to avoid any planks she knew would protest her weight with a groan. She passed Grandfather’s door and underneath the archway, turning to her left and into what had once been her father’s library.
She turned down the flame until it barely glowed in the chimney and raised it to the open doorway. Two forms lay draped in thin blankets on the floor. A soft snore drifted from one of the forms, but neither moved. Relief spread through her. They both appeared to be resting comfortably. Neither thrashed about nor mumbled in his sleep, as each had often enough done when the fever raged. The soldiers hadn’t thought these two and three others would survive their wounds and had, thus, left five Confederate soldiers with her when they finally abandoned the hospital. If she did not care for them, who would?
Heir of Hope: Return to Ironwood Plantation (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2) Page 27