“Juniper really should have wrapped the teapot in a crocker sack or a quilt, before he tossed it into the well to hide it from the Yankees,” Pansy began.
Both Elspeth and Sister cut their eyes her way. Pansy met neither of their gazes, but kept her dimpled chin tucked, as she sipped her tea. They always scoffed at her story about the Swan family’s butler dumping the silver service down the well. Still, it could have happened that way, she reasoned.
“Juniper would never have done such a thing, and you know it. He was said to be a fine servant, a credit to his people. Besides, that’s the first place anyone would have looked for valuables.” Sister clucked her tongue and waggled a finger at Pansy, who pretended not to notice. “It was those crude Yankees who dented the teapot. And after Miss Virginia offered it to them filled with a cool drink from the well. They imbibed of that sweet Southern water, then tossed Miz Melora Swan’s prized teapot right here onto this very veranda, and it bounced across the paving stones and got the dent in it. They rode off just a-laughin’ afterward. And that’s the truth of it!”
Replacing her fragile cup with such force that the saucer danced, Elspeth glared at her two companions. “Neither of you knows a blessed thing about it! You make up history as you go along, to suit yourselves. If you’re going to tell it, for pity sakes, tell it right! My great-grandma was right here on the place when the Yankees came that day. I got the true story handed down to me through my own family. Great Gran told my granny, and she told my mammy, who told it all to me, just the way it happened.”
Sister and Pansy settled into a bored, but polite, silence. They had heard it all before—a hundred times—but they pretended to listen again, as they kept their eyes keened on the road, watching for Ginna.
“Now, as you all will likely recall,” Elspeth began, “Colonel Jedediah Swan rode off to war at the head of his own cavalry unit and all four of his sons went with him. They were a fine looking passel of manhood—big, fair-haired, square-jawed, and strapping. The very steel and cream of the South. Back here at Swan’s Quarter, they left only Miz Melora and young Miss Virginia, the prettiest belle in Frederick County, to look after the place and the hundred slaves.”
“Last time you told it, they had two hundred slaves,” Sister interrupted, with a good deal of satisfaction at catching Elspeth in a mistake.
“Well, some of the sorry ones ran off with the Yankees. It was just my Great Gran and the other loyal ones that stood by the family. At any rate, Miz Melora Swan and her daughter, Miss Virginia, had their hands full taking care of all this land and this house and our people. It was early in the war—May or June of 1862—that the Yankees first showed up around here. Stonewall Jackson had been chasing them up and down the valley, trying to run the blue-bellies far away from the Shenandoah. But he’d lick ’em one place and they’d pop up somewhere else. Well, with the Yankees tramping all over and burning whatever they didn’t steal, it was no easy task for Miz Melora and Miss Virginia, I can tell you. They had to be strong and stern to keep up their spirits and their faith. Those were no ordinary times.”
Pansy loved this part of the story and couldn’t help interjecting, “And Miz Melora Swan and her daughter, Miss Virginia, were no ordinary women.”
Elspeth nodded her approval. She didn’t mind interruptions, when they added emphasis to her tale. “Right you are, Pansy. No ordinary women at all. They were the bravest of the brave. So when the Yankees came here on the twenty-fifth of May, back in 1862, and burned their fields and threatened to set their torches to the house, the women of Swan’s Quarter stood right up to them, as bold as brass. Miz Melora ordered them off her land. She had made pretty Miss Virginia dress like a boy so the Yankees wouldn’t be tempted at the sight of her. But one of them noticed that a golden curl had escaped from under her daddy’s old cap and saw the tempting rise of her young bosom, even though Miz Melora had ordered old Mammy Fan to bind her breasts tight. That lusting blue-belly marched right up to Miss Virginia and snatched the hat off her head, freeing her long hair to tumble down like golden coins spilling from a money bag.”
“And they all laughed and those that had turned to go turned back to see Miss Virginia,” Pansy added, too eager to wait, when Elspeth paused for a sip of tea.
“That they did!” Elspeth nodded, solemnly. “But Miz Melora stood her ground. ‘Y’all get out of here now,’ she warned them. ‘My daughter is untouched and promised to another brave soldier.’”
