Elizabeth's heart was pounding and Abraham broke from the spell he'd wove. “To this day, they say you can hear the chains at night in that swamp. That you can hear their voices whispering, “The water will take you home.'“
Catherine shivered. “I know people who have heard those voices. Up by River Run.”
Simon and Elizabeth exchanged quick, uneasy glances. Had other people seen Mary or were there more ghosts to contend with?
“Thank you, Abraham,” Elizabeth said. “I knew there was something up there. Do you know any other stories?”
Abraham shifted uncomfortably. “I know a few, but if you want to learn more about haints and such, Old Nan is the one who should do the tellin'.”
“Old Nan?” Simon asked.
“She's an old slave over on the Parson's plantation. Bit of a local legend,” Catherine said. “Do you think we could see her?”
Abraham gave Simon and Elizabeth a shrewd and appraising look. “I suppose, but you have to promise you won't tell the Colonel, Miss Catherine. He wouldn't like it. Not like it at all.”
~~~
The Stantons' fancy barouche carriage, with a driver at the front and Abraham standing on the back, took them to the Parson's plantation. When they arrived Catherine got permission for the four of them to go visit Old Nan in her cottage. She'd been the nanny to the current owner when he was just a boy. One summer he nearly died from Scarlet Fever and might have, if Old Nan hadn't taken care of him. She caught the disease and then some sort of brain fever had caused her to go blind. Elizabeth knew that like Mary Ingalls, Nan had suffered from viral meningoencephalitis. Either way, the result was the sadly the same. The family had taken care of her, setting her up in a small house near the other slave quarters and ensuring the others cared for her.
They approached the small, wood cabin and Abraham asked them to wait there. He disappeared inside and then returned and invited them in. They climbed up the wobbly, planked steps and into the dark room. A frail old woman, who looked like she was in her seventies, waved a thin hand at Abraham and he lit two candles that sat on the rough-hewn mantle above the small fireplace.
It wasn't cold inside, but Elizabeth shivered anyway. She felt like she'd walked onto the set of Beloved. Hopefully, their story had a happier ending.
Old Nan's eyes were milky white, but she sought out Simon and Elizabeth and looked them up and down before speaking. “You are strange to me. In and out at de same time, here and not here.”
As if she could see their confusion, she nodded and smiled patiently as she leaned back in her chair. “Abraham say you come to hear about de ghosts. You one of dem writer people from de newsypaper?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I just, we—”
She wasn't sure how to ask what was needed.
Nan nodded. “You take Miss Catherine and you wait outside, Abraham.”
He looked nervously to Catherine and Simon who assured him that they'd be fine.
“Yessuh,” he said and started for the door, shuffling a reluctant Catherine back out the door.
Once the door had closed, Old Nan smoothed out the blanket that covered her legs and rocked back in her rocking chair. “Now, your heart can speak.”
Elizabeth cast an unsure glance at Simon who nodded encouragingly.
“You come 'bout a child,” Nan said.
Elizabeth swallowed hard and nodded, then realized the woman couldn't see her. “Yes, how did you know?”
“You carry it with you.”
Elizabeth looked around the room quickly. “The ghost?”
Old Nan laughed. “No, child. Your burden.”
“I don't understand,” Simon said.
“I sure you don't,” Old Nan said. “But you will. In time.”
Simon frowned. “We were told that you were knowledgeable about such matters and could help us with our quandary.”
Nan frowned and tilted her head to the side.
“We were told you could help us,” Elizabeth clarified.
Nan nodded slowly and stopped rocking. Her pale eyes drifted between Simon and Elizabeth. “I see what others cain't. Dey's dis world and d'other. I don't see so good in dis one, but I can still see. And de spirits, dey know and come to me sometime when dey sad or feelin' lonesome.”
Elizabeth remembered Simon's description of his encounter and her heart ached for the child. “Has Mary come to you?”
“Mary?”
“Mary Stewart. She died a few days ago and yet,” Simon said. “I've seen her. We've both seen her.”
Nan nodded again. Elizabeth could tell Simon was growing anxious. He was impatient under the best of circumstances and cryptic mystics definitely pushed his buttons.
“We think she needs our help,” Elizabeth said. “We'd like to help her, but we don't know what to do.”
Nan brought her fingers to her lips in thought and then slowly started to rock again. “Sometimes de children don't know what be wrong. Dey's scared and alone. I show dem de way when I can. But some is needin' somethin' I cain't give. Mary, she be in de wrong place. She need you to help her be somewhere else.”
“How? Where?” Simon asked.
Nan looked at Simon and then at Elizabeth. If she didn't know better, she would swear the woman could see. Nan shook her head. “Don't rightly know yet. And time ain't on our side.”
Elizabeth didn't like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“It take a whole passel a strength to be here, where dey shouldn't be. Dey sorta fade away and once dey's gone, we cain't do nothin' for 'em.”
“What happens to them?”
Nan stopped rocking again. Her pale eyes seeking out something invisible in the distance. “You ever feel a cold chill on a warm day? Or hear a cry caught in de wind?” She looked back at them. “Dat's all dat's left. Po things. Dey's betwixt and between forever.”
