The Lincoln Penny

by Barbara Best

  “There is a considerable sum,” Mary lends sheepishly. “Curiosity got the better of me.”

  “Money, but why?” Jane looks up at Mary who shrugs.

  There are a number of bills, $50s, and $20s, $2s printed with black and red ink on cream parchment. Confederate States of America. Greybacks. The currency of the South backed by promise and the reflection of buoyant hope. The symbol of high expectations that ends in great sorrow, a commerce destroyed, credit impaired, traditions and livelihoods lost. Jane looks through the notes, “Holy Pete! This has to be a mistake. I can’t keep this.”

  “It is mighty strange. What exactly went on when Madame Néve took you back to that room? Do you remember?”

  “It’s sort of hard to explain, really. She did the whole fortune-telling bit, I guess, with a lot of hocus-pocus. She talked about mythic characters . . . zee Golden Fleece . . . zee treasure . . . zee long trek . . . and zee key to sail home,” Jane mimics Madame’s accent and can’t help but giggle at the end. “Oh, and let’s not forget, zee man in my life.”

  Now that Jane is away from the place, it sounds pretty silly, although at the time there were some things about it that definitely grabbed her attention. “Madame Néve was pretty intense and mostly talking in riddles. A couple of times it creeped me out and I thought she actually knew something. But come on, this stuff’s not serious. It’s all a big show. And apparently she makes a pretty darn good living at it, especially if she has this kind of money to throw around.” Jane lays her head back on the soft pillow, not feeling well. “Well, no use putting off the inevitable.” She puts the money aside, runs her fingers around the edge of the lining at the bottom of the box, and lifts the burgundy felt lining as she has done so many times. “Could I have one of your sewing needles, Mary? One of the bigger ones.”

  Mary selects one of the larger needles she uses for needlepoint from her sewing kit and observes Jane’s shaking hands pry the two tiny hidden pegs out of the bottom of the box. “Upon my word! I would have never guessed.” Mary breathes, her eyes wide and brows arched high, “How do you know this?”

  “Because it’s my box, Mary. I can’t think how to explain it. It’s my box, for sure, and there’s this hidden compartment, which might have a key I’m looking for.”

  Jane cracks one eye and slides the tray out. The tiny key with the bone tassel that fits the lock on the box is there where she left it. The small piece of silk fabric is missing and the larger key . . . the key she and her dad had discovered . . . the one she wore on her chatelaine that unlocked time and basically ruined her life wasn’t there. How stupid to even think it would be! It was a long shot. Nothing in Jane’s new reality made sense anyway, so why not? She thought maybe there was a chance. One more morsel of hopefulness, smashed to smithereens.

  “Not exactly what I was hoping for.” Just as she finishes the last word, a wave of nausea works its way up Jane’s throat and her mouth pours saliva. Jane gulps to hold her stomach down and quickly replaces the hidden drawer, the pegs and lining in reverse. She closes her eyes against defeat and disappointment. Her head is swimming with ghosts from her past, swirling about in fading memories.

  “But you have your key, my dear,” Mary encourages. She is perplexed at why the little jewelry box key would be so significant, but she is all of a sudden more concerned for her friend as she watches Jane’s complexion change from pale to a colorless unhealthy sheen before her eyes.

  “Now, let that be the end of it.” Mary firmly takes the box. “Jane, you are not well. This is going back to whence it came,” she wrestles the box under one arm with a lot of huffing and puffing, and grabs her cane to march it back to the armoire.

  Jane turns her head toward the distant sound of Mary’s voice and has lost the will to explain there are actually two keys and the one she really needs is long gone. Instead, all she can manage is, “I’m sorry to be such a pain. It’s not like me to cause so much drama.”

  “Oh pshaw. You mustn’t carry on so.” Mary mocks impatience.

  “I probably need to get home.” Instead of hopping up, though, Jane realizes she is crazy off balance, like she is going to fall; yet her body is not moving. Vertigo? Maybe she did hit her head somehow. Maybe that crazy oracle did something to her. Maybe she has a brain tumor. Who really cares?

