Ghosts of Graveyards Past (20 page)

A small cough summoned her thoughts back to the present.

“You look lost.” Con studied her thoughtfully from across the table, ice melting to water in his tea as he moved it aside to rest his arms in its place. “Anything I can help with?”

She could use a time machine, a portal to the past that opened to the year 1862. Neither was a reasonable request, but she could think of more practical ones. Preserving history was just as important as understanding it, and the wooded cemetery was in limbo until the county decided how to protect it.

“There is one thing you could do for me,” she told him. “A sort of temporary favor.”

“Anything,” he said.

 



 

The overhead light flickered then came to life, bathing the interior of the masonry shop in a soft glow.

“Thank you again for doing this,” Jenna said, easing a cardboard box onto the nearest counter. Inside were pieces of the broken tombs they had cleaned and photographed that morning. They had marked their original cemetery spots with corresponding tags, packed the fragments in plastic bags, and then placed them in boxes she'd had in the trunk of her car.

“I'll feel safer knowing they're here—at least until something permanent can be arranged.” She gave the contents a farewell pat, turning to see Con set his container on the floor.

It was the heavier of the two boxes, the fragments in large chunks that could be reassembled for future display, an event that Jenna didn't see happening, unless it was supervised by the craftsman himself.

“Will the county apply for a grant?” He was gazing into the depths of the box, a last look before he taped its lid shut. She detected a trace of discomfort in the words, as if he shared her thoughts on the cemetery's fate.

“They might,” she answered. “Of course, that sort of project takes time—and interest from people in the community.”

She trailed her fingers over dusty countertops, footsteps taking her to a work bench in the far corner. A canvas cloth covered a work-in-progress, making her think of the cross-shaped stone she had seen on her first visit there. On impulse she gave the cloth a tug. It slid soundlessly to the floor, revealing a monument of polished black beneath.

Ribbon was engraved to loop a pair of hearts together, the first of these bearing the word ‘
FOR
' in old-fashioned, block lettering. White pencil marks outlined the second part of the message,
‘ALWAYS
' inside the companion heart.

“I'm sorry,” she said, blushing as the craftsman came beside her. “I should have asked first.”

“Like it?” He ran a hand across the surface, brushing aside specks of dust. “It's for a couple's monument, World War II era. Their first marker was a wooden one that burned in a wildfire.”

“It's perfect,” she said. “Very romantic design.”

“The family wanted something more elaborate than the original marker. There'll be more ribbon for the border and some gold leafing to help the lettering stand out.”

As he spoke, he rolled up his sleeves and reached for a chisel and a small brass-handled mallet that resembled a kind Jenna had seen in sculpting kits. Angling the chisel inside the markings for the letter
‘
A
'
, he brought down the mallet with a sharp
ping!

Quick, firm taps chipped away layers of stone. Jenna thought of a whittler shaping a piece of wood, amazed the substance could be so rough, yet delicate at the same time. Her gaze followed Con's expert rhythm, the play of muscle beneath his skin as he deepened grooves inside the pencil lines.

“It looks effortless,” she said, amazed by the fluid motion. “Like the tools are a part of you.”

He nodded, surprise in the blue eyes. Then, holding out the chisel, he said, “Now, it's your turn.”

“Me?” Jenna's tone was incredulous, as if he were asking her to finish a master's canvas when she had never dipped a brush in the palette. “I'll mess it up,” she said.

“Slate requires more precision than strength to mold.” He waited a breath's pause before adding, “If you'd like to try, I could show you.”

The offer was more than a kind gesture, she knew. The artist's work was more or less an extension of himself, a glimpse to his innermost thoughts and emotions. This was a chance to experience part of his world, a taste of the forgotten craft she had learned to love these past weeks. For this reason, she found herself, asking, “Where do we start?”

They had barely touched before, mostly accidental brushes while exchanging some object. But Con was all but holding her as they began, arms pressed close to her sides as he guided her hands in place over the stone.

