“Well, I am certain y’all must be tired after your trip. We’ll have some cool lemonade and get everyone tucked in cozy, alright?” Georgia suggested.
“Indeed,” Uncle Johnny confirmed.
“Um, Mrs. Kensington?” Brant began.
As both Georgia and Nana simultaneously answered, “Yes?” Brant specified, “Virginia.”
“Yes, love?” Nana said smiling. “Lauryn and I were wondering if we could talk to you a moment.”
“Yes,” Lauryn added. “Brant has somethin’ he’d like to ask you.” Brant winked at her, grinning.
“Why of course, angels.” Nana assured them. Let’s go out on the porch. It’s such a lovely night.”
Once settled in the comfortable wicker furniture on the porch, evening breezes heavy with the fragrance of the wisteria, it was Brant who did, indeed, pose the question.
“For most of my youth, Laura carried a small teacup with her,” he said. “Although she hasn’t had it with her for years, whenever I ask about it she just responds, ‘my sister’ and seems satisfied in knowing that you are well. Can you give…. why would she have had a teacup with her and where is it now? That’s making me insane. It seems like a small thing, I know. But it just…it just…”
“It seems to me, too, that it would be important, Nana,” Lauryn offered.
Virginia frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t begin to imagine.” She paused a moment and then asked, “Tell me what it looks like.”
“It was small,” Brant explained. “Too small to be a normal tea cup.”
“Maybe it’s a demitasse,” Lauryn offered.
“What pattern?” Nana asked. Brant simply wrinkled his brow, clueless as to what she meant.
Lauryn smiled. After all, china patterns were almost always purely a feminine interest. She would’ve been quite astonished had he actually known what Nana was talking about.
“What color was it? Did it have flowers painted on it?” Lauryn explained.
Brant shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s a little teacup…thing. Small and white…maybe it had flowers on it. Maybe I imagined that part.”
“Well,” Nana was thoughtful. “When I was very little we use to have make-believe tea parties. We had a little table and a little set of china, a children’s set. The pieces were white, embellished with tiny lavender flowers. We’d play for hours and hours! Just us sisters. I cherished those moments, and even though the memory is faded…I cherish it. I was younger, after all, and it was a kind thing to do…to play with me like that.”
“But why would Lauryn have a tea cup with her?” Lauryn asked.
“I don’t know,” Nana mused. “I haven’t seen that tea set for…” Then her face brightened. Her eyebrows rose, and her eyes widened as if she’d just seen a vision. “I haven’t seen that tea set since before the battle, since before Laura disappeared.”
Lauryn felt excitement rise within her. Brant had been right! She knew it! The teacup Laura carried with her was significant somehow.
“Where did you last see it?” Brant asked. Lauryn could sense the excitement in him as well.
Nana shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s been so long ago.” She paused, seeming pensive. “I think…I think in the cellar.”
“The old root cellar?” Lauryn asked.
“Yes. We use to play tea party in there,” Nana answered.
“In the root cellar?” Lauryn exclaimed. “What a gloomy place to play.”
“Oh, the cellar use to be different, Lauryn,” Nana explained. “It wasn’t as dirty and nasty as it is now. It used to be quite nice, the way I remember. And on a rainy day, when the house seemed too stuffy, the root cellar was a blessed escape.”
“Well,” Brant exclaimed fairly leaping to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“It’s pitch black out!” Lauryn reminded him.
“That’s what lanterns are for, sugar,” he chuckled. “Are you coming along, Mrs. Kensington?”
“Not me,” Nana laughed. “I’ll leave the rootin’ around in that spider and mice infested ol’ cellar to you young people.”
“I hate that creepy ol’ cellar,” Lauryn mumbled as she and Brant walked through the grass toward the cellar. “Even in the daytime.” Brant held the lantern firmly in one hand to light their way.
“Oh, come on,” Brant urged. “I’ll go with you. I can’t believe you didn’t show this to me before.”