  “Home? You will do no such thing.” Mary pulls her shawl up around her neck and shoulders and toddles over a lovely wool rug strewn with roses in delicious colors of gold, chartreuse, spring greens, and crimson reds to loosen the ties on the silk taffeta draperies that hang from ceiling to floor and are trimmed with a dramatic swag at the top and mauve tassels. “Rest is what you need, dear, and rest is what you shall have. At least another hour and then we will have a late dinner. You will feel much better for it. I promise you. Ring this if you should need anything, anything at all. Someone will be just outside your door and I will be in to check on you momentarily.” Mary places an enamel and silver bell, inscribed with scrollwork and tiny cherubs by the bedside within Jane’s reach. Jane is suddenly too ill to even notice.

  She should try to get home, but with what’s come over her, she doesn’t have the strength to protest. Her box! The shock of seeing it hits her hard. The poisonous tendrils of despair creep into her consciousness; reopening a jagged wound that cuts into the fragile defenses that shield her from the magnitude of it all. Rest, I just need rest. That’s all . . .

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Confusion. Jane suffers between fits of shivering and vomiting. Gentle hands are rolling her onto her side, holding her head over a bowl. It hurts to move. It hurts to think. She’s really sick, but through a thick fog, is helpless to do anything about it. Behind fluttering eyelids and fitful slumber, Jane’s dreams are scary, disturbing. There’s the horrid sensation of being sucked through a doorway, then, falling head over heels into a pitch-black pit. Clawing the walls to break her fall and pulling soil, rock and roots in on top of her. Buried alive. Someone is in the dark with her. A cool damp cloth, applied to her burning skin, is comforting and gives some relief. Consumed by heat. A blinding light and Jane finds herself in the New York subway again and Bryce is searching for her. Bryce! She is lost and can’t find her way. There’s a room filled with clocks, all set to different hours, chiming erratically, the deafening sound of constant, endless ticking. An empty box . . . no, it’s not empty. She looks closer. It’s crawling with maggots. Decayed, worm infested-wood, it begins to crumble between her fingers. She desperately tries to hold it together, but it falls apart, into pieces. Lost forever. Chasing Madame Néve down a cold, damp passageway with hanging vines that brush her face and catch at her hair, trying to prevent her escape. Stuck in muck up to her ankles, she struggles in panic. Water is rushing in from somewhere. Drenched with sweat in a desperate effort to get free. She must be hallucinating. Thirsty, she swallows and there’s Mary. No! An abrupt conscious thought . . . what if she has something that is contagious? Jane tries to speak; yet somehow she can’t find her voice. She tries with all her might to join the living, but a calming darkness draws her away again. She rests a little easier this time.

  “You must drink this.”

  It’s warm and sweet and soothes Jane’s parched throat as it goes down. “What . . . is . . .?”

  “Lemon and honey, dear. Susan sent Maple over yesterday to help.”

  “The baby!” Jane croaks, forcing the words out with great effort.

  “Susan is just fine, dear. Anna is staying with her now. They have Tessie with them. Not to worry. Maple has taught my kitchen slaves how to make those concoctions you are so famous for.”

  “Is anyone else sick?” Jane struggles to remain conscious and aware.

  “No child. We are all just fine. Maple has also been kind enough to show us ways you taught her to keep sickness from spreading. I do believe it is similar to methods you explained to me at the hospital the day when I was fortunate to have made your acquaintance.” Mary smiles, remembering her first impression of her
young friend. “Now you just lay still. If you think you are strong enough for company, I’ll do the talking.”

  Mary begins pleasantly, “Doc Arnold came by just yesterday. After his examination he told me he felt the worst was over and you were resting peacefully. You had us all worried, dear. Richard’s not quite sure, but he suspects the ague and would have normally prescribed blue mass as the most effective remedy; however, he felt you would vehemently object. He said something like, “Miss Peterson would have my hide!” Mary gives Jane the broadest of jack-o-lantern grins, not being self-conscious about her missing tooth around her friend.