“You've got this,” he promised, his fingers closing over hers to grip the tools carefully in place.

A tremor passed through her, whether in response to the contact or the challenge of carving, she wasn't sure. If she turned her head, she would feel the sandpaper of his jaw, his breath soft on her face when he instructed, “Ready—and now.”

A steady clink of metal was the only sound as they worked the chisel over the stone. Con turned the instruments where they needed to go, his pressure firm but gentle on her fingers.

“That's good,” he encouraged. “Stay with the line; it's your map.”

She let his touch guide her, vaguely aware of the strength in his build, the smoky scent of aftershave filling her breath. Confusion blended with wonder as she watched the shape taking form beneath the chisel's tip.

Briefly, Con relaxed his grip, forcing her to take the lead. A sense of panic was quickly replaced by astonishment for how natural it seemed. The tools did most of the work, shaving layers of stone with almost feather-light taps.

Stroke by stroke, they filled the pencil outline, until a swirling letter
‘L'
took its place. Dust floated off the surface, bits of stone scattered across the hollowed portion. Their fingers slid apart, the tools falling to the work bench with a soft clink.

“Well.” Jenna's laugh was shaky as they pulled away. She avoided his glance, afraid a blush might be on her face. “Thank you,” she managed at last. “I never…that was different than I pictured.” She stroked the newly fashioned letter, as if to check it was real, scarcely believing her hand was responsible for its appearance, despite the very real memory of Con's instruction. Her skin burned with the thought, her heart pounding despite the distance now between them.

“That was impressive,” he said, with a nod to the monument. “Beginners usually put too much force in the mallet and bruise the stone. Your pacing was perfect.”

Did she imagine the catch in his tone? Tension was visible in the hands that gripped the edge of the work bench in front of them. Hands that felt so confident when they held hers just moments before.

“I should go,” she said, fingers closing around the car keys in her coat pocket. “It's getting late, and there's not much else we can do for the cemetery. Not that I expect you to,” she added, realizing how presumptuous that sounded. “You've already helped more than enough by storing the broken headstones.” As she spoke, she moved towards the door.

Con held it open for her, his expression hard to read as he followed her down the gravel drive.

She had reached the car outside the gate.

“Wait. Miss Cade—Jenna.” He let the name hang in the air, as if asking permission to use it. When she didn't object, he continued, “There's something else you might want to see. The headstones at the Lesley property and another homestead near there. I don't know if all of them have the Celtic symbol, but it could be worth checking out—for your book, that is.”

“I can't ask you to spend more time on this,” she protested. Secretly, she wanted to accept the offer, but not because of anything to do with the impending manuscript. Then again, maybe his reason for making it was the same—less to do with her research than the emotions stirred in their brief carving lesson.

“What are you doing Thursday?” he asked, naming the day after she would call on Josephine Maudell for the soldier's letters. “We could meet here early, around eight o'clock. It's a few miles to cover, so you'd need walking shoes. “

Breath lodged in her throat along with the answer she
ought
to give. To see the stones would be nice but hardly necessary when she already had the wooded cemetery to document and so much research left with historical manuscripts.

Yet she found herself agreeing to the plan as she slid into the driver's seat. “I'll be here,” she told him, seeing the hint of a smile in return before she pulled away from the farmhouse. Her gaze sought his image in the rear view mirror until it vanished with the curve of the road.

 

 

 

 

15

 

The door opened to Jenna's second knock, the friendly face of Mrs. Maudell's caretaker on the other side. “Morning,” the woman smiled, pulling the door open wider. “She's expecting you—wore out from it, actually.” This was said with a laugh, as she motioned Jenna to follow her up the mahogany staircase.

The banister was scuffed, the carpet beneath their shoes faded here and there among the floral pattern. Glancing back at her, the nurse continued, “Mrs. Maudell doesn't get many visitors these days. Your showing up this way has been good for her—gives her a chance to talk about the past with someone who'll do more than nod and smile.”

