by Karen White
“No way am I wearing that thing. I won’t be able to breathe. Please put the rest of the stuff over me and we’ll just forget about the corset.”
Sukie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But all ladies wear corsets!”
I took the offending garment from her hand to examine it. My fingers kneaded the unbending whalebone stays and I quickly thrust it back at her. “Thank you for your help—it’s greatly appreciated. But I really would prefer not to wear a corset. If anybody complains, just tell them that I refused. Besides, I don’t have enough curves for a corset to hold in. Nobody will even notice.”
She shook her head slowly while clucking her tongue but complied with my wishes.
The next part of the ensemble was almost as bad as the corset. It resembled a cage with a framework of flexible steel hoops joined by vertical bands of fabric tape. I stepped into it and Sukie tied it at my waist. On top of this came two white cotton petticoats. I was heavily perspiring by this time and I longed for a tank top and shorts.
Finally, a simple long-sleeved cotton blouse with a matching skirt in a light green floral pattern was put on me, and Sukie deftly buttoned up the front. I felt completely confined and amazed at how heavy the whole ensemble was. But at least I was done. Or so I thought.
Sukie looked at my straight shoulder-length hair and shook her head. But after suffering for what seemed like an hour of her brushing and pinning my hair, she had arranged it in a neat coil in the back of my head, a severe part bisecting my scalp. Nodding with approval, she stood back to get a better view. “You have beautiful hair. And that dress match your eyes. Don’ know why you dress in them men clothes.”
While adding two decorative combs to my new hairstyle, she caught my reflection in the mirror. “Mr. Stuart say he found you up on Moon Mountain. What you doin’ up there?”
Something flickered in her eyes as I looked at her. “I was looking for my daughter, but I couldn’t find her. I . . . lost her on Moon Mountain when she was just a baby, and I hoped . . .” My voice drifted off, and I stared at her reflection again.
“She die?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. She just . . . disappeared.”
She quickly reached for something around her neck. It appeared to be a small red flannel bag attached to a thin cord. She touched it briefly and then tucked it back into the neck of her dress. “Moon Mountain’s a mighty strange place. I know only one other lady who would go up there by herself,” she said, patting the lump inside her dress.
“That’s really all I remember. I think I hit my head. I’m sure it’ll all come to me eventually.”
She nodded and smiled approvingly at my new hairstyle. “That look nice. I’ll tell Miz Julia you dressed.”
I gave up trying to sit down on the bed and just leaned against it, assuming it would be a short time before the mistress of the house found me. I looked at my wrist, forgetting again that my watch was gone. A half hour passed before I finally got up and opened the door.
Craning my neck out of the doorway, I looked around the hallway. As far as I could tell, I was alone in the house. All the sounds of people going about their daily business seemed to be coming from outside. My surroundings greatly unsettled me. I was familiar with it, yet it was different. The hardwood banister beneath my hands was the same, as was some of the furniture. But the knickknacks and wall hangings all belonged to another family, making me a stranger in my own home. I looked closely at a needlepoint on the wall. It was an elaborate sampler with all the letters of the alphabet in an uneven line and a small Bible verse at the bottom. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. The bottom right contained the stitcher’s signature, Margaret Elliott, May 14, 1814, age twelve years.
I descended the stairs cautiously, the voluminous skirts hampering every step. I should have practiced walking and sitting down in the privacy of my own room before venturing out, as my skirts threatened to throw me headfirst down the stairs. I couldn’t see my feet, so I hovered precariously over each step as I felt my way down. In the main hallway below, a cool breeze flowed through the passageway and alleviated a little of the mugginess that clung to my skin. I thought of the central air-conditioning that Michael and I had installed, and longed for the cold blast of air from a vent and an ice-cold Diet Coke from the fridge.
Ghostlike, I flitted through the rooms, examining every detail. There was no kitchen and that puzzled me at first, until I remembered that it would have been separated from the main house to protect it from fire. In the front parlor the upright piano stood in the same spot I remembered. The dark wood was polished to a gleam, and the G key above middle C still had its ivory veneer top. The smooth keys beckoned me and I itched to feel them under my fingers, to touch something hard, solid, and real.
After quite a lot of maneuvering, I arranged myself on the bench by tucking all my skirts under me and began to play Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” I was soon lost in the magic of the music and my surroundings faded from my sight, to be replaced by images of my grandmother whispering her warning to me and, surprisingly, of Stuart. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I had never fainted in my life, and it irked me to think that he might have thought that I was some damsel in distress who needed rescuing. I had survived on my own for more than a year and I had long since outgrown the need for Prince Charming.
As the last note died, solitary applause sounded behind me. Startled, I swung around on the bench and neatly clipped the edge of the music stand with my elbow. My injured shoulder ached at the movement, and I winced as the stand crashed down on the keyboard. The sheet music fluttered to the floor and scattered throughout the room. I unceremoniously scooted off the bench, my skirts held high, to face my audience and found myself staring into the mirth-filled blue eyes of Stuart Elliott.
“You could have given me a heart attack! Do you normally sneak up on people with the intent to scare the living daylights out of them?”
