by Cindy Kelley
“In fact, I didn’t ask what your relationship is to my sister,” Beauregard said. He turned to Mercy. “Did you go and get yourself married while you’ve been gone, Char?”
“What? No,” she stammered.
“We just escorted her home,” Elijah said. “A lady shouldn’t travel alone these days.”
Beau frowned. “Hmm. I never knew Charlotte not to be able to take care of herself. But I suppose you’re right. In any case, thank you for bringing her back to us.”
Mercy studied the young man who had called her sister and tried to will into being a modicum of recognition for him. Something like she’d felt when she’d seen the portrait of John Chapman. But there was nothing. Nothing but a friendly, handsome young man who was mounting his horse.
“I was on my way to town,” he said, “but now, wild horses couldn’t drag me away from seeing Mother’s reaction when she sees you, Char.”
The thought that she was about to see her mother made Mercy weak in the knees. But in spite of that, she stuck her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself up into the saddle. She tossed a look at Elijah and Isaac, and they all followed her brother down the drive toward the house. As they got closer, she could see it wasn’t in the pristine shape it had seemed from a distance. The white paint was scarred and faded. The entire place had a general feeling of neglect and apathy about it. Acres and acres of rice fields abutted the land where the house sat and Mercy could see there were at least two dozen Negroes working in those fields—some appeared to be wearing bits and pieces of Confederate uniforms. Beau brought his horse to a stop in front of the steps of a wide veranda. They all dismounted.
Elijah reached out for her reins. “Why don’t Isaac and I wait here while you have your reunion with your family?”
“Nonsense,” Beau said. “Come inside. Mother will think I’m infernally rude if I leave you standing here in the hot sun. Your boy there can take the horses to the stable on the other side of the yard.”
“He’s not our ‘boy,’” Mercy said. “That is Isaac. He is a friend of mine.”
Beau stared at her. “I’m sorry?”
“Isaac is my friend,” Mercy repeated.
“I be happy to take da horses to da stable,” Isaac said.
Mercy looked at his earnest expression and knew he was trying not to cause any trouble for her. “Are you sure, Isaac?”
He nodded. “Yassum. I’m sure. Dey be needin’ food an’ water and a good brushing. Ain’t trustin’ nobody else wit da animals but me.”
Elijah caught her eye and nodded.
Beau ran a hand through his hair as he looked from one to the other of them, then turned to climb the stairs. He looked back at her. “Coming?”
Mercy nodded. “Yes.”
“Watch your step,” Beau said. “We’ve sustained some … damage since you left.”
Mercy climbed the wide front steps after him, carefully avoiding boards that were sunken or split. The massive columns, though impressive in their height and girth, bore big pockmarks as if chains had beaten against them. They crossed the deep veranda, and Beau opened one-half of the double oak doors and entered.
Mercy realized she was glad for Elijah’s presence, and she took the arm he offered her. Then she took a deep breath and walked straight into a past she couldn’t remember.
Chapter Twelve
Beau stood in the middle of the foyer and yelled into the depths of the house.
“Mother! Mother! Come here! Can you hear me? Come. Here!”
He looked at Mercy. “Let me just find her,” he said. “Don’t go away.”
As he rushed out of the foyer, Mercy cast a glance up at Elijah. “Why do people keep telling me that?”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in acknowledgment. “This is quite a place.”
Mercy nodded and looked at her surroundings. It had all the earmarks of a very grand residence, but with some distinct differences. The floor beneath their feet was highly polished but scarred, expensive-looking wallpaper had tears, and some of the wainscoting along the bottom half of the room had broken pieces. There was an expansive curving staircase that led down into the foyer from the second floor. She took in the exquisitely carved banister and could almost feel the smooth wood under her hand. Mercy waited for a wave of familiarity to sweep over her, but as she looked around the room, the only impression she had was that the house needed some tender loving care.
An older, elegantly put-together woman appeared at the top of the staircase. She looked down on them.
“Oh, good afternoon,” she said. “I didn’t realize we had visitors.”
As she started down the stairs, Beau reappeared in the foyer. “There you are. I’ve been calling for you.”
“I heard,” she said. “Everyone heard.”
“We have guests,” Beau said.
“So I see,” she said.
He grinned at her. “Do you?”
“Don’t be impertinent, Beauregard,” she said, continuing to descend the stairs. “My vision is perfectly fine …”
“So you say.” His grin widened. “And yet, no reaction …”
Beau swept his hand toward Mercy.
Elijah relaxed the arm Mercy’s was tucked into, and took a step back. All eyes were on her.
The woman had only three steps left to reach the floor. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Suzanne Chapman …”
And then Mercy saw that moment of recognition she had seen on Beau’s face. Suzanne’s hand fluttered to the lace collar of her pale yellow day dress, and she nearly stumbled on the last step of the staircase. She reached out to grab the banister.
“Charlotte?”
At this, Mercy could only nod. She felt rooted to the spot and wondered if this was going to happen to her anytime she came face-to-face with someone from her past. Suzanne exchanged a wide-eyed look with Beau, then descended the last few steps.