“But they didn’t listen, did they?” Sister asked, as she knew she was expected to, at this point in the telling.
Elspeth shook her head sadly. “They were no gentlemen, those Yankee devils. They closed ranks around poor Miss Virginia and stroked her hair and touched her.” Elspeth leaned close and whispered that one word.
“And one even stole a kiss,” Pansy added, breathlessly, her pale cheeks flushed to dusty rose at the very thought of such a disgrace.
“They shamed the poor girl,” Elspeth said, with a sad nod. “And after she’d been so kind as to serve them cool water from this very teapot. Brutes they were, and some of them married men with children—churchgoers, mind you!”
“Tell what Miss Virginia did,” Pansy begged. It was her very favorite part of the story, the part that purely made her swell up with Southern pride.
“Well,” Elspeth drawled, lengthening the suspense. “You’ll recall she’d just poured them water from this very teapot. She still had it in her hand. When the brute who’d snatched her hat off caught her about her slender waist and tried to press his randy body to hers, she hauled back and cold-cocked him with this very pot. He gave a fearful yell, staggered backward, tumbled down the veranda stairs, and landed in a heap in the dirt of the carriage drive.”
“Good for her!” Pansy crowed, clapping her arthritic hands.
“It’s a wonder those nasty Yankees didn’t shoot Miss Virginia and Miz Melora Swan,” Sister said, with a shudder.
Elspeth’s attention now seemed focused on something far away, as her gaze searched the woods beyond the swan pond. “They might have,” she said softly, “but for an accident of fate. The troop’s captain, a member of General Nathaniel Banks’s forces that had just been whupped by old Stonewall at Winchester, came riding up about the time that Yankee bastard landed at the foot of the stairs. All the others—a dozen or so—had drawn their pistols and had them aimed right at Miss Virginia’s wildly beating heart. But the captain—a handsome fellow, even if he was a Yankee—yelled, ‘Halt! Put your guns away. Whoever harms a hair on the heads of these ladies will answer to me.’”
“And they backed right down, didn’t they, Elspeth?”
“That they did, Pansy. They put away their guns and left the veranda. The captain ordered them off the property, down beyond the entrance gate, out of sight of the house. They camped there for the night.”
“But the captain didn’t join his men in camp, did he, Elspeth?” Pansy said, with a sly grin etching her thin lips.
“Sh-h-h!” said Sister. “That part of the story’s a secret.”
“Not to us!” Pansy insisted, through a pout. She loved hearing this romantic part of the tale. It reminded her of her own life and lost love. “Tell the rest, Elspeth. Tell it! Do!”
“Very well, but it’s to remain among the three of us. Always. Swear?” She clutched her doll closer and looked hard at the other two.
“Always! I swear it!” Pansy crossed her heart, holding her breath after she spoke.
“Very well, then. You’ll recall that Miz Melora had told the rude soldiers that Miss Virginia was promised and still a virgin.”
The other two nodded, blushing at Elspeth’s use of such a forthright word.
“Miss Virginia’s mother spoke the truth. Her daughter had been betrothed not long before the war broke out to a fine young man who lived over at Belle Grove plantation. But she never married. The start of the war put an end to their plans and near broke Miss Virginia’s poor heart. You see, t
he man she loved had graduated from West Point and felt obliged to join the Union forces.”
“A turncoat in blue!” Sister said, with disgust.
“A misguided young man,” Elspeth explained. “But he did love Miss Virginia with all his heart and soul. They vowed to wed, once the war was over. It was Colonel Jedediah Swan who forbade the union, not wanting to divide the family and possibly meet his daughter’s husband across the line of fire in the heat of battle.”
“We know that,” Sister broke in impatiently. “Get to the point, won’t you?”
