Ghosts of Graveyards Past (24 page)

 

Arthur wrote with a shaky hand, propped on his side in a bed at the hospital outside of Bridgeport. The candle flame wavered uncertainly on the table beside him, casting his writing into shadow every few seconds. It didn't break his concentration. His hand filled the page with a string of thoughts and feelings unchecked by any force.

He looked at the words, raw and bleeding on the page as any physical wound could be. Words too harsh for a lover's eyes, some might say, but there was little other choice for one in his position. It was either share his pain with someone who cared or else go mad waiting for death to come for him in this dank, smelly corridor.

They had given up on him, the doctors who practiced here. He was given supplies to treat his wound, a breakfast and supper tray left by his bedside as he slept. Too many others needed their attention, men who coughed in their sleep all night and bawled with pain as infected limbs were cut away by the surgeon's steel tools.

His haversack, along with all its contents, had been lost to the chaos of the battle. For stationary, he was forced to borrow off the patient in the next bed, a soldier whose jaw was partly removed when a Minié ball ricocheted off the tree beside him.

 

Believe me when I write that the hope of seeing you again is all that remains to comfort me. The doctors here have drawn up a furlough slip on my behalf, fearing this injury will leave me vulnerable to infection from others in this ward. It may be weeks before my commander receives it, but I intend to live however long it takes to make it back to you. We will meet again, Mariah, if only long enough to say good-bye.

 

 

 

 

18

 

Con unwrapped the bandage to find jagged scarring where the chisel had cut his hand. Flexing the fingers experimentally, he caught sight of the outline where his wedding band used to rest. The lines had grown faint, the ring itself stashed in a bedside drawer with a few other mementoes from the woman who gave it to him.

Three months. That was how long since he'd removed it, the biggest stride in a two-year grieving process. At times, he thought it would never end; other days—the last few even—he felt a glimmer of hope for something beyond the endless cycle of pain and regret.

A car's motor hummed in the distance. Miss Cade was late for their expedition, yet he wouldn't have minded a little more time before they were face to face. Tossing the bandage in the trash, he reached for his jacket.

What made him suggest this, anyway? The answer came as a flash of memory from their carving lesson.
That
had been a mistake, one inspired by the notion of Jenna looking him over, admiring his work with the stone.

Today, he would need to be more careful. No reason to take a moment of attraction and blow it out of proportion. Especially when she'd be leaving in a few days, and he'd be back in his workshop, fashioning memorials for people he'd never laid eyes on.

He grabbed a backpack and strode to the door.

Jenna had parked beside the gate and was already climbing from the car.

“I had a late night,” she apologized, untangling a familiar knapsack from the passenger seat. She had stuffed her curls into a clip, small wisps escaping to brush her face. The flyaway look suited her, as did the frayed jeans and green jacket that set off her eyes.

“We've got plenty of time,” he assured her. “Though I'm sort of wondering what you found to keep you up so late in Sylvan Spring.”

“Love letters,” she replied, pulling a coffee thermos from her knapsack. Seeing his raised brows, she added, “Someone else's. Apparently, the soldier was writing to the doctor during the war.”

“But he married someone else,” Con said, puzzling over the newest revelation.

“I'm hoping the rest of Dr. Moore's notes will shed some light on that.” Unscrewing the thermos lid, she asked, “Want some? It's hazelnut, a little strong—”

He shook his head, but in truth, he liked the friendly gesture. Maybe that's what bothered him about it, since shying away from strangers was second nature these days. Which meant something about this one must be different, the connection strong enough to threaten firm habits.

Frost crunched beneath their shoes. The path to the Lesley homestead was overrun with weeds and brush, more so than he remembered from the last time he'd been there. He pulled back low hanging branches, the rocky terrain forcing him to take her arm at one point as they navigated a slope.

“Thanks,” she said, brushing some twigs from her jacket. “It's beautiful back here. Even untamed like this—or maybe that's what makes it so pretty.”