  Ague. One of the more common 1800s diagnoses Jane has become very familiar with from her work at the hospital. The common treatment, nicknamed blue mass, is a toxic recipe made into syrup or pill that she found out contains one-third parts mercury. Can you imagine swallowing Mercury, even the tiniest bit? When Jane discovered what the pills contained, she had railed against the ingredients. She wasn’t able to come up with a convincing case against it other than make a big stink and to tell Richard she knew for a fact it is the worst kind of poison. Deadly, and should never, ever, under any circumstances be ingested.

  As sudden as her illness was, Jane knew she was kidding herself to think she was completely impervious to disease. In the back of her mind, she knew sooner or later she was bound to get sick with something. Although her immune system had been fortified against mumps, diphtheria, rubella, measles, smallpox, chicken pox, polio, tetanus and flu, Jane was in no way prepared for the incessant exposure to vermin of all shapes and sizes.

  One of the ghastly aspects of this war is the deplorable state of soldiers who come into their hospital. All, one way or another, bear appalling afflictions. Their clothes and bodies crawl with some sort of nuisance, whether lice, fleas, mites, red bugs, or ticks. Their tender skin exposed to the elements and covered in bites. Although winter gives some relief, no-see-ums and great swarming clouds of mosquitoes that leave angry, bleeding whelps, constantly assault the soldiers out in the field. The latter, also call gallinippers, are sometimes so big the men claim they could almost shoulder a musket. Unbeknownst to the people, these defenseless innocents who already suffer from poor health, hygiene and nutrition, insects transmit terrible diseases that can snuff out a life in a heartbeat. Jane has learned some of the names from the soldiers — camp fever, swamp fever, Panama fever, and the ague, as is Richard’s preference. All are used to describe fever. A raging fever that comes with one or more symptoms, such as vomiting, diarrhea, or delirium.

  “What about you, Mary?” Jane asks with all the strength she can muster. She wants to make sure she heard right and doubly sure she hasn’t doomed those she cares so much about, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Mary clucks her tongue and offers Jane a spoonful of hot broth one of her servants had just brought in on a tray. She carefully blows on it before putting it to Jane’s cracked lips. “Land sakes child, I am too old and ornery to catch my death.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  “Mother!” Matthew cautions as he turns from the window where he has been watching sheets of freezing rain flail against the windowpanes, distorting the world outside. His mood is just about as grim and icy.

  Matthew’s mother had asked to see him in his father’s library, a place she spends a great amount of time these days. He straightens and searches for reason in his mother’s eyes. When he finds it, he softens, “I will not have you talk like this. Why Jane has been your trusted companion all these months, steadfast and giving . . . you said it yourself. Clara, Susan, the boys adore her! She is ill, I can assure you. Mary Marshall is not prone to lying,” Matthew says indignantly. “I would never declare such a thing and you, my dear mother, should not even insinuate.”

  Matthew’s reaction to his mother is intense, yet he keeps the impulse to lash out against any attacks on Jane Peterson in check. His years of military discipline and undying respect and love for his elders serve him well. In the face of adversity, an impenetrable and calm resolve is always his best defense. Especially now since his transformed affection for Jane, barely tapped, leaves him preoccupied and vulnerable.

  “Son, you are blinded to her! We know nothing of this young woman. Where must she come from? She is twenty-four and unattached. Don’t you think that rather unconventional? She refuses to broach matters of home and kindred. She talks nothing of her past. What has she to hide?”

  “Miss Peterson’s past is clearly a most delicate point for her. I have already shared with you what I know.” Matthew understands his mother’s concerns are justifiable. Jane Peterson has never shown a speck of interest nor desire to go home to her family. Their whereabouts, Matthew recalls specifically. It is in an area of Georgia he believes is possible to trace, although the war makes travel more difficult. With the cavalry’s rule of twenty, it is only a good three or easy four-day ride from here. Not impossible if the correct provisions are made.