“It’s hardly more than an ol’ hole in the ground,” she explained. “I’ve been there plenty of times and there’s nothin’ special about it. It’s crawlin’ with spiders and mice and I hate it. Anyway, you couldn’t have….” Lauryn paused when she realized what she was about to say.
“I couldn’t have seen it?” Brant finished for her, smiling. “I know that I couldn’t see before, Lauryn. You don’t have to be uncomfortable referring to it.”
“I know.” Lauryn smiled at him noticing the way the moonlight made his teeth seem all the more perfectly white.
When they’d reached the door leading down into the cellar, Lauryn told him, “You’ll have to be the one to open it. It never fails that somethin’ comes a scurryin’ out of there and scares the waddin’ out of me.”
Brant chuckled. “All right. I’ll play the knight in shining armor.” Lauryn smiled at him. How absolutely exciting it was to be outside in the dark, alone with him. Had the situation been different, had their intent been simply a leisurely stroll, it would have been quite romantic.
The old root cellar of Connemara was, indeed, a hole in the ground. And sure enough, as Brant lifted one side of the heavy door, a multitude of spiders scurried hither and thither causing Lauryn’s skin to crawl and a quiet squeal to escape her throat. Brant merely chuckled, as most men would have, no doubt, finding her being startled by a few of the earth’s eight-legged creatures to be quite amusing.
“I told you,” Lauryn reminded him, glad that she’d wound her hair into a tight knot at the back of her head before dinner. A spider in her hair was one of her worst, reoccurring nightmares. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!”
As they descended the ancient and rotting wooden stairs into the dark, musty, cellar, Lauryn’s anxiety increased ten fold. She looked up noting that, although her great grandfather O’Halleran had lined the cellar walls with wooden planking, in many places the strong, winding roots of the wisteria trees above had pushed through the paneling growing in odd tangles on the ceiling. Now the cellar was more frightening than even she remembered.
“You see. It’s just a creepy ol’ hole in the ground!” Lauryn exclaimed. “How on earth Nana could’ve thought this was a fun place to play…and especially tea party…is completely beyond me.”
Brant grinned. Lauryn thought for a moment that the man seemed perpetually amused at her expense. But as long as he was smiling, she didn’t seem to mind the reason.
Holding up the lantern, Brant mumbled, “There’s nothing in here.”
“Oh, yes there is!” Lauryn squealed as she felt something with eight legs crawling on her arm. Screeching hysterically, she began running in place and slapping at her arm. Brant quickly set the lantern down on the dirt floor and took hold of Lauryn’s arm, flicking the spider from her body with one quick motion.
Lauryn stood trembling with residual horror, realizing that, in her mad dancing to try to brush off the spider, her wild mass of hair had come unpinned and hung in tangled ringlets down her back and over her shoulders…a perfectly luscious temptation for arachnids.
“Are you all right?” Brant asked, unable to halt the chuckle that accompanying his question.
Lauryn scratched her arm where the spider had been, the sensation of its tiny legs still fresh upon her skin. “I hate it in here!” she reminded him.
“Yeah. I can see that,” he told her. Calmly, he reached down and retrieved the lantern holding it up once more as he peered into the darkness of the cellar. As he took several steps toward the furthest corner of the
room, Lauryn reflexively reached out, taking hold of his arm for support and comfort.
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” she whispered. “Every time I come down here I half expect to see a skeleton all dressed in a hooped skirt, propped up in that corner.” As always, there was nothing there—only an empty barrel no doubt a cozy hiding place for millions of things with eight legs. A small, child-sized chair, missing a leg and sadly forgotten lay on the floor nearby.
“A piece of the past?” Brant asked.
“Maybe,” Lauryn admitted. There were several other forgotten items in the cellar—an old potato planter, a bridle that hung on a hook on one wall and several ancient-looking wooden buckets stacked up together. There was nothing to indicate Lauralynn had ever been there. Of course, Lauryn knew this already and soon grew impatient. Then, when a tiny shrew scurried across her right foot, she was completely undone.
Screeching like a mad banshee, she again began running in place frantically. “Brant Masterson! I’ll not spend another horrible moment in this place unless you give me a darn good reason!”
