The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr) (12 page)

A large voice boomed from behind the servant, followed by the sudden appearance of the elaborately jeweled woman who belonged to the voice.
 
Mrs. Harriet Franklin was large in body, personality, wealth, and reputation.
 
Rooms seemed to shrink when she filled them.
 
Her billowing, silk and lace skirt only accentuated her wide girth, and
Rosabelle
was certain Mrs. Franklin intended it exactly so.
 
Mrs. Franklin loved the spotlight.

“Miss Raines!”
 
Mrs. Franklin bellowed.
 
“Such social graces are not necessary when addressing my Negroes,” she laughed.
 
“They may not be slaves any longer, but their station remains the same.
 
What a surprise to see you.
 
We thought you had another engagement.”

“Yes, but your lovely neighbor and our esteemed friend, Miss Amelia Patton, convinced us we should change our plans.
 
Is she here yet?”

“I’m afraid not.
 
Any moment I should imagine, though.
 
Lucy,
take
their capes and bonnets, then get back to help with the preparations.
 
There is much to do; I will not stand for slacking today.”

“
Yes’m
.”
 
The girl curtsied to her demeaning employer.
 
Lucy took Flora’s wrap and muff as they were handed to her,
then
reached for
Rosabelle’s
.
 
Rosabelle
smiled again at the shy Lucy, who looked more toward the floor than toward
Rosabelle
while attempting to take charge of her
overgarments
.
 
During the exchange,
Rosabelle
grazed Lucy’s cold, dry hand.
 
Before she could catch her breath, she was in another time.
 
Looking around, she knew
she
having another recollection.

But there was something oddly familiar about this memory.
 
She was crouched behind a massive bush that pricked her skin, and the air was cold and damp.
 
She heard the sound of a horse’s hooves on hard ground and a man calling another man’s name.
 
Crawling on hands and knees to peer around the bushes,
Rosabelle
gasped.
 
It was the fair man on the horse and the dark man tending the fields.
 
This was the same recollection as the one she experienced when introduced to Eli Witherspoon, with the exception that everything seemed enhanced a hundred fold.
 
Sounds were clearer, colors brighter, and she felt . . . emotion.

She looked down at her own body.
 
Dressed in peasant rags,
Rosabelle
had the hands of a small girl of eight or nine, maybe.
 
She was breathing shallow, erratic gulps of air.
 
She was afraid of this thin-skinned, blond man, but she did not know why.
 
As before, the dark-haired man greeted his visitor, words were exchanged and hands were shook.
 
Rosabelle’s
fear grew, knowing the end of this story and feeling hopeless to stop it.
 
Once again, when the dark man turned around, the fair man drew his blade and sank it deep into the farmer’s back.
 
Rosabelle
covered her eyes hard and screamed.
 
When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor in the
Franklin
’s foyer, with Mrs. Franklin waving a foul-smelling vial under her nose.

As usually happened after her recollections,
Rosabelle
was unable to speak.
 
She would remain mute for a minute or two.
 
Flora twittered on to the many women who had gathered around.

“She has these fainting spells.
 
I am so sorry to be a burden like this, as is
Rosa
.
 
So sorry.
 
She will be fine.
 
If someone can help me raise her from the floor . . .”

“The sofa in the parlor,” Mrs. Franklin exclaimed.
 
“She can recover there.”
 
Turning to one of the young women, she added, “Anna dear, fetch Dr. Gordon.”

Rosabelle
shook her head violently while scanning the room for Lucy.

“You are so kind, Mrs. Franklin,” Flora said.
 
“But
Rosa
does not want . . . I mean . . . she has already seen the doctor.
 
These are just mild fainting spells due to . . . low nutrition, you see.
 
A cup of tea and an orange or pear will bring her around just beautifully.
 
Thank you.
 
And some space, I should think
,
if you please.”

With the aid of Marjorie Baker, one of the other guests, Flora successfully moved
Rosabelle
to the parlor sofa where she found her voice to thank Marjorie for her help and kindness.

“Of course, of course.
 
Let us adjourn to the library – we will continue our meeting there – and leave
Rosabelle
and Flora some air.”
 
Mrs. Franklin herded the dozen women and their voluptuous hooped shirts out of the room, closing the tall double doors behind her.

Rosabelle
had been rubbing her head more for the drama than for the purpose of relieving an ache, but once the doors closed, she grabbed Flora’s arm.

“Sister!
 
You will not believe what I just witnessed.”

Flora tugged her arm away and pressed her index fingers to her own temples.

“
Rosa
, these dreams of yours – they come too often!
 
They wear me down.
 
Can you not control them?”

“No more than I can control the seasons.
 
Flora, I need you now.
 
Please, listen.”

“Fine.
 
What did you see this time?”

“It was the same recollection.”

“The same as what?”

“Eli Witherspoon.
 
When I touched Lucy’s hand, I witnessed the entire murder again.”

“Lucy?
 
Who is Lucy?”

“Mrs. Franklin’s maid.”