  Matthew has nothing more to go on than what he had learned about Jane during the confusion of the siege and, of course, he’s heard the story about her journey to Savannah by way of Fort Jackson. Personally, they have conversed very little through letters and since his arrival home the night of Mrs. Marshall’s party. Their meetings have been cordial, but brief, and most often in the company of others. Quite possibly Jane has made a point of avoiding him. And there is no doubt they both have been under the watchful eye of his mother.

  In Jane’s defense, her devotion to the hospital has been admirable and Matthew is pleased she spends a healthy portion of her free time with his sisters. Mrs. Marshall has been all but greedy for her company as well.

  She intrigues him. She fascinates him in a way no other woman ever has. Yet Matthew has not been able to suitably give Jane the attention he so desires. Rather he is preoccupied with his current duties serving in Olmstead’s regiment here in Savannah, and a most pressing decision he must make. To make matters more complicated, shortly after Mrs. Marshall’s party, Matthew was offered an assignment under General Lee’s command. This, of course, is a glorious honor for any military officer, yet it is met with conflict. Something prevents him from accepting. He is deeply troubled by thoughts of leaving his current station and abandoning his dear friend’s side. In all truth, he wishes to humbly decline and remain faithful to the colonel.

  Anna is filled with uneasiness. She has seen her son in this condition only once before in affairs of the heart. She had hoped this . . . attachment . . . for lack of a better word, was just a passing fancy. Jane’s coming to his aid when injured, their correspondence, and his dreary isolation under deplorable conditions in a Yankee prison camp could, after all, lend itself to indubitable male desires.

  She cautiously speaks to her son, trying not to provoke him further, “You cannot deny Jane has curious ways about her. I have even heard the slaves whispering things when they think I am not around. It is all too strange and now it has come to this.” Anna adds in her softest and most palatable tone, “Why you told me yourself she appeared from out of nowhere at Fort Pulaski. Don’t you think that rather peculiar? Certainly, you must have your doubts.”

  Matthew is reminded of a quote by Francis Bacon, which was drummed into his head by his schoolmaster when he was a boy. If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties. He studies his sweet mother’s face for a moment. There are dark smudges under her eyes that he could swear weren’t there before. He regrets the worry and hardship he and his father have put on her. She was not meant to suffer the difficulty of war, but bravely she endures it, as they all must.

  Matthew finally smiles and concedes, “Doubts? Indeed. I cannot deny it, but . . .”

  “Son, listen. I know she impresses you and I would never question your feelings. We are each of us unquestionably fond of Jane, each in our own way. It is understandable. But please, do not let your heart rule! Whatever trouble there is, we must take pr
oper precautions. You have your family’s reputation to protect. That is where your priorities lie foremost.” Anna affectionately places her hand on her son’s cheek. “Think of your military career, dear. Think of us. Your father is not here to intercede. In his absence, I have faith you will do the right thing.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Slowly, Jane feels her strength returning and can’t remember when she has ever been that sick before. Whatever it was came on so quickly.

  As Jane recovers, Mary makes a point of leaving the incident of the box and Madame Néve off limits. She is determined Jane must concentrate on getting well first and has made sure the box remains out of sight with Jane’s money and her precious chatelaine safe inside, “Where they will stay until I am sure you are fit.”

  Mary takes her meals with Jane, watching her closely, personally seeing to it she is comfortable and has everything she needs. While Jane rests, Mary sits patiently in her rocker with her needlepoint by the window, vigilant and untiring. Devoted to her care. During the days, Mary insists on reading out loud to Jane. She selected Wuthering Heights, one of her favorites. Jane told Mary she knew the story and left it at that. To be honest, Jane had never read the book. Actually, it is one of the old black and white classics she had discovered when flipping through cable channels for something to watch.

  When Jane improved enough, Mary brought out her revered collection of Journal des Dames et des Modes and the two women spent hours talking about Paris fashion and comparing it to the colored fashion plates of beautiful gowns, dresses, hats and bonnets in more recent issues of Godey’s Lady’s Books. Mary tells Jane about her travels overseas and her impressions of London, a dank, crowded place that smells of urine.