Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Both of us know’d that the Union side was right in the words from its mouth.

  But both of us know’d that if’n we died, it’d be defendin’ our beloved South.

  “Slavery was a sin, son. It was terrible wrong! Them slaves was jest folks like me.

  They shouldn’ta had to suffer so long. We shoulda jest let ’em be free.

  “And if’n that’d been the only reason for the war that took me and Joe,

  It wouldn’ta lasted one whole summer season, ’cause most of us Rebels was po’.

  “Folks is folks, son—no matter their skin. We know’d they should been freed.

  But there was other reasons that the war took our kin and caused North and South to bleed.

  “Our way of life, our homes…our settled back ways. I know’d progression must come.

  But I loved Carolina and those warm fragrant days, and could not fire ’gainst my home.

  “Me and Joe, we talked…we discussed it a while. We know’d the Union must live.

  We talked and considered over ten country mile, ’bout what we two oughta give.

  “One oughta fight to save the U-nited States…one for the sake of fam’ly.

  So we made up conditions with mighty high stakes. We decided what to do, Joe and me.

  “We flipped up a coin, and it flied in the air. I hollered out ‘heads,’ Joe said ‘tails.’

  It headed for ground and then landed there…right ’tween two rusty ol’ nails.

  “ ‘I win,’ said Joe. ‘or I reckon I do. So I get to choose where I go.

  And tho’ I’m jest as torn ’tween ’em as you, I’ll don the blue,’ said Joe.

  “ ‘I’ll carry our face and our hearts, yours and mine, for the future and what hasta be.

  You don the gray for the South—you’ll do fine—and that way you’ll represent me.’

  “So we said good-bye. He left me right then, and I went home to tell Mama.

  And when he come home at a quarter to ten, Mama done told it to Papa.

  “They know’d we done right. We’d done all that we should, they said when I left to enlist.

  ‘Keep your eyes out for Joe.’ They know’d that I would, and then my Mama I kissed.

  “Won’t go into war stories,” he paused for a tear. “Them’s long passed already been told.

  But I’ll tell you ’bout Joe, if’n you’re wantin’ to hear. My goodness! I am gettin’ old.

  “It was after a battle that I seen him at last. Ol’ Getty—she took lotsa blood.

  I found him up there, and we talked ’fore he passed, right there in that old Getty mud.

  “He’s been ‘mortally wounded,’ is the way they described it, and I know’d Joe’s time was a-comin’.

  When I found him I seen how bad he’d been hit, and I heard brother Joe a-hummin’.

  “It was Dixie he sang—not the song of the Yanks. I could hear as I sat down beside him.

  I give him a drink, and he gave me his thanks, and said, ‘Tom, you look awful slim.’

  “ ‘I’m glad it’s you, Tom…glad you finally found me. I’m so awful glad that you’re here.

  It’s you that I been so a-longin’ to see.’ And he let go a lone single tear.

  “His breath, it was shallow, and it gave him great pain, but we talked ’bout missin’ each other.

  And there in that field in the mud and the rain, I said good-bye to my brother.

  “ ‘I’m glad to go, Tom. Our grandpa’s up there, and our little sis, Marianne Sue.

  I’ve missed ’em all so since they left us down here, but now I’m gonna miss you.’

  “ ‘Tell Papa I love him. Tell Mama be strong, ‘cause the South’s more’n likely to lose.

  To fight for the North…I know it weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t the first side I’d choose.’

  “ ‘Tell Mama for me,’ and he smiled (tho I cried), ‘that I love her and South Carolina.

  I love you too, Tom,’ he said as he died, ‘and I’ll wait up in Heav’n for ya.’

  “So I’m wearin’ the gray as my bones take their rest, jest as dear brother Joe wore the blue.

  Ma always said we were lookin’ our best, with one donnin’ gray and one blue.

  “But when I’ve departed to my loved ones above, to my wife and Joe and all ours,

  Cover my coffin, son, with the flag that I love—the striped one with the forty-some stars.”

  Then a smile crossed his face, and he looked right past me and said, “Joe! Why, you look mighty fine!

