by Karen White
“You’re wrong about Matthew, you know.”
John’s aqua eyes searched mine for a long moment. “I hope so, Ava. For your sake.”
He said good-bye, then set his lips in a grim line as he walked away. I began walking in the opposite direction, toward the lighthouse and downtown shops, aware of the constant pull and suck of the ocean behind me, a reminder of how things changed while still remaining the same.
Bells tinkled over the door of Eternal Carnation as I entered the flower shop, the mixed fragrance of moist greens and scented blooms like a balm to my soul.
Arrangements sat in vases in various displays around the front of the store. The window was draped with blue and green streamers, with accents of yellow and orange mums and sunflowers shouting from clay containers in a nod to summer. It was eclectic, yet warm and tasteful, just as I would have expected in Tish’s store.
“Hello?” I called, just as Beth emerged from the back. She’d been helping her mother in the shop for a few hours each week during the summer.
“Wow, you must be a mind reader! My mom was just getting ready to call you. Apparently the British are very meticulous in their record keeping.”
When she didn’t continue, I almost rolled my eyes, recognizing the resemblance to her mother, who also liked to withhold important information until the words were dragged from her.
“Really?” I said calmly. “What did she find out?”
Tish appeared from the back of the store, her green apron with ETERNAL CARNATION printed in bold white letters nearly obscured by clinging baby’s-breath buds. She carried a ubiquitous yellow notepad and waved a paper in her other hand. “Dr. Hirsch’s assistant just faxed this over.”
I stared at her expectantly until she slid the paper across the glass counter, where various stuffed animals, mugs, ceramic vases, and balloons on sticks were displayed. I had to squint to read the very tiny handwritten script on the faxed sheet, as a flourish seemed to ornament the end of each letter, making it almost impossible to read.
“What is this?”
Tish and Beth looked at each other, their cheeks puffed out in identical expressions of pent-up excitement.
“Please. Could you just tell me instead of playing fifty guesses?”
With a sigh of disappointment, Beth came over to my side of the counter. “I’m used to reading old script, so it’s not too hard for me. These are the records of officers in the Royal Marines commissioned after 1793. They give full details of service, and some even include the name and profession of the officer’s father. Cool, huh? Except for the fact that even if they were married, a wife rarely gets mentioned.”
“Interesting,” I agreed, as I watched her finger slide down the short entries, trying to make out a name I recognized.
Her finger paused on a name and she tapped it with her fingernail. “Here’s your Thomas.”
I squinted at the fancy script, deciphering the entire name of Thomas Edward Enlow. It didn’t include a notation about a wife or child, but it did mention that his father’s name was John Patrick Enlow and that he was a sea merchant. The last part of the entry was written in a separate script, even harder to read than the first part. “What does this say here?”
Beth moved the sheet of paper so she could read it better, then raised her gaze to meet mine. “‘Presumed lost at sea. March 1815.’”
A breath of cold air shot down my spine. “Presumed lost at sea? Wouldn’t they know for sure?”
Beth shrugged. “The British were excellent record keepers, but their retreat from United States waters was pretty hasty. Both the Battle of New Orleans and the occupation here on Cumberland Island and on St. Simons happened about a month after the signing of the Treaty of Ghent, which ended hostilities between the nations and basically told the British to leave. They sure could have used a couple of smartphones and texting and saved themselves a lot of trouble, huh?”
She laughed at her own joke, but I couldn’t shake the numbing coldness that seemed to have settled at the back of my spine, and barely managed a smile.
“So who knows? It’s all conjecture at this point,” she continued. “Because it says ‘presumed,’ could mean that he’s our ‘T.E.’ who was buried with a bullet to the skull. Maybe it was assumed he was on another ship—they brought several warships to St. Simons—and when they eventually discovered he was missing they just assumed he’d gone overboard.”
“But wouldn’t they have done a roll call before they left?” Tish asked.