Brant chuckled again. This time, however, instead of taking hold of Lauryn’s arm, he placed a strong arm around her waist and lifted her up for a moment.
“Fine. Just stand on my feet.” Lauryn did as ordered. Her body completely flush with his, one of his powerful arms tightly around her, she placed her small feet one each on top of his. The situation demanded that she put her arms around his neck. There was no other way to balance herself on his feet. It was a completely inappropriate, fascinating and fabulous predicament.
Obviously satisfied with his investigation of the cellar, Brant walked toward the door leading up and out. It seemed like having her standing on his feet didn’t inconvenience him at all. For, other than his legs being stiffer than usual, he walked as if she were not even there. Lauryn thought back briefly to the day her father had taught her the waltz. He’d had her stand on his feet in the same manner as he counted out the dance steps so that she could feel which way her feet would need to travel when being led. But this! This was much different!
First of all, their bodies, Brant’s and her own, were completely together, tighter than any hug Lauryn had experienced with a man. Any man! Secondly she could feel the solid definition of the muscles of his chest and legs against her own. It was completely improper. Completely! And it was entirely marvelous. Entirely!
But her zenith was short lived. As soon as they reached the stairs and he released her, the intense guilt began. The moment Brant had taken her to him, the moment she had wrapped her arms around him, she’d forgotten their purpose for going to the cellar. Lauralynn had been driven from her mind by her attraction to Brant. It was a traitorous act on Lauryn’s part.
Once out of the cellar, Brant closed the doors and turned to Lauryn saying, “Well…you were right. Nothing there. Not one clue.”
Lauryn brushed her hair back from her face and visually searched her limbs and dress for evidences of unwanted creatures that lived in webs. “I know. It’s why I don’t go down there. I…”
“You hate it,” he finished for her with a smile. But then his eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her. “But you’re so cute down there,” he said.
Lauryn thought maybe he was all to well blessed with a gift of sarcasm. But the expression in his eyes said differently. “Cute?” she asked. “In the creepy ol’ cellar, with spiders and rodents?” He winked at her, reaching out he took her hand and began pulling her toward the house. “Well, I guess the competition wasn’t too thick down there, actually…when it comes to cuteness,” she mused.
Brant’s mind had already traveled back to the task at hand. “Why a teacup?” he grumbled. “She couldn’t be holding onto a map or something. Just a teacup.”
At that moment, Lauryn glanced up to the attic window. Light streamed through onto the grass below. There, as if framed in a painting, stood the Captain. Lauryn smiled up at him. He smiled, nodding his approval. Her heart lightened a bit. Brant would help her. Brant would free the Captain, the Captain and Lauralynn. And in the next moment, Lauryn thought, will Brant free me? Or has he already made my heart a captive?
Chapter Nine
Having regained his sight, Brant wanted to investigate all of Connemara and the grounds again. This time, he would have a greater ability to link things together, should some kind of clues actually appear. The next day, Lauryn led him to the creek, the servants’ house and finally to the springhouse. But, nothing was found.
It had been a blessed time for Lauryn. She’d been alone with him. Patrick had taken to Uncle Johnny like a pig to mud and kept the elderly man too occupied with answering questions to give him any time to visit with Lauryn and Brant. Lauryn’s grandmother and mother were far too intrigued with Aunt Felicity’s stories, opinions and sense of humor to spend much time worrying over them.
As they approached Henry the statue on their way back to the house, Lauryn glanced and smiled at Brant. He paused and looked at Henry.
“I feel sorry for this man,” Brant mumbled.
Lauryn giggled and asked, “Why? You don’t even know him.” If Brant knew just how well Lauryn and her friend Penny knew Henry that would be another matter.
“He’s so…so…” Brant mumbled.
“Broodin’?” Lauryn offered. “Lonely?” She smiled, caching away forever all her secrets where Henry was concerned. “I promise you…he’s had his own adventures. Anyway…dark, broodin’, interestin’ men make the best…” She gasped slightly horrified at what she’d almost revealed. She’d already said too much and Brant hadn’t missed it.