  I was layin’ here wonderin’ how much longer you’d be, but I know’d you’d come in good time.”

  Then his eyes slowly closed, and with his last breath, he said, “Violet…my wife sweet and dear—

  Thanks for bringin’ her, Joe, to help me through death. Now y’all help me walk over there.”

  His breath stilled and silenced, his lips donned a smile, and he left me there holding his hand.

  I sat there just thinking for an awfully long while ’bout my kin that had fought for this land.

  And now enjoy the first chapter of

  The Fragrance of Her Name

  by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  Lauryn Dawn Kensington had been eight years old when first she’d met the Captain, eight years old only by mere hours. Nana later told her granddaughter that Lauryn had met the Captain long before—on the day of her birth in August of 1901. But it was when she was eight that Lauryn truly and officially met him—her eighth birthday.

  It had been a hot, very humid day just like any other in the small southern town of Franklin. The blossoms of the wisteria, and their beloved fragrance, had long departed with the summer breezes, not to be enjoyed until the next spring. It was the scent of roses that traveled in through the open windows of Connemara House now, and Lauryn’s eighth birthday celebration wasn’t scheduled to begin until later in the evening when her father returned home from work at the office. And so, when little Lauryn Kensington found herself anxiously impatient, it had been her Nana that suggested an activity to pass the time.

  “Why don’t you run along up to the attic, darlin’? Your daddy used to love rummagin’ through those old trunks and such up there when he was just your age. Run along, Lauryn honey. I think it’s time you found…what you need to,” Nana encouraged, smiling as if she had cached some great secret knowledge.

  Lauryn thought that it seemed an odd thing to send a granddaughter off to the dusty old attic in search of a means of battling boredom. But she did as she was told and wandered up the great main staircase of Connemara House, pausing rather nervously before the attic door. She’d been in the attic only twice before and remembered it both times as being dark, musty, and stiflingly hot. But that day, as she pushed against the heavy oak door, Lauryn found it gave way far more easily than expected and that sunlight streamed into the dark place from the dusty windows, giving the room quite a feeling of comfort and safety. Still, as an anxious child, she looked about tentatively as she entered.

  Almost immediately, Lauryn’s anxieties began to vanish. All around her was every manner of antique and sentimental treasure. The old oval standing mirror that had been an anniversary gift from one of her great-uncles to one of her great-aunts stood in one corner. She’d heard tell of it. And there it was! Tangible testimony that it truly existed.

  Nearby were the old dress forms used to make the Vicksman girls’ dresses, back when Lauryn’s mama was planning her coming out in the ’90s—back when the ramifications of the war between the states were still all too fresh in everyone’s mind. Yes, even at her tender age, Lauryn was familiar with that long-ago war, and its results.

  There were other things in the attic as well—an open crate with her mother’s dolls lying in it, their small porcelain faces weathered from play and love, the old grandfather clock that was put to rest after Great-Grandfather O’Halleran died during the war. Boxes and boxes littered the floor filled with letters. Her Nana kept every one she had ever received. Great-G
randmother O’Halleran’s oak rocker and the grand old music box were there as well.

  The music box had always intrigued Lauryn. It had belonged to one of her great-aunts, the one so tragically lost during the war with the North. Lauryn went to this treasure in particular. Sitting down on the floor before it, she cautiously lifted the large lid to reveal the workings within. Carefully, she cranked the handle on the outer side of the box and watched as the small gears churned out the familiar tune. Lauryn suspected her fascination with the music box was why it now was hidden away protectively, and somewhat forgotten, in the attic. She had driven her mother nearly insane playing it the year she was five. It fascinated her to think of the young woman who had owned it and the tragedy that befell her. It had been mystical to sit quietly with the music box before her and imagine a young woman from long ago sitting with the very same box, working the crank and listening to the beautifully haunting tune.