“Not many people roam off the main path,” he told her. “A few tourists interested in the spring or kids looking to get away from the town.”

That was why he'd come there in his youth. Later years had been about the stone work or nature walks with Colleen. She would take cuttings from some of the wild plants, and then coax them to take root in her garden at home.

Right now, hardly anything bloomed among the fall landscape. He did notice the purple hue of violets sprouting beside a hollowed tree trunk.

Jenna saw them too, plucking one to inhale its scent. “I saw this shape carved into one of the old cemetery's headstones—the one belonging to the soldier's wife, I think. Do you know if it has a special meaning or anything?”

“Roughly a hundred.” He smiled at the incredulous look this earned him. “Faithfulness, modesty, innocence—those are some of the common ones. There's always the possibility it was just her favorite flower,” he added.

Twirling the stem between her fingers, she studied its delicate build. “You know,” she began, “looking at so many headstones, learning the symbolism behind the designs…it makes me wonder what I would choose.” She looked up, green eyes thoughtful. “It's weird, I know, but important, too. A last message to leave behind, kind of like the Celtic symbol was for these people. Only I'd want it to be something more hopeful than what they chose.”

The topic shouldn't take him by surprise, considering the nature of his work. For some reason, though, he found himself uncertain how to reply as they continued down the path.

“You must have thought about it,” she persisted. “Or at least have some idea what you want.”

He shrugged. “I guess it crossed my mind a few times. My instructor carved his own headstone. He didn't want anyone saying the quality was inferior to ones he made for other people.”

This gave her pause, eyes widening with the image.

“Don't worry,” he said, a soft chuckle escaping. “I'm not thinking of adopting the same plan. Sawyer was more of an artist than I am with a whole legacy of stone carvers to defend. I have an easier time separating myself from the work.”

Her lips formed a relived smile as she glanced his way. “You know, a few of the markers I found at previous sites were actually signed by the craftsmen who made them. When I traced them, it turned out their descendants had passed the trade down through the generations.”

Con nudged a broken tree limb from the path, its wood grown spongy with decay. “Sawyer didn't have any children,” he said. “Which is how I ended up inheriting his stonecutting tools.” An irony, since the mason never quite trusted him with them in life. He had done his best to preserve them since, and to render the kind of work his mentor would have approved of in his begrudging way.

“It must have meant a lot to him,” Jenna observed. “Having someone to carry on the skills he learned from his family. To keep his memory alive, so to speak.” There was something wistful in her tone, and the gaze that quietly sought his.

“I think so. He wasn't the emotional type, but there was a sort of unspoken pride, at times. Hopefully, I can live up to his standards,” he added, thinking the possibility was still years away in terms of his talent and experience.

By now, they could hear the flow of spring water somewhere nearby. Pointing up a steep incline, Con told her, “We're here. The Lesley homestead—or what remains of it, anyway.”

A stone foundation and skeletal frame to a house that burned long ago. Big, forked trees and wild berry bushes; a pile of firewood some visitor must have left, since people often camped there without permission.

Before he could offer assistance, Jenna had scrambled ahead of him up the rocky path.

When he caught up to her, she was attaching a lens to a film camera.

The violet blossom was tucked in her hair, the rich purple like a jeweled clip. “My agent prefers digital pictures, but I try to include the old-fashioned kind, too,” she explained, waving a battered-looking 35 millimeter. “It seems more appropriate, somehow, photographing history with vintage gear.”

He couldn't help smiling a little at this idea, thinking it was typical of someone who stayed up half the night reading one hundred year old love letters, or spent the following day trudging through acres of wilderness in search of a few weathered monuments.

“The graves are towards the back of the property,” he told her. Waiting for her to loop the camera strap over her neck, he led her to the small grove where three fieldstones were nestled among the leaves.