Beth nodded. “Probably. But then they would have all piled into smaller boats with all of their supplies to get to the bigger ships. Lots of confusion involved, I’m sure. So if something happened to our Thomas Enlow, it might have gone without notice.”
“But who would have wanted to shoot him?” Tish asked. “He’s the guy in Ava’s book who helped out with a malaria outbreak.” Her eyes widened. “Hey—isn’t the wife of Matthew’s ancestor supposed to have committed adultery with one of the men stationed here? Maybe there was a love triangle going on. That could certainly explain a bullet to the head.”
“No.”
Both women looked at me in stunned silence, and I realized I’d shouted the word.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just…I don’t think that was the case. I have a strong feeling about it; that’s all.” I studied the paper so I wouldn’t have to look at their matching concerned expressions. “So he never made it back to Northumberland?”
“Northumberland?” Tish asked. “How did you know he was from Northumberland?” She frowned down at her yellow notepad. “I know Dr. Hirsch’s assistant told me that’s where Thomas Enlow was from, but I don’t remember telling you.”
The bells rang over the door as another customer entered the shop, and Beth went to assist him.
“So what happens next?” I asked.
“They’ll probably search for an ancestor and then be able to do some sort of DNA test—it’s kind of difficult with bones that are so old, but Dr. Hirsch is hopeful, because the skull still had some hair on it.”
Was it auburn? I wanted to ask, but didn’t, because I already knew.
Eager to turn the conversation to something else, I asked, “Do you by any chance have a computerized list of the graves we inventoried in Christ Church cemetery?”
“Sure do. I just finished typing them up last week for the next historical society meeting.”
“Do you have access to the file here, by any chance?”
She shook her head. “Nope, sorry. But I could e-mail it to you when I get home—although that probably won’t be until after nine o’clock tonight. I have another wedding consultation.”
I drummed my fingers on the counter. “How well do you know the graves in the cemetery?”
“Try me. I’m always amazed by what useless bits of information get stored in my brain.”
“Smith. Georgina and Nathaniel.”
She frowned, deep creases forming between her brows. “There are Smiths all over that cemetery—there was more than one branch, and then they married into just about every other family on the island. I can’t say for sure that I’ve ever heard of Georgina, but that doesn’t mean her grave isn’t there. But I know for sure Nathaniel Smith isn’t on that list.”
“Why is that?”
She surprised me by answering right away. “Because he died up north somewhere—Boston, I think. Didn’t that lady at the library tell you that?”
I thought back to our trip to the archives, and my conversation with the research librarian. I’d been so intent on my search for Thomas Enlow that I’d completely forgotten. “Yes, I guess she did—but I don’t think she said his first name, and the name ‘Smith’ didn’t jump out at me.”
“I just know it was Nathaniel, because I went with Beth and her class to a field trip to the Savannah History Museum and saw the exhibit.”
Tish’s mention of the museum sparked a memory. “She gave me something—a brochure about the exhibit.”
“
Do you still have it?”
“I’m sure I do—I wouldn’t have thrown it away.” I thought hard, trying to retrace my movements, but coming up with nothing. “I have no idea what I did with it.”
“Don’t worry; I’m sure it will turn up. Things always do. But why the interest in Nathaniel and Georgina Smith?”
“I think that Pamela and Georgina were sisters.”
Tish crossed her arms. “Pamela the midwife—the one I read about in the archived letters?”
I nodded. “She was Geoffrey Frazier’s wife. The one who supposedly ran off with the British marine when they left the island in 1815. But I don’t believe it.” Before she could ask me why, I said, “The research librarian said something else about Nathaniel, too. Do you remember what it was?”
I was pretty sure I remembered, but I wanted to make sure.
“Yes. She said that at some point he sold his plantation on St. Simons and moved up north with his son and a freed slave.”
“That’s what I remember, too,” I said. But Nathaniel had no children, because Georgina couldn’t have any.