“The point is,” Elspeth paused dramatically, “that Miz Melora held more with love than with war. She saw the look that passed between her daughter and the captain—the pain and sorrow and longing in their eyes. It proved more than a mother could bear. So she told my Great Gran to prepare a feast of what little they had left to eat—one scrawny hen, a bit of bacon, a few dried beans, and some yams. Miz Melora invited the captain to dine with them. She even opened the last bottle of Colonel Swan’s fine old French brandy, a surprise she’d been saving to celebrate the end of the war and her husband’s safe return. She told Miss Virginia to put on the white satin wedding gown they had hidden in the attic, beneath a loose board under the eaves. They had a jolly evening with the captain as their guest. After dinner, Miz Melora told all the house servants to gather in the parlor. Then she instructed Brother Zebulon, a self-styled minister to the people, to perform a marriage ceremony. It was an odd affair, a combination of a Christian service and a broomstick jumping. Likely the Lord Himself had never seen anything to match it. However, what it lacked in orthodoxy, it made up for in sincerity.”
Pansy and Sister giggled, picturing the scene.
“Actually, it was a wartime wedding, and not unlike many another back in those times. It was certainly good enough to satisfy all involved, especially the bride and the groom.”
“And afterward?” Pansy said.
“Afterward, Miz Melora bid the happy couple a good night. She sent the people back to their quarters, went to her own room, and left the newlyweds to their one night of bliss. At dawn, the captain kissed his bride and told her goodbye, before he rode away. His parting words to her were a vow to return, the minute the war was over, and marry her in proper fashion.”
“But by then, it was too late,” Pansy said sadly, sniffing back tears.
“You’re wrong, Pansy. It’s never too late for love,” Elspeth added, cryptically.
Just then, the breeze changed suddenly, bringing with it the scent of spring flowers. Clouds shifted and the heavens seemed to shine with more light. The three women sat up, staring off toward the woods, their senses keen with anticipation.
Ginna glanced at the fly-specked face of the clock over the dessert case. She was running late this afternoon. Her regular shift at the Rebel Yell Cafe had ended over an hour ago, but she couldn’t dash off and leave that mess on the red countertop. Her last customer, a three-hundred-pound trucker named “Slim,” had slopped his coffee, then topped off the spill with a blob of meringue from his lemon pie.
She glanced around. The lunch customers were long gone. Now the earlybird dinner crowd was beginning to file in. In another hour, the place would be filled again. She needed to leave now.
“Lucille,” Ginna called, “I gotta go, or I’ll miss the last bus. Can you take care of this for me?”
The other waitress, owner of the Rebel Yell, shook her red head, as she balanced a huge tray. “Sorry, hon, but I got five blueplate specials, three coffees, a water, and a tea to get out, and Cindy’s late for work again.”
With a sigh and another glance at the clock, Ginna gave a quick swipe at the counter, then another. Poor Lucille, she thought. What would she do if Cindy—never the most reliable employee—didn’t show up? Ginna would stay if it wasn’t Monday. But she just couldn’t. She had a standing appointment for Monday afternoons, the one bright, exciting spot in her otherwise ordinary life.
“You go on, hon,” Lucille called, as she served her customers. “I can hold the fort till Cindy shows up. I don’t want you to miss your bus.”
“Thanks, Lu!”
Her counter shining, Ginna whipped off her apron and slipped into the ladies’ room. Staring into the mirror over the less than sparkling sink, she grimaced at her reflection and vowed to start eating regular meals. She had dropped twenty pounds in the past few weeks. Her face was drawn, all sharp edges and angles. She looked ten years older than her age.
“Starting tomorrow, it’s three squares a day for you, Ginna Jones. Lots of potatoes with sour cream, chocolate éclairs, and Lucille’s fried chicken. I think I’ll start taking those vitamins the doctor gave me, too.”
Still staring, she squinted at her image. Her bottle-thick glasses didn’t help her looks, either. They magnified her eyes, so that she was reminded of a fish staring out of an aquarium. She reached into her bag for the contact lenses she had splurged on a few months ago. She didn’t wear them on the job, for fear of losing one in some customer’s beef stew or vegetable soup. Stowing her unattractive glasses, she quickly washed her hands and face, then popped in the delicate contacts. The drastic change in her appearance made her smile.