“You mean the Negro girl?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lucy must be one of the two men in my recollection.
 
Lucy and Eli Witherspoon.”

“Well,” Flora sniffed.
 
“That seems very odd.”

Rosabelle
fell back on the sofa laughing.

“What?” Flora asked.

“Is not all of this to be classified as odd, sister?”

Flora, who remained serious for just a moment, finally found the humor in it and laughed as well, which pleased
Rosabelle
.
 
She desperately needed her sister to accept her condition, as she was the only person in whom
Rosabelle
could confide completely.

The two sisters sat smiling silently on the sofa for a moment, soaking in the absurdity of their new reality.

“Do you suppose then,” Flora said finally, “that Lucy is going to murder Eli Witherspoon?”

“Or is he to murder her?
 
That is precisely what I need to determine.
 
This recollection was different.
 
More detail, and I was acutely aware that I was a young girl.
 
Do not ask me how I know this, but the dark man – he was my father.
 
Also, I felt true fear when the other man rode up on his horse.
 
Feeling fear when Lucy touched me – does this mean that Lucy is the murderer and Mr. Witherspoon the victim?
 
I don’t know.
 
I just don’t know.

“Do you suppose we should do something?” Flora asked.

“At the very least, for the moment, I would like to put my eyes on Lucy.”

A loud rapping at the front door, followed by a flurry of activity and female chattering, compelled
Rosabelle
and Flora to leave their temporary sanctuary.

Opening the double doors of the parlor, they found that the women had not yet moved to the library.
 
Instead, they were huddling around Mrs. Franklin who read aloud from a note in her hand.

“Miss Amelia Patton sends her regrets.
 
She is ill and thus will be unable to attend today’s meeting.”

Mrs. Franklin put a hand to her heart.
 
“Poor dear.
 
She has not been looking well these last two days.”

“I think she has worried herself sick,” piped in Marjorie Baker, who stood next to Flora.

“Worried
herself
about what?”
Rosabelle
asked.

“That cousin of hers, Eli Witherspoon.
 
Rumor has it he will be the next to die,” Marjorie responded more quietly for deeper effect.

“It is true,” clucked Mrs. Franklin in her strong, superior tone.
 
“But I must say though, that the young man most likely brought it all upon himself with his questionable ways.”

Rosabelle
put two comforting hands on Flora’s shoulders.

“What are you talking about?”
 
Flora’s voice trembled.
 
“Who would want to kill Mr. Witherspoon?”

“The Southern Avenger, of course,” Marjorie said.

“The Southern what?”
Rosabelle
asked, soaking in every bit of information thrown her way.
 
It was a stroke of luck for her that this conversation should arise now.
 
She could weed through truths and untruths later, but the current situation required her to take in everything.

“The Southern Avenger is what they are calling him.
 
He’s killed five men already.
 
All of them Northern sympathizers and traitors who put slaves before the needs of the South.
 
Rumor has it that Eli Witherspoon will be next.”

“Why?”
Rosabelle
asked.

Mrs. Franklin lowered her voice and
squinted
her eyes.
 
“He was a slave sympathizer during the war.
 
He helped many escape from their owners.”

Some of the women, obviously unaware of this rumor, grew wide-eyed and covered open mouths with their hands.
 
Others, who must have been privy to the scandalous gossip, nodded knowingly yet disapprovingly.

One of those women was Anna Cameron.
 
Seeing
Rosabelle’s
confusion, Anna took great satisfaction in sharing her own prized information.
 
Moving her face close to
Rosabelle’s
, she whispered.
 
“The word is that he loved a Negro girl who was killed transporting escaped slaves to the North during the war.
 
Can you imagine?
 
A man of fine, southern breeding keeping with Negroes?
 
If you ask me, he has it coming.”

“I think we should let God be the judge of that,”
Rosabelle
said.
 
“Unless the Lord has passed responsibility for judgment on to you, Anna.”
 
The room became as silent as a tomb.
 
“Now, has anyone ever seen this Southern Avenger?”

The women looked around at each other,
then
many shook their heads.

“So it is not a matter of any known fact that this killer is a man and not a woman?”

More heads were shaking to answer no.

Rosabelle
felt as if she was getting somewhere.
 
“Mrs. Franklin, tell me please, when did Lucy first come into your employ?”

“Early last week . . .” the hostess answered more quietly than usual.

“Do you remember the exact day?”

“Why, let’s see . . . let me think . . . what exactly does this all have to do with Mr. Witherspoon?”

“The day, Mrs. Franklin.
 
Please, it could be important.”

Mrs. Franklin stared into the distance while counting on her fingers.
 
She tapped her forehead once, which must have worked some miracle, because then she offered an answer.
 
“Tuesday.
 
I think.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well . . . yes.
 
Yes, I am sure.
 
I remember.
 
She came to our back door Tuesday morning looking for work after the
Pattons
had turned her down.
 
I had just come in need as we will be entertaining a house full of visitors from
England
soon.
 
I learned of the visitors on Monday evening.
 
Yes.
 
It was Tuesday.”