“What?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You look like you’re about to say something else.”
“Yeah. I was just wondering whether his wife moved up north with him, since they don’t mention her.”
“Good question. I’ll send over the list from the cemetery as soon as I get home, and that might at least give you one answer.”
I picked up my purse from the counter and put it over my shoulder. “I might not need the list. I’ve got a few hours before I’m on call, so I’m going to stop by the cemetery and see what I can find.”
I waved good-bye to Beth as Tish walked me to the door. “Is everything all right? With you and Matthew? I called him earlier about an order for houseplants for his office, and he sounded so down that I had to ask, and he told me he’d been in Savannah for a week. I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but I just wanted you to know that I’m available if you want to talk.”
I’d managed to occupy my thoughts with Nathaniel and Georgina so that I hadn’t had time to dwell on Matthew or my inability to confront him. I managed a smile. “We’re going through a little rough spot, but it’ll be fine. I don’t know how, but it will be.”
She smiled, then hugged me. “Good. I’ve never known two people who belonged together as much as the two of you.” She held open the door. “Call me and let me know if you find anything.”
“I will—thanks.”
The door jangled shut behind me and I stood still for a moment on the sidewalk, confused for a moment as I stared at the lighthouse that was the same but different, and the surrounding shops and restaurants that shouldn’t have been there at all. Then I abruptly turned and headed for my bicycle, eager to get to Christ Church and find Georgina one way or another.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Pamela
ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA
MARCH 1, 1815
The smell of the sickroom, of sweat and fever and ashes from the fireplace that had not been taken outside in nearly two weeks, permeated the house like a constant reminder that we lived within ever-shifting possibilities and waning hope. Geoffrey had banned me from the room for the last three days, allowing in only Jemma, Georgina, and Robbie, who was now well enough to leave his own sickroom. Georgina had assured me that it was because of Geoffrey’s feverish state that his thoughts and actions had become unreasonable, and that it would be best if I would comply so that he would not be overly agitated and sicken further.
I did not argue, having little energy left for anything except physical movement. But during the hours in which he slept I did not leave his side, and kept my hand on his chest to feel the reassuring beat. My heart ached, but my goal was to make him well, and with that accomplished we would take care to mend the frayed edges of our lives. He would then understand that my daily trips to Dr. Enlow were for him, and no other reason.
I looked up from where I sat in the parlor, repairing a hole in the knee in a pair of Robbie’s breeches, listening to the sound of a horse’s hooves pounding up the drive. I stood to peer out the window, nearly sick with anticipation, hoping against hope to see Thomas. For nearly a week the freezing temperature accompanied by rain mixed with snow had made it impossible for me to reach Thomas. My excitement plummeted as I recognized Nathaniel on his black gelding, its sides slick with sweat, plumes of steam rising from the large nostrils.
I stood as Nathaniel entered the house, the door swinging hard against the wall as he threw it open. He spotted me as I rushed toward him, my mending still clutched in my hand, his greatcoat bringing with it the smell of burning leaves and winter air.
“They’re leaving. All of them. They’re leaving today.” He held up a copy of the National Intelligencer. “John Couper found this at Cannon’s Point, left behind by the British. It’s more than a week old, but it says that a treaty with the British was signed in Ghent on December twenty-fourth, and ratified in Congress on February sixteenth. That was two weeks ago! Which means their confiscation of our property was unwarranted, as the war has been over for more than two months.”
I looked up to see Jemma at the top of the stairs, having heard the commotion from the sickroom. She looked down at me with questioning eyes, but I could not reassure her. All I could think of was Dr. Enlow and the medicine he had promised. And now he was leaving, and all of my hope would be gone.
“No. They cannot be leaving. I must go find Dr. Enlow and see when he plans to return.”
Nathaniel regarded me with compassion. “They have already struck down the tents at Cannon’s Point, and they’ve begun rowing supplies and soldiers down the Hampton River and to the ships anchored out in the sound. For several days now, they have been stealing wagonloads of our people and belongings. It is unconscionable.”