Chapter Ten
Both Simon and Elizabeth were content to let Catherine do most of the talking as they rode back into town. It was nearly dark by the time they arrived. Simon and Elizabeth thanked Catherine and Abraham again, retrieved their buggy and drove back to their hotel. Neither spoke much. The visit with Old Nan had left them both feeling a little introspective.
Simon stopped at the restaurant and ordered food to be sent up to their room. Thankfully, he'd had the foresight to take a bottle of wine and two glasses with him to tide them over until the food arrived.
As he opened the bottle, Elizabeth shed her layers of clothing, put on a robe and splashed her face with water to cleanse it from the day's dust.
Simon handed her a glass of wine. “Better?”
Elizabeth nodded and sat on the sofa in their sitting room. She tucked her legs up under and sipped her wine. Elizabeth tried to ignore the feeling of melancholia that had settled over her, and judging from Simon's thoughtful expression, it had taken him, too. It wasn't bad enough that poor Mary had died so young, but now, if they couldn't find a way to help her, she might be lost forever.
Simon sat down on the sofa and sighed.
“I've been thinking about Old Nan,” Elizabeth said. Simon hmm'd in agreement. “Do you think she's some sort of psychopomp?”
Simon nodded thoughtfully. “Like Anubis or Charon? A guide for souls to the afterlife.” He paused for a moment. “It is possible. There are stories of guides or doulas in virtually every culture. I had always considered them…wishful thinking, a chimera to ease the fear of the unknown.”
“And now?”
Simon smiled and shook his head. “After what I've seen, what I've felt, the last few days, I think I was, as you might say, full of it.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I wouldn't say that.” Simon glared playfully at her and she laughed again. “It's normal, and rational, by the way, to disbelieve until shown otherwise. I've always thought I was the nutty one for believing things without any proof at all.”
Simon didn't argue with that. He just smiled and took a sip of his wine before setting it on the side table.
“You're supposed to say, no, darling, you're not nutty at all.”
Simon chuckled. “Am I?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes.
“No, darling, you're not…nutty at all.”
“It's too late now.”
Simon faked a wounded expression. “How can I make it up to you?”
Elizabeth pulled her legs from underneath her. She shifted on the sofa and stuck her legs out toward him and wiggled her toes. Simon chuckled and pulled her feet into his lap. His strong warm hands started to massage the aching arch of her left foot and Elizabeth practically purred. Dr. Scholl could not be born soon enough.
She relished the feeling for a moment before coming back to the matter at hand. “If Old Nan is a doula for the afterlife, I hope she can help us understand what Mary wants.”
“To be somewhere else,” Simon recited.
“Yeah, but does that mean somewhere else in the afterlife, like crossing over or somewhere else here?”
Simon's forehead creased in thought. “Another grave?”
“You mean like grave robbing?”
Simon stopped massaging her foot and looked at her like she was a backward child. “Of course not. Just relocating.”
“Maybe we're being too literal. What if she needs to be elsewhere emotionally, spiritually?”
Simon's hands stopped moving as he thought. “She is frightened and confused.”
A dark cloud covered his face and Elizabeth could see him struggle with his emotions at the memory of his encounter with the girl.
He stared off, unfocused. “She's so terribly sad and so very small.”
Elizabeth shifted and scooted down the sofa. Simon lifted his arm and she snuggled into his side and rested her hand on his chest.
Simon let out a deep breath and pulled her closer. “Why did it have to be a child?”
~~~
Simon stepped aside as the man stumbled through the front doors of Smiley's Saloon. The man reeked of cheap whisky and even cheaper cigars. His cheeks were flushed as he struggled to stand and stuff in the tail of his shirt. He grinned sloppily at Simon and tripped his way down the steps to the street below. It was eleven o'clock in the morning.
More than ever, Simon was glad Elizabeth wasn't here. It was definitely for the best. Not that she shared the opinion. She'd made that loud and clear this morning.
Last night they'd agreed that they couldn't afford to wait for Mary to make another appearance. Even if she did, there was no guarantee they'd learn anything more than they had before. If she couldn't communicate with them, all they'd gain was another touch of her pain. Simon needed no reminder of her misery. With little hope learning from her in death, that meant, investigating her life. Starting with her parents.
Simon and Elizabeth visited the catholic priest they'd first seen at the cemetery. He knew little of Alice Stewart. She had no friends he knew of, certainly if she had, they would have been at her child's funeral. All he knew was that she had apparently worked in a local saloon as a hostess. It was his understanding that she hadn't worked there in some time though, but a cold trail was better than none.
It had taken some persuading to convince Elizabeth that she shouldn't come along. A woman like her in a place like that would draw far too much attention. Finally, she'd seen the wisdom in it, although knowing it was the right approach did little to calm her frustration. After listening to a diatribe on the general failings of men as a gender, Simon had promised he'd be careful, and set off to the seedier side of town.
Watching the drunk weave his way down the street, he knew he had certainly found it.