Without waiting for a reply, I bent down to start picking up the music and my large skirts tipped the bench so that it came crashing down on the hardwood floor. Stuart righted it, then leaned over to help me with the music. His thick black hair fell over his forehead as he bent down, and he impatiently brushed it away.
“What’s this?” he asked. He was holding what looked like a piece of ivory. I looked up at the keyboard and found that the ivory veneer on the G key was missing. A small tremor went up my spine, as well as a foreboding sense of déjà vu.
My voice shook as I reached for the ivory. “I am so sorry. I’m not usually so clumsy.” I looked up into his face again and saw him struggling not to laugh. I not too gently thrust the ivory back into his hand. “Usually only when people sneak up and startle me.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Truitt. I stepped into the house to tell my sister-in-law the doctor was riding up and heard the piano. I did not mean to startle you.”
He didn’t look the least bit sorry as his mouth kept twitching into a smirk. I started to say something else when I heard a throat cleared.
The tall, thin man standing in the doorway looked down his slightly beaked nose at Stuart and me on our hands and knees, scrabbling around the floor, picking up music. He appeared not to be amused. I wasn’t sure about the habits of dress of the times, but the collar of his shirt could not have been stiffer. Head movement seemed nearly impossible. His eyes were a soft, liquid brown and they regarded me with cool condescension. He had elaborate sideburns that made me think of Elvis Presley, and I grinned involuntarily. His soft chin wagged back and forth as he stared at my silly grin, and that made me grin even more.
Stuart must have guessed that the appearance of this strange visitor was the object of my merriment and rose suddenly to intervene before I began to laugh outright.
“Dr. Charles Watkins, allow me to introduce Mrs. Laura Truitt.”
The young doctor bowed st
iffly and murmured, “My pleasure, ma’am.”
The appearance of the mistress of the house interrupted the pleasantries, even more of her light brown curls escaping from her bun and framing her oval face.
“Hello, Charles. I see you have already met our guest, although I do not believe that she and I have been properly introduced. She was exhausted when she first arrived, and somehow my manners abandoned me temporarily.”
Julia must have been working outside, because her face was beaded with perspiration, but her manner was cool and collected as she approached me with outstretched hands. With a warm smile she said, “I am Julia Elliott. Welcome to Phoenix Hall.”
“I’m Laura Truitt, and thank you so much for taking me in.”
Julia turned to the doctor and explained, “Mrs. Truitt saved my Willie’s life today when he was attacked by a wildcat. She hurt her shoulder, and I would like you to take a look at it to ensure nothing was broken.”
“Oh, really, that’s not necessary. It’s fine now—just a little bruised. I have full range of motion in it.” I demonstrated this by moving my arm as if preparing to serve a tennis ball, and involuntarily grimaced as the pain shot through my body.
The doctor frowned and walked toward me. “Yes, I see, but Mrs. Elliott would like me to examine it anyway.”
I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse but stopped before I unfastened the second one, as the doctor’s face turned the color of a cherry tomato.
“I would not dream of impinging upon your modesty, Mrs. Truitt. I will do my examination through your clothes.”
With a slight cough, Stuart excused himself and Julia from the room, closing the door behind them.
The doctor motioned for me to sit on the piano bench. Remembering how lethal my uncontrollable skirts were, I ignored his suggestion and instead sat down on a more stable-looking wingback chair, which appeared to be covered in horsehair.
He placed his left hand firmly on my back while he palpated my shoulder with his other. He stared at a spot over my head to avoid eye contact with me. In the course of his ministrations, he must have noted the absence of a corset.
“Mrs. Truitt, I cannot help but notice that you are not wearing a corset. Do you have some sort of breathing affliction?”
“No, Doctor, I don’t—but I would if I forced myself into one of those contraptions.”
He stopped in his muscle manipulations of my arm and dropped the limb as if he couldn’t bear to touch it any longer. “I see,” he said in a tone indicating that he did not. “A follower of Catharine Beecher. The thought that corsets restrict a woman from exercise and deform her body is balderdash.” He stepped back and closed his black doctor’s bag. “Nothing seems to be broken, just bruised. I suggest restricting your movement of the shoulder, and it should be better in a few days.”
“Thank you.” I wanted to contradict his opinion on corsets, but kept my mouth closed. If this really wasn’t a dream from which I’d be waking soon, I needed as many friends as I could get.
“Where are you from, Mrs. Truitt? Your voice has the inflections of the South, but your mannerisms are more reminiscent of the North.”
His question caught me off guard, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“To be honest, I think I hit my head or something, because I don’t seem to remember much. I remember my name and that I’m a widow, but not much else.” I had watched enough soap operas in my day to know that amnesia was a good explanation for just about anything.
“Oh, really?” His expression told me he didn’t believe a word.
His examination apparently over, he walked to the door and opened it. Julia appeared in the doorway, an expression of concern on her face. “Is everything all right? No broken bones?”
The doctor’s stern features softened as he looked at Julia. “No. Physically she seems to be fine.”
Julia smiled. “Wonderful. Now, Charles, would you like some coffee? And I insist that you stay for supper.”