Jemma came down the stairs to stand next to me, as if she knew that Nathaniel’s news would be the final blow to my weakened state. I glanced down at the mending in my hand and saw that the wool was tear-splotched, the thread hopelessly tangled. I allowed it to slide from my hand. “No,” I said. “That cannot be true.”
“It is. I heard it from John Couper himself when he brought the newspaper to me. I wanted to head out to the encampment immediately to find the doctor, to see what could be done about procuring the medicine for Geoffrey, but Georgina insisted she go herself, since she already has an acquaintance with him and would know where to find him. I agreed, seeing as how it would expedite matters, and insisted she take our man, Aaron, for protection. I am afraid we do not have much time.”
He took his watch from his waistcoat. “Wait here and continue as you were. I told Georgina to return here directly to let you know what she has learned. In the meantime I need to alert our neighbors so they will have time to petition to have their people returned before the ships sail.”
I shook my head. “No, I cannot wait. Sitting here will kill me. If I head for Cannon’s Point, I will surely pass Georgina on the road. I will take Jemma with me so that I will not be alone. Mary will be here to care for Geoffrey and Robbie, and to explain the circumstances to Georgina if we should miss each other.”
He frowned down at Jemma, who would pose no threat to anyone who meant me harm, but I could tell that he knew I would not be dissuaded. “So be it. But I insist you take my pistol for protection.”
He drew out a small flintlock pistol from his waistband and handed it to me. “You know how to use it?”
I nodded. With no son, my father had taught me how to be an adequate hunter, and proficient with firearms. Gingerly, I took the pistol and tucked it into the deep pocket of my skirt.
“It is primed and loaded, but you have only the one shot, so aim well.”
He waited for me to nod my understanding before continuing. “Return here as soon as you have news so that I may be reassured that you are safe. With Geoffrey ill, your welfare is my responsibility.”
“Yes, Nathaniel. I will.” Without waiting to say good-bye, I r
ushed upstairs to find Mary and give instruction, then say good-bye to Robbie.
“You are the man of the house,” I said, kissing his forehead as he sat on the floor with the wooden soldiers Geoffrey had carved for him. “Until your father is better,” I added.
“Yes, Mama.”
“I love you, Robbie.” I surprised him by hugging him tightly, something he seemed to welcome less and less as he grew older.
“Good-bye,” I said, trying not to see the worry in his blue eyes, memorizing them at the same time, as if our parting might be permanent. Then I turned and left and headed toward the sickroom.
The man lying on the bed was merely a shadow of my beloved Geoffrey, a skeleton being held together by skin stretched too tightly over bone. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, as if he were already seeing into another world. I sat on the edge of the bed, wondering whether he was even aware of my presence.
I rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes, averting my face.
“Why are you crying, Pamela?”
I blinked to hide my tears, hope rising at the sound of his voice. He was lucid, meaning another bout with the fever was passing. I watched as he tried to lift a hand, but it fell limply by his side.
“Because I have missed you,” I said, swallowing back tears.
“But I have missed you. When I awaken, it is never your face I seem to see.”
“I was told that you did not want me in here.”
“If I did, it was the fever speaking. Forgive me.”
I placed my head against his chest, listening for the reassuring beat. “No, darling. There is no forgiveness necessary.” I sat up and took his hand, and I watched as his gaze drifted to my fourth finger.
“Where is your wedding ring?”
His suspicious tone was foreign to me, almost as if the words had been spoken by a stranger. “Nathaniel told me to hide my valuables from the British. Their raiding parties were stripping the plantations of everything—not just silver and jewelry but cotton and slaves, too.” I had yet to tell him of Zeus’s desertion. I held up my hand. “My ring was the only thing of value that I could think of.” I tried to speak lightly, but his expression showed grave concern.