  Lauryn’s great-aunt, Lauralynn O’Halleran Masterson, had been a fantastic beauty, it was said. The painting of her downstairs in the front parlor was confirmation of the rumor. Her hair, and she had been well known for it, was her crowning glory. It was the color of spun honey and butter. Her voice was like a meadowlark’s in the quiet of summer and her eyes as deep a green as the rolling hills of Ireland. It was also said that her young husband had given her this music box, which had been crafted solely for her, as his wedding present to his beautiful bride. It played a tune that was familiar to Lauryn only as being heard from the box itself. She’d never heard it anywhere else. Lauryn loved the box. She had forgotten how much she loved it until that moment. Reverently, she closed its lid and stood looking at her surroundings once more.

  “Oh, the trunks!” Lauryn gasped, excitedly. “The trunks!” Trunk upon trunk upon trunk was strewn hither and thither, dust-covered and holding so many secrets that Lauryn’s young mind could not begin to imagine them all. Her mind immediately began to race about, enumerating the mystical items that might be cached away within the rectangular bellies of the wood and leather devises of intrigue. What magic there must be stored in them! What legends and histories!

  The warm southern sun streamed through the attic window and seemed to shine upon one specific trunk that stood in a nearby corner. As Lauryn approached it, it seemed singled out among the rest. First and foremost, and odd in itself, was the fact that there lay upon its weathered self not one hint of dust. Furthermore, it looked as if it had been lovingly polished very recently. In fact, as Lauryn moved closer to the rather small, oval-topped trunk, she could smell the almond oil that her Nana sometimes used to buff her own furniture.

  Then, as she stood before the trunk and put out her hand to lift the latch, Lauryn fancied she heard her name being called, and with it the faint yet familiar fragrance of wisteria. But the wisteria blossoms had been gone from the trees and vines of Connemara for months. Surely she only imagined both her name being called and the fragrance. The fragrance dissipated almost instantly, and since she did not further imagine her name being whispered on the air, Lauryn shrugged in a child’s manner and returned her attention to the trunk resting on the floor before her.

  Carefully, her small hands lifted the latch, and the young girl peered in excitedly as if it promised to reveal hidden treasures to her. Again Lauryn fancied the scent of wisteria filling her nostrils for a moment as she pushed the lid to the trunk back and lifted out the yellowing and brittle paper cover that lay within. I must really be missing my beloved wisteria today, she thought as she set the crumbly, ancient paper on the floor next to her. When she looked back to the trunk, something on the inside panel of the lid caught her attention. A name. Indeed, her name! Great-Aunt Lauralynn’s!

  Lauralynn was printed in fading gold lettering in the lower right corner of the trunk lid. How exhilarating! An ancient case befitted with the name so similar to Lauryn’s own. It was obvious to her, even at her young age, that the woman who had owned the music box had owned this trunk as well. Great-Aunt’s Lauralynn’s very treasures, she thought. Things to imagine being owned by the lovely face on the painting downstairs. Running her hand over the smooth texture of once-white lace that was the first treasure, she again inhaled deeply the faint scent of the wisteria blossom.

  “It’s a weddin’ dress,” the child whispered to herself, even before she carefully removed the garment from its protector. Holding it up to admire the fine tatting of the lace, the tucks, and the embroidered lavender wisteria blossoms that embellished the bodice of the gown, Lauryn knew what it was. As she struggled to completely deprive the trunk of its yards of yellowing fabric, she muttered, “This one wore big hoops if ever I did see one that did!” Then, gently placing the treasured dress on top of the previously removed paper, she looked to see what other romantically nostalgic spoils were within.

  A sampler came next, cross-stitched to perfection, on yellowing linen. The brilliant green and lavender colors of the threads, however, seemed as vibrant as the day it was finished. Holding it up in the sunlight, Lauryn read aloud, “Brandon and Lauralynn Masterson wed August 16, 1863.”

  “Lauralynn,” Lauryn whispered, reading the sweetly familiar name once more. “Lauralynn and Brandon.” Setting the sampler aside, she reached again into the trunk, withdrawing an aged doll with a china head and cloth body. The paint of the doll’s face was chipped and somehow made Lauryn sad. Setting it aside, she withdrew a tintype. It was small and dark, but at once all else that may or may not have been in the trunk seemed of no interest to Lauryn. As she gazed, mesmerized at the image before her, a great warmness began to wash over her being. An unusual melancholy nearly overwhelmed her youthful heart as she peered into the faces of complete strangers that seemed, somehow, as familiar as the people she lived with.