Time had been hard on the poorly carved tombs. Jenna crouched beside them, snapping pictures of one that was marked simply as
BLAIN, 16 YRS.
Photographing the other two, she asked, “When did the house burn?”

“Years ago, I think. No one was living in it, and a drought was causing some wildfires.”

She nodded, carefully tracing the shape that was cut into one of the stones. “Dr. Moore mentioned the Lesley family among her patients. I suppose they were part of the epidemic.”

“So that's what it means,” he said, with a nod to the design. “All the stones with Celtic V-rods belong to fever victims?”

“Some of them do,” she said. “But if the symbol was legendary enough, I suppose other people may have chosen it based on the stories they heard. With no dates on the graves, it's hard to know for sure.”

They drifted towards the remains of the house, peering over the stone wall to see where a crawl space used to be. Bits of glass and pottery layered in the dirt gave off flashes of color in the morning light.

“I can't believe places like this are still abandoned,” Jenna said. “There's so much potential, with the woods and the spring around it. Doesn't anyone else see that?”

He rested against the foundation, hands stuffed inside his coat pockets. “The county owns most of the land. Maybe they'll arrange for a campground or hiking trails at some point. Or a grave walk,” he added, with a nod to the woods below.

“If the monuments are ever restored,” she reminded him.

The words made him stiffen instinctively, waiting for her to push him to make it a special project. With anyone else, it would have been unbearable, but she had a way of making him question his deepest motivations. Including the ones he considered his only choice in his current state of mind. “The graveyard won't be forgotten anymore,” he pointed out. “You've given it a better chance for preservation than most places here. Right now, the Lesley homestead is pretty much the only site from these woods people still recognize.”

“Speaking of that,” she said, digging through her bag, “I have something to show you.”

She unfurled what seemed to be a scanned image from a map. The date 1876 was penciled in the corner, the layout showing the Sylvan Spring schoolhouse, church, post office, and other period buildings. It showed where the homesteads had been, the property owner's names inscribed by some of them. The Lesleys—which belonged to a new owner even then—was among those located by the spring, a gray squiggle representing the body of water.

“Here's the graveyard,” Jenna said, indicating a piece of acreage called Crooked Wood Cemetery. “And over here,” she said, running a finger to the south, “must be your property—the Darrow residence. Ever heard of them?”

He shook his head, dumbfounded by the map's detail. A brief glance revealed names that were still familiar to the region. The Strouds, whose descendant worked at the funeral home; a family called Girvin, whose distant relation ran the herb shop where Colleen had worked. There was also the Maudell house, proudly situated off the town square, its architecture still a testament to the early Victorian era.

“This says the soldier lived near town.” He spotted the Widlow homestead beside that of the Camdens. “I wonder why he's buried out here then.”

“More answers I don't have,” she said. “Yet.”

Placing the map aside, he hoisted his backpack onto the wall. “I thought we could use some refreshments,” he explained, taking out some fruits and crackers he'd packed that morning.

Jenna's face held surprise as he handed her a bottle of water. “You're better at this than I am,” she said, uncapping the bottle. “Coffee was the first thing I thought of on my way here. Guess my city upbringing shows, huh?”

“Here and there, yes.” He rolled an apple in his palm, conscious of the urge to flirt. To provoke the girl before him with some remark in hopes of earning a smile or touch, however brief. The realization brought warmth to his face, a warning he chose to ignore with his next comment. “You should consider bringing a guide for all your outdoor research. Someone who knows caffeine is just a way to zap your energy partway through the hike.”

“I got through trails in three other states just fine, thanks.” She grinned, peeling an orange to savor its tangy flavor. Gazing into the forest below, she asked, “Do you ever miss a different kind of atmosphere? I'm guessing this place was sort of a culture shock after your life in Kansas City.”

“It was a hard adjustment. I didn't miss any particular place so much as the sense of belonging somewhere. In some ways, these woods are the closest I've come to that feeling anywhere I've been.”