“What? They make the best what?” he prodded.
“Um…um…” Lauryn stammered. “They make the best…statues!” She tossed her head nonchalantly and began walking on.
“Wait a minute, sugar,” Brant chuckled, catching her arm. “Tell me. What do they make? The best what?”
“Statues.”
“Statues? I don’t believe that’s what you really had in mind.” Brant was too observant. His sight restored, he had a strong sense to complement all of his others and he was not going to be easy to fool
“Statues. Truly. They make the best statues because…because…they’re prideful enough to pose for them.” It was all she would say and with an indifferent smile, she pulled her arm from his grasp and walked on.
“Does Connemara have a basement?” Brant asked as they wandered back toward the house. He seemed to be satisfied with her explanation about brooding, adventurous men being the best models for statues. In reality, she had meant to say they made the best imaginary lovers! What a narrow escape! Still, even though he appeared to let the subject go, she was suspicious. The basement was a different, safer topic of conversation.
“Oh, yes,” Lauryn moaned. “And it’s even creepier than the ol’ root cellar.”
“Good.” Brant chuckled. “Take me there.”
“Brant! It’s darker than anythin’ in there and just crawlin’ with critters and bugs,” Lauryn argued.
“I’ll go alone. No need to have you get upset again,” he assured her. But Lauryn didn’t want him to go alone. What if he did find something she had missed in the past? So they went into the kitchen and opened the door to the basement.
“You ain’t goin’ down there are you?” Patrick exclaimed as they started to descend the stairs. He and Uncle Johnny sat at the table immersed in a fiery game of cards.
“Your sister says this is her favorite part of the house,” Brant teased.
“Well, she’ll be squawkin’ like a pinched hen halfway down Brant. So plug up your ears!” With that, Patrick returned his attention to the game at hand.
“Basements are dark and cold, Brant, my boy,” Uncle Johnny mumbled. “You be sure and make the most of it. You hear?” He winked impishly at Lauryn who could do nothing to stop the blush from rising to her cheeks.
“You know me, Uncle Johnny,” Brant assured him.
“Well, I hope so,” the elderly
man chuckled.
Lauryn simply brushed an escaped strand of her hair from her cheek and tried to appear unruffled. Yet, her memory of being so closely held by Brant in the cellar the night before caused her blush to intensify and her heart to race. Who knew what flirtatious opportunities might await her in the basement?
The basement of Connemara, though cool, was unbearably stuffy. Brant coughed several times as he reached the bottom of the stairs; Lauryn was close at his heels already looking anxiously around in the darkness for whatever creature might startle her next. The lantern that hung just inside the basement door was insufficient to illuminate the darkness. Lauryn’s skin prickled as she imagined creepy, crawly things crawling in her hair.
“Great Grandfather wouldn’t have brought her down here,” Lauryn said to Brant. “It wouldn’t have been safe. The Union soldiers would have searched it.”
“But, he didn’t think they’d find your grandmother and the others…and they were hidden right there in the house, right?” Brant reminded her.
“Yes, but…aahhh!” Lauryn’s shrill squeal startled Brant. He turned to see her dancing around frantically as a large, lethargic-looking rat waddled across her path. Brant chuckled and booted the rodent aside with his foot.
“Stay close, my lady,” he teased. “This won’t take too long.” Indeed, after just a few minutes, Brant seemed convinced Laura had not died in the basement at Connemara.
“It’s all brick…the basement. No allowance for secret doors or the like,” Lauryn whispered.
Brant sighed with disappointment and held the lantern high to look up at the basement ceiling which were the floors of Connemara house.
“What kind of wood is this?” he asked.
Lauryn looked at him in disbelief. “What kind of wood? How would I know that? All I know is it’s crawlin’ with livin’ things I can’t see down here and…”
“I’ve never seen a grain like that before. It looks….” Brant again held the lantern higher. He reached up and pressed the wood just above his head. “Where are we? I mean…what room is just above us?”
The Fragrance of Her Name Page 18