Quickly, she pulled the pins from the tightly coiled braid crowning her head. Her straw-colored hair took on the sheen of old gold, as she brushed it out, long, full, and wavy. Satisfied with the transformation, she grabbed her battered overnight bag from the waitresses’ locker, then headed for the back door in such a hurry that she didn’t even answer when Lucille called out, “See you tomorrow, hon.”
Mondays were Ginna’s treat, her fantasy, the only time she had all to herself. And, for some reason, this Monday seemed special. She wished like anything that she had gone on her weight-gaining program earlier. That was silly, of course. Her friends at Swan’s Quarter never said a thing about how skinny she was; they were just happy to see her whenever she came for a visit. They were old people, lonely people. They didn’t have many visitors. Consequently, they made Ginna feel like someone really special.
“Which I certainly am not!” she said, hurrying down Winchester’s busy main street to the bus stop. “Not in this life anyway.”
The red-and-silver bus pulled up, just as she reached the curb. The door swung open immediately.
“Cuttin’ it close today, aren’t you, Ginna? I looked for you on my earlier run.” Sam, the driver, gave her a big grin and laughed. He was obviously a man who loved his work.
“I got held up, but at least I’m not too late, thank goodness.” She fumbled in her purse for change.
“I’d of waited for you. I know it’s Monday.”
Good old Sam! He probably would have at that.
Ginna took a seat near the door, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. As weary as she was after her eight-hour shift, she felt excitement bubbling in her blood. Again, she thought that for some reason this Monday seemed different—special. But why? She had no idea, but she knew she wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Something was about to happen—her horoscope today had said so. “Something exciting, perhaps even life-altering,” the paper had forecast, and she believed it.
Lost in thought, she didn’t realize the bus had reached the highway rest stop, until Sam said, “Hey, Ginna! We’re here. You gettin’ off or going all the way to Front Royal with me today?”
She jumped to her feet and flashed Sam a warm smile. “See you later.”
“You have a good one, now!”
Usually, she stood beside the highway to wave, as Sam pulled back into traffic. Today, however, she turned and rushed away. She was fairly quivering with excitement, as she hurried to the restroom to change clothes. Her friends at Swan’s Quarter wouldn’t know her without the old costume she had bought several years ago at a thrift shop.
The white ruffled gown and scarlet velvet opera cape were probably not authentic, but the gown looked as if it might have been made back before the Civil War. Sh
e could imagine some Swan family bride wearing it, as she descended the grand staircase at the old plantation on her wedding day. When Ginna put it on, she felt like a different person. She could almost forget that she lived alone, was still single at twenty-seven (twenty-eight in a few more days), and likely to remain so. She could even forget that she was a waitress with more bills to pay than money to pay them and more worries than joys in her life. On days like this—special days—she even let herself forget her doctor’s stern lectures.
With the antique satin and lace caressing her skin, she became, miraculously, another person entirely—the lovely and mysterious “Miss Ginna” from out of the past, come to take tea with her friends at the beautiful old plantation. Although Ginna dreamed constantly about the glory days of Swan’s Quarter, she knew she could never recreate the past. Still, she thought, somehow today anything seemed possible.
At times, especially when she wasn’t feeling well, the walk from the rest stop through the woods to Swan’s Quarter seemed to take forever. She would have to pause along the way to catch her breath. Today, though, clutching her cape against the autumn chill, it was as if she had wings on her feet. She felt breathless with her own speed and with the change she sensed coming over her. By the time she reached the edge of the smoky-gold woods, that other Ginna was completely gone, along with the Rebel Yell Cafe, her drab little apartment, and everything else in her life that was dull and ordinary. She might have been a time-traveler, happening upon the serene plantation with its lovely swan pond, manicured lawn, and giant tulip poplar.
She felt so different—almost childlike in her excitement. She imagined that a casual observer strolling through the forest might have taken her for little more than a wisp of autumn woodsmoke drifting among the trees. The brisk breeze blew her hair. Quickly, she tied it with a sky-blue ribbon, subduing her rampant waves that now looked the golden color of the turning leaves.
Swan's Way Page 2