“Why, yes, thank you, Julia. That is kind of you.”
Stuart reappeared and the two men found seats while Julia went to see about the coffee. I remained where I was to avoid any further embarrassment.
Stuart turned to me. “Mrs. Truitt, when I met you, you said something about a Mimosa Boulevard here in Roswell.”
I set about straightening my skirts to cover my long pause as my mind raced about for an explanation. “Yes, I do remember. I live on Mimosa Boulevard. I thought it was in Roswell, but you told me there’s no such street.”
“No, there is not,” interjected the doctor. “Your case is very interesting, Mrs. Truitt. I know a woman’s mental health is weak at best and, when put under the least bit of strain, tends to suffer greatly. I am sure after a period of bed rest your memory will return.” He stressed the word “memory,” making it sound as if it wasn’t my memory that was the problem, but something more akin to my character.
I opened my mouth to make some retort about the insufferability of male chauvinists, but closed it quickly. I needed their help, and offending them would not advance my cause.
Softly, Stuart said, “You also mentioned something about your daughter.”
I nodded and looked at the doctor hopefully. If what I believed had happened to me had also happened to Annie, then maybe this was a chance to find her. Surely if a child had been found abandoned she would have been brought to a doctor for medical attention. “Yes—she was only a baby.” I paused, wondering if the five years that had passed in my own time would be the same in this time. “Perhaps you treated, or heard of, a child found on the mountain?”
He tucked his chin into his neck and shook his head vigorously. “No. Not ever. And how does a mother misplace a child?”
My eyes stung and I ducked my head, but not before I saw Stuart reach over and grab the doctor’s arm.
Julia arrived, followed by Sukie carrying a large tea tray. I looked closely at the tray, recognizing it as the one Mrs. Cudahy had used to serve Michael and me tea on the first day I had seen this house. Despite the heat, I shivered, and remembered something Mrs. Cudahy had said about how the family’s treasures had been saved during the war. Something about being forewarned.
Julia poured and handed everyone a cup. I noticed her hands as she bent to her task: small and well-tended but somehow capable-looking, too. Finished, she sat down next to me on the sofa.
I brought the cup to my face and noticed a peculiar aroma. I took one sip and was rewarded with a taste so bitter and so awful that I literally wanted to spit the vile stuff out rather than swallow it. I could feel three pairs of eyes on me and I made my throat swallow.
“What kind of coffee is this?” I asked politely. “It doesn’t taste like any I’ve ever had before.”
“Actually, it is made from a recipe that Stuart brought back from the army. It is parched and roasted acorns with a little bit of bacon fat. I don’t believe it is so bad once you get used to it.” Julia smiled feebly. “Thanks to the Yankee blockades, we have not seen a real coffee bean since ’sixty-one.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Well, wherever you are from, it would appear that you have been drinking real coffee.” The doctor stared openly at me, as if I were Abe Lincoln himself sitting in that parlor. “Perhaps William has sent you down here to spy on us.”
Julia’s cup slammed into her saucer. “Charles, you are being rude to our guest, a woman who saved my son’s life, and I demand an apology.”
Charles looked chagrinned at her reprimand, but continued to eye me warily. “My apologies, Julia, if I have offended you. But she has not denied it.”
“Who’s William?” I asked, feeling nervous at the mention of the word “spy.” As if I needed these sorts of accusations to further complicate matters. Spying during wartime was no light matter.
Julia turned to me. “He is my husband; Willie’
s father and Stuart’s brother.”
I turned to the doctor. “I promise you that I’ve never met William before. And I’m certainly no spy.” I took another sip of my coffee, hiding my grimace, and wondering why Julia’s husband would spy on his own family.
The mention of the year prompted me to ask, “What is today’s date?”
The doctor paused briefly before replying, “June second.”
The thought had barely crossed my mind before I voiced it. “Was there a lunar eclipse seen with a comet last night?”
The room grew silent, with only the sound of the ticking of the hall clock. Dr. Watkins narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, there was. Why do you ask?”
I ignored his question, my mind already racing in another direction. “What year is it?”
The doctor didn’t try to hide his exasperation. “It’s 1863.”
My mind spun back to all the history lessons I had ever sat through at the side of my father, a self-described history buff, and all of my studies in school. I remembered a biography of General William T. Sherman I had done in honors history in tenth grade but nothing specific about the year 1863.
“Please help me refresh my memory. What’s happening in the country right now?”
Either he didn’t believe a woman could actually be a spy or he’d forgotten that he’d just accused me of being one, because the doctor proceeded to tell me everything I would want to know if I were, indeed, a spy. “This is pure conjecture, mind you, gleaned from listening to our wounded heroes and reading between the lines of the newspaper, but I believe that our General Lee has finally taken the initiative and is attempting to bring the war into Lincoln’s backyard. I imagine he will be crossing the Potomac any day now and heading north toward Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Smack-dab in the middle of Yankee territory. I wish I could be with them, but I know this town needs a doctor more than General Lee needs one more soldier.” The doctor crossed one skinny leg over another and settled back in his chair.