Simon pushed open the swinging door and walked into the smoky main room. It was as he'd expected, as he'd feared it would be. Despite it being a large room, the stench of stale beer and spilled whisky assaulted him. Smoke curled up toward the rafters and the second floor landing. Two men slept with their heads resting on the tables between cards scattered from last night's game, while a few others sat on stools along the long wooden bar, drinking and commiserating. Two women wearing tired expressions and tired dresses leaned against the far end of the bar waiting for fresh meat. They both perked up at the sight of him.
Simon steeled himself as they sharpened their claws in anticipation of a rich meal. He smiled and approached them. “Ladies.”
They both giggled. “You're an English man, ain't ya?” the bleached blonde said with wide eyes that were so painfully delighted and ravenous at his presence it was a wonder they didn't roll out of her head.
“Yes,” he said. “Guilty.”
They giggled again and Simon smiled.
“You must be lonely so far from home 'n all?” the other said as her fingers walked up his chest.
“I am hoping for company,” he admitted and then, as her eyes lit up hastily added, “to talk.”
“Oh sure,” the blonde said with a knowing grin at her friend. “We can talk and things.”
Both girls were barely out of their teens and unlikely to know Alice's history. “You're not quite my type,” Simon said.
The brunette laughed while the blonde huffed and then smiled again, saccharine sweet. “I can be anything you want, honey.”
“He said you ain't his type,” the brunette said, practically shoving the other girl out of the way and stepping close to Simon, resting her hand on his chest.
“Neither of you,” Simon said, “are quite what I'm looking for. Is there someone older?”
“If it's experience you're lookin' for,” the brunette said as her hand wandered down his chest and toward his pants, “I can do things you ain't never dreamed of.”
Simon stilled her hand and pulled it away. “I'm looking for someone more mature?”
“Don't be in such a hurry, honey,” the brunette said again. “I'm older than I look.”
“Please—”
“Can I help you?” Simon turned as a woman in her early thirties was coming down the stairs. She caught the eyes of the two girls and jerked her head to the side. “Beat it.”
Judging from how hastily the two girls left and hurried over to the other men in the bar, this woman was in charge. The older woman slowly walked down the last set of stairs, sizing up Simon with each step. The slow predatory smile that spread across her face told him she liked what she saw.
“My name's Genevieve,” she said, holding her hand out. “Maybe I can help you.”
Simon took her hand and bowed slightly.
She smiled seductively and cocked her head to the side in anticipation.
“Have you worked here long?” Simon asked.
Her smile tightened and the veil of her pretense fell. “If it's a virgin you're lookin' for mister, you come to the wrong place.”
“No,” Simon said, feeling his neck color in embarrassment and anger at the awkwardness of his situation. “Is there somewhere we can continue this? Somewhere with a bit more privacy?”
Genevieve's eyes flashed at the prospect of a well-heeled client. “I have a room upstairs.”
Simon inclined his head and Genevieve showed him the way. He could feel the eyes of the other girls watching as they ascended the stairs, but did his best to ignore them. Genevieve led him along the second story landing and down a hall. She opened the door to a room and stepped inside. Simon followed her in and closed the door behind them.
“You want a drink first?” she asked holding up a half-empty bottle.
“No, thank you.”
Simon glanced around the sparse room. The wallpaper had long faded and begun to peel along the seams. Curtains that might have been bright red velvet were no more than a dull pink now. A small dresser with a tarnished mirror, a single wooden chair and an unmade bed were the only furniture.
“What do you like?” she asked, turning to face him and unlacing the front of her bodice. “It might be extra—”
It took Simon a moment to realize she was beginning to undress. “Please, don't.”
She arched an eyebrow and shrugge
d, then hefted up her heavy skirts and put one foot on the chair. “I can keep 'em on, but it's more fun—”
“I'm here to talk, not…”
She let her leg fall to the floor and frowned. “Look, mister—”
Simon hurriedly took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He held it out to her. “Just talk.”
She looked hungrily at the money and then again at him, sure there was some catch, some trick. Apparently, it didn't matter in the end. She snatched the money and stuffed it down the front of her dress.
“I'm looking for information about another girl who used to work here. Alice Stewart.”
Genevieve poured herself a few fingers of whisky. “Yeah?”
“I'm hoping you might be able to tell me something about her.”
She drank down half the glass. “What's to tell? She worked here and now she don't.”
“Did you know her?”
She shrugged. “She worked here when I was just comin' on. She was all right. Better than that lot down there,” she said with a nod toward the door.
“Do you know anything about her child, Mary?”
“She's dead.”
Simon sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes, I heard.”
Genevieve finished her glass and poured another. “You sure you—”
Simon thought it might make her feel comfortable and accepted a small glass. He took a sip. It was noxious and burned all the way down.
“Why are you so interested in Alice?”
Simon pulled out his wallet again and put a ten-dollar bill on the bed next to him. “Does it matter?”
She shrugged and took the money. “She worked here, like I said. She got pregnant with the kid and left.”
“Any idea who the father was?”
Genevieve arched both drawn on eyebrows and laughed. “This ain't a hotel. We don't exactly keep a registry.”
“Where did she go?”
Genevieve shrugged. “She lived over on Canal in a boarding house. A few of us did. She was just about to have the kid and she disappeared. Ended up in a house up river.”
Thursday's Child (Out of Time #5) Page 9