“You’ve come home!” It was easy to hear the emotion in Suzanne’s voice. The catch in her throat. She hurried toward Mercy, arms outstretched, tears in her eyes.
“Darling girl,” Suzanne said, drawing Mercy into the circle of her arms. For the second time in less than an hour, someone from her family was hugging her. When Suzanne stepped back, she pulled a hankie from her sleeve and daintily wiped at the corner of her eyes.
“I can’t believe it. To think after all this time you would turn up like this. I knew it was possible, of course, but as time went by and years passed, I assumed … well, I assumed the worst. Welcome home, Charlotte,” she said.
Tears filled Mercy’s eyes. I’m home. My name is Charlotte Chapman, and I have a brother and a mother.
A young woman entered the foyer. She appeared to be about the same age as Beau, had the same fair skin and blonde hair. “I heard shouting. What’s going on?”
Suzanne stepped back away from Mercy. Beau swept a hand in her direction and grinned. “See for yourself.”
The young woman looked at Elijah first, and then Mercy. Her eyes widened with recognition. “Charlotte?”
Suzanne nodded. “Yes, Victoria. Your sister has come home to us.”
I have a sister, too!
Victoria squealed with delight and rushed forward, all but shoving Suzanne aside, and wrapped her arms around Mercy.
“Charlotte!” she said. Her Southern drawl was the most pronounced of all. “Oh my Lord, I can’t believe it’s really you. Where on earth have you been?”
“I … I, umm …”
“There will be plenty of time to talk about that,” Suzanne said. “Let’s not overwhelm the dear girl the first five minutes she’s home.”
Suzanne turned to Elijah and smiled. “I’m afraid the emotion of seeing Charlotte again has made me forget all my manners.” She looked pointedly at Mercy. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“I’m sorry,” Mercy s
aid. “This is my … friend, Elijah Hale.”
“For safety sake, he has been her escort while traveling,” Beau said.
Suzanne’s brows lifted. “Really? How chivalrous.”
Victoria was the first to hold out her hand to Elijah. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hale. I’m Charlotte’s younger sister, Victoria.”
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Chapman,” Elijah said, taking her offered hand.
Suzanne offered her hand next. “Suzanne Chapman, Mr. Hale. Welcome to our home.”
Elijah tipped his head in acknowledgement and took her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Chapman.”
A young Negro woman entered the foyer. In Mercy’s estimation she couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She stood uncertainly for a moment.
“You be needin’ me, missus?” she asked.
Suzanne turned. “As you can see, Rose, we have guests.”
Rose came toward them, her hands twisting in front of her apron. “I know I’m s’posed to take da hats and da coats,” she said. “But dey don’t seem to have none.”
“We’ll be going into the parlor, Rose. Perhaps you might see about refreshments.”
“Yassum,” Rose said. “You meanin’ like sumpin’ to drink, missus?”
“Yes, Rose. That’s what I mean.”
Rose made her way back out of the foyer, and Suzanne forced a condescending smile. “It’s a pity freedom didn’t come with the brains to make it count, isn’t it?” Her voice was syrupy sweet—a stark contrast to the barbed words.
The comment shocked Mercy.
“Rose joined us after you left, dear,” Suzanne said. “I’m afraid you’ll find the quality of available help has deteriorated faster than the landscape of the South.”
She turned and raised a hand to cup Mercy’s cheek. “Dear one. You’ve been so missed.”
Before Mercy could reply, Suzanne turned to go into the parlor with Beau and Victoria on her heels. Mercy glanced at Elijah, who smiled his encouragement, and the two of them entered the parlor.
She started across a threadbare carpet that was as faded as the furnishings and drapes and immediately recognized Colonel John Chapman in the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Beau and Victoria took seats like bookends around Suzanne on a flowered divan just wide enough for the three of them. Suzanne gestured to two wingback chairs across from them.
“Please sit,” Suzanne said. “I admit I feel as if I’m dreaming right now. I’ve thought of the moment when I might see you again so many times, I wonder now if it’s real.”
Mercy felt exactly the same way. The house, the room, the people. The only thing of any familiarity to her was John Chapman’s face. They were staring at her expectantly. Mercy cleared her throat.
“It’s real, but I still can’t believe I’m sitting here with you,” she said.
Victoria shook her head. “Me, either. Where have you been, Charlotte?” Her voice held a hint of reproach, but her slow Southern drawl softened her words. “Beau and I were positively bereft when you left with no word at all as to where you’d gone. Completely devastated.”
“I’m sorry,” Mercy said. “Very sorry to make you worry like that.” She looked to Elijah for some kind of support. He nodded his encouragement, and she went on. “I do have a bit of an explanation,” she said. “But I think it would be best if everyone heard it at the same time.”
“Everyone?” Suzanne asked.
“Yes. Perhaps we should wait for my father before I explain?” Mercy said.
The three of them stared at her. Suzanne frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I just thought it would be easier for me—all of us, really, if I could tell you my story when my father can hear it too,” Mercy said.
“I feel perfectly certain that your father can hear you from his place in heaven,” Suzanne said.
“I’m sorry?”
Suzanne looked crushed. “Please don’t tell me you’ve stopped believing in an afterlife, darling.”