  “Lauralynn and Brandon,” Lauryn whispered to herself as her tiny fingers traced the figures in the likeness. “Your weddin’ portrait.” For it was obvious that the woman in the type, the woman from the painting downstairs, wore the very dress, hooped as was the fashion of the time, that Lauryn first had removed from the trunk. The man wore the uniform of a soldier. “You were beautiful,” Lauryn whispered, gazing intently at the young woman’s face. “And such a handsome soldier. Yankee at that.” And it was true. Brandon, Lauralynn’s husband, was tall, dark-haired, and as handsome as any prince in the fairy tales Lauryn’s mother read to her at night—even if his uniform was of Yankee origin. “What a scandal that must’ve caused!” she exclaimed to herself.

  At that very moment, the air in the attic seemed to refresh itself. There came a breeze that danced through the room although the windows were closed. From behind her came a voice—no more than a whisper at first—and in the next instant Lauryn felt a calming, comfortable, unseen presence.

  “If I turn around and look at you…will you be there?” Lauryn whispered. Knowing full well how silly it would sound if anyone from downstairs were to enter the attic in search of her and find her talking to the breezes, Lauryn paused, only half expecting an answer. Of course there wouldn’t be an answer. She would’ve seen or heard anyone enter the attic. But when an answer did come, she sat frozen, her eyes intent on, but blind to, the tintype in her hands.

  “I will,” came the voice. It was a man’s voice, deep and commanding, yet oddly reassuring. Still Lauryn feared to turn and look back, but not because she feared seeing ghosts. There had always been stories of ghosts roaming the house and grounds of Connemara. Some said they were the spirits of vengeful slaves that had once worked the fields nearby. Others said they were soldiers who had died in battle in those same fields or had been brought to Connemara to be tended to during the Battle of Franklin. And still others claimed that the ghost of a Union soldier had been seen, walking the grounds as if in search of something. Therefore, ghosts were not a new idea to Lauryn.

  All the same, she could not turn to speak to him and simply asked, “Are you Brandon?”

  “I am,” came the answer.

  “I…I’m gonna look at you
now, Mr. Brandon. That I am, sir,” the young girl muttered. Slowly she turned where she knelt before the trunk to see standing just behind her, as if he’d just walked into the room, Captain Brandon Carmichael Masterson. He stood there—really stood there with her—looking as if he’d stepped directly out of the dingy tintype she held in her hand and into a world of color in 1909.

  

  Ten years! It had been ten years since Lauryn had first ventured into the attic and met the Captain. And now she was on the train back to Franklin, back to her beloved Connemara and back to the Captain. How she’d missed him while she’d been gone! After all, he had been her dearest companion for the past decade. She had missed him desperately while she and Nana had been in New Orleans for the past year.

  “Nana?” Lauryn whispered to her grandmother. The elderly woman’s eyes were closed, her tiny hands folded neatly in her lap. “Are you sleepin’, Nana?” Lauryn asked once more. Her grandmother appeared to be resting, head propped comfortably on the lacy pillow tucked against the seat back.

  Reaching over and tenderly brushing a loose strand of snowy-white hair from her grandmother’s forehead, Lauryn smiled. What a beauty her Nana was! There is nothing so beautiful as an aged woman, she thought. The wisdom that shone from her bright eyes, the unmatched comfort that came from her nurturing words and embraces gave to each snowy-haired matron the essence of an angel. And Lauryn’s grandmother, Virginia Anne Kensington, was the most beautiful of all.

  Long ago, Lauryn had come to realize the mischievous little woman was often quite wide awake and coherent even though she appeared to be sleeping. Yes, Lauryn’s grandmother was no less than an expert at playing possum. This time, however, slumber had gotten the better of Virginia Kensington, and she was truly asleep. Lauryn sighed contentedly as she propped her elbow upon the armrest of her own seat. She placed her chin on her fist and gazed out the window as the train passed through the scenic countryside.