“She's the one helping me,” Jenna insisted, pulling a notepad from her bag. “Does Mrs. Maudell have any family left in Sylvan Spring?” she wondered, as they drew near a door that was slightly ajar near the end of the hall.

“Just some distant connections, I think,” said the nurse. “Her husband's family, mostly. Her kin is somewhere over in Georgia last I heard.” She pushed the door the rest of the way open, revealing a spacious bedroom.

A fire crackled in the grate, heavy drapes pulled aside to shed light across the antique furnishings and rug.

Resting against the pillows in a four poster bed was Josephine Maudell, her bony frame wrapped in a quilted bed jacket. “Sit down,” she said, a frail hand patting the nearby chair. To the nurse she said, “Fetch the boxes from the wardrobe, Mollie. The two on the top shelf.” She picked excitedly at the comforter spread over her lap, gaze shifting to Jenna as she asked, “Do you take coffee, Miss Cade? I'll have Mollie fetch some—”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I had some with breakfast.” Taking the offered chair, she hung her knapsack across the back. “I have so many questions to ask you,” she said. “All for the book, of course. I hope you won't object to being quoted, since your ancestor was so prominent in the town's history.”

“I won't mind,” Josephine said, after a pause to consider. “I'm used to it, with the newspaper calling so often. If by some miracle I
should
live to be a hundred, they won't have anything left to write about.” She chuckled at Jenna's expression. Reaching to pat her fingers in a kindly gesture, she said, “Don't worry. I'm not counting on more than a few months at best. The doctor thinks he's smart, but I've read my future in the words and glances. Now it's just a matter of the Lord's timing.”

Jenna was saved from making a reply by the appearance of two flat storage boxes. The nurse placed them carefully in her lap and then withdrew to a wingback chair to take up her cross-stitch hoop.

“Open the top one,” Josephine said, shifting impatiently among the pillows.

Jenna did as instructed, moving aside the lid to find the contents shrouded in tissue paper. The layers folded back to reveal a jacket of gray wool, badly frayed and moth-eaten. The buttons were tarnished. A stain that might be rust or something worse spread across the left shoulder.

Lifting it gingerly from the box, she found a cotton shirt and trousers folded beneath. Both were full of holes and scarcely recognizable as any kind of historic treasures. Jenna's heart beat as if they came from the Smithsonian collection, hands shaking as she held them up for closer examination.

“Sewed by his mother, I've heard,” Josephine said, touching the jacket's edge. “Army regulation.”

“Arthur wore this. I…it's hard to wrap my mind around.” She shook her head, searching for something more intelligent to say. All she could think of was how the patient described in the doctor's notebook actually donned this uniform, wore it day to day through the camps and trails of a soldier's life. Wore it into battle, too, she supposed, with an eye for the dark stain that marred the fabric.

“He must have been tall,” she noted, taking in the size of the clothes. “Muscular, too.”

Beneath the uniform, she found a stack of stationary bound together with an old ribbon. “These must be his letters,” she guessed, running a finger along the edges to count a dozen or so pages. Not as many as she hoped for, but posting mail had been a more difficult process for members of the Rebel army. Sliding the ribbon off, she unfolded the topmost sheet. “Dearest Mariah,” she began. Her lips ceased to read the tender lines that followed as she stared in disbelief.
Mariah?

Slowly, she looked up to face the woman in the bed. “Your great-great grandfather,” she said. “He and the doctor…they were sweethearts?”

A slight chuckle escaped the older woman for her look of shock. “I suppose they must have been, for a time at least. He would have had many girls interested in him, a man of his looks and character. Including my great-great grandmother, who was a bit younger than him, I believe.”

Jenna glanced through the other letters, seeing all were addressed the same way. “It seems so strange,” she said. “Why would your family still have these? I mean, obviously things didn't work out between them.”

“Perhaps she gave them back to him. In a quarrel, or some such incident. He married somebody else, you know.” Her hostess wore a troubled look, as if trying to recall something well out of reach.