“I like to think of Father watching over me,” Victoria said. “Makes me feel safe.”
“He’s … dead,” Mercy said.
Suzanne and Beau exchanged a puzzled glance. “For three years,” Beau said. “You were at his funeral.”
Mercy heard Elijah say he was sorry. Her gaze flew to the portrait. The only person she’d felt any kind of connection to was gone. She’d never know him. Never be able to see if she could look him in the eye and recapture her past. In her heart, she’d hoped he would be the one person who might be able to give everything back to her—all the memories that had so inexplicably disappeared from her life. She felt crushed by the news, heartsick that she would never get to know her father’s love.
“Ah, here’s Chessie with some beverages,” Suzanne said.
Mercy pulled her eyes from the portrait and looked toward Chessie. The old Negro woman entered the room carrying a silver tray with a pitcher and some glasses. Her ebony skin was a stark contrast to the silver of her hair. Chessie’s focus was on balancing the tray as she carefully put one foot in front of the other.
“Rose is doin’ her chores in da kitchen, missus,” Chessie said. “She ask me to serve.”
“That’s perfect, Chessie,” Suzanne said. “As you can see … we have someone very special back in our midst.”
Chessie continued forward, glancing around the room. But when her eyes connected with Mercy’s, they widened with disbelief and she stumbled. The tray started to drop. Beau jumped to his feet and saved it from falling. “I’ve got it.”
“Sakes alive,” Chessie said.
“Yes, Chessie! Charlotte has come back to us!”
“Yassum. I see.” Chessie looked right at Mercy. “Welcome home to you.”
“Thank you,” Mercy said. Chessie gazed at her for a few more seconds, then looked toward Suzanne as she shuffled toward the table where Beau had placed the tray.
“I ’pologize for nearly spillin’ the lemonade, missus,” she said.
“I completely understand, Chessie,” Suzanne said. “It is a little … shocking to see her.”
“Your arrival home has left us all quite breathless, Char,” Beau said. “But then, you always knew how to stir things up.”
Chessie lifted the pitcher and began to fill the glasses.
“I’m sorry to shock everyone,” Mercy said.
“I misspoke, darling,” Suzanne said. “Seeing you here is an answer to prayer.”
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed those late-night talks we used to have, Charlotte,” Victoria said. “It just hasn’t been the same here without you.”
Mercy looked up at Chessie, who held out a glass of lemonade with a trembling hand. “Juba’s special recipe.”
Mercy smiled and took the glass. “Thank you.”
The old woman stood for a second and stared at Mercy, but Mercy was getting used to it. She seemed to provoke long looks from the members of her own family and from the servants, too. Chessie moved back and forth from the tray, pouring the lemonade and delivering her drinks. She wasn’t in the room more than five minutes before she took one more look at Mercy, then shuffled out of the parlor.
“How long has Chessie worked here?” Mercy asked.
Suzanne tipped her head to the side and frowned. “You seem a little—preoccupied somehow. Three years is a long time, but it’s not a lifetime. You seemed surprised that your father has passed. You’re wondering about your very own mammy, Chessie, and … are you all right, dear?”
Mercy looked at Elijah, who again nodded his encouragement, then finally sputtered out the truth. “I should know, but I don’t. I can’t remember any of it. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I don’t remember Chessie, or that my father passed away. I don’t remember anything about this place or any of you. In fact—I don’t even remember myself.”
Mercy’s blunt confession was met with stunned silence.
Suzanne’s jaw dropped, and then she shook her head and tried to laugh. “You’re joking. This is one of those silly things you like to do …”
“I’m sorry to have just blurted it out that way,” Mercy said, “but it’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I have amnesia. Amnesia is a condition where the memory is either gone or impaired …”
“We’re not uneducated darkies,” Beau said. “We know what amnesia is.”
Mercy paused, then said, “The point is that I wasn’t even sure when I arrived on the property who I would find in this house.”
“You’ve always had an overactive imagination, Char, but this is too much—even for you,” Victoria said.
“If you can’t remember us—then how did you know to come here?” Suzanne said.
“I was at a military post and I saw a portrait of a man I felt I recognized.” Mercy looked at the portrait over the fireplace. “That man. John Chapman. I had no idea who he was—just that his was the first face since my memory loss that seemed remotely familiar to me. We did some research and found he owns this plantation.” She paused. “I suppose I should say owned.”
“You don’t remember all the times we stayed up talking into the wee hours of the night?” Victoria asked. “You don’t remember—me?”
Mercy could see she was genuinely upset. “I’m so sorry. I don’t —”
“So you’re saying we are virtual strangers to you.” Suzanne searched Mercy’s face intently.
Mercy hesitated. “That sounds so—cold. But in a manner of speaking, yes, I’m afraid that’s true. I don’t know anything about you.”
“I married your father when you were two years old. Beau and Victoria are fraternal twins. They were born when you were four.”
Mercy stared at her in confusion. “You married my father when I was two?”
“That’s right,” Suzanne said. “Your mother died giving birth to you.”
Mercy let that sink in and felt a stab of grief. Both parents dead. And I’ll never get to know them. “You’re my stepmother.”