“I see. Would ya’ll mind waiting here while I check with her?”
The bishop agreed, and she closed the door quietly.
“I get the impression Miss Susie appreciates her peace and quiet,” he whispered. “Let’s be sure and not disturb that for her, okay?”
The woman in the pink uniform returned. “Please step into the parlor,” she invited, standing back and holding the door for them, her left hand indicating the arched entrance to the parlor. “Ya’ll just make yourselves comfortable. Miss Susie’ll be just a moment.”
They perched on the edges of dainty chairs upholstered in a brocade featuring pink roses. Climbing roses adorned the wallpaper as well—and the painted glass lampshade—and the Persian carpet on the gleaming hardwood floor was in shades of rose, green, and gold. A faint scent of—what else? the bishop thought—rose potpourri perfumed the air.
“Welcome to Roseacre,” came a voice from the archway. They all instinctively rose and turned to face the elderly lady who spoke in a distinct, carefully modulated voice. “I am Susie Throckmorton.”
Miss Susie appeared to have once been rather tall, the bishop noted, but age had shrunk and bowed her by several inches. She held her head erect, however, and the hand that grasped a cane was steady and bedecked with rings—several diamonds and one oval, rose-colored stone that he couldn’t identify. She wore a lightweight floral print dress, nylon stockings, and white shoes, and her silver hair was perfectly waved. Her dark eyes held a glint of amusement.
“Please, sit down, so that I can,” she invited. “Arlene says you are the Shepherd family. Is that correct?”
“We are,” the bishop replied. “Thank you for seeing us like this, with no notice,” he added.
She peered at Jamie and Mallory. “Arlene?” she called over her shoulder. “I rather expect these little ones would enjoy a sip of lemonade in the arbor. We’ll no doubt be speaking of things that would bore them to tears.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Arlene said, again holding out one hand to indicate which way the children should go. Tiffani looked at Trish, uncertain of whether she was included with the “little ones” or not.
Trish nodded and whispered, “Keep an eye on them. Thanks, honey.”
As the children exited, Miss Susie sank onto a straight-backed chair. “When Arlene returns, I’ll have her bring us some iced tea. It’s a warm afternoon.”
“It is that,” the bishop agreed with a nod. “But no tea for us, thank you. Water would be fine.”
Miss Susie’s sharp gaze moved from the bishop’s face to that of his wife. “You’re Mormons,” she announced. “Three nice, clean children, expecting another, interested in genealogy, and you don’t drink iced tea in weather like this! I hope you have nothing against lemonade.”
Trish smiled at her. “Nothing at all. And you’re very astute, Miss Susie—or rather, I should say, Miss Throckmorton. Excuse me.”
That lady waved a hand. “Everyone calls me Miss Susie. Always have. Who recommended me to you?”
The bishop replied. “A fellow named Harvey, down at the store at Winns Corner, and a lady called May, who was shopping there.”
“Oh, May Hinton? Good woman, May. Now, Harvey Kickliter, he’s another story. Well-intentioned, but rather lazy, that one. Who is it you’re searching for? I must tell you, to be honest, I don’t hold with what you folks do in your temples, trying to turn everyone who ever lived into Mormons, but I figure that’s your business, and you have as much right to know about your people as anyone does.”
“Um—thank you,” the bishop said. “My grandfather was Benjamin Rice, who married Annie Josephine Burke.”
She frowned. “I’ve known a number of Burkes. I seem to recall that Homer Burke had a daughter named Annie.”
“Yes, Homer’s my great-grandfather. That’s the right line.”
“But I don’t recall—I’ll have Arlene pull the files—but I don’t recall that Annie married a Rice. Seems like she married a fellow from over by Quitman. A Mitchell, wasn’t he?”
“Your memory is excellent, and you’re right again. But Robert Lee Mitchell was Annie’s second husband. She married him after Benjamin Rice died and left her with two little girls. Then they moved up into Alabama, just south of Birmingham, where she and Robert had three more children. But my mother was Annie’s eldest child, and she and her sister were originally Rices. Grandpa Mitchell adopted them.”
“And I suppose your mother’s gone?”
“She’s living, but she suffered a stroke a few years ago that has impaired her speech. But I remember her saying that she knew virtually nothing about her real father and his people. That’s why we’ve come looking for him. I’m hoping to find a gravestone for him around here.”
“Hmm. I suppose that’s possible, all right. Oh, here you are, Arlene. Two things, if you will, and then I’ll let you relax for a bit. Iced tea for me, lemonade for these folks, and then if you would pull the Burke file for me? Thank you.”
Arlene brought the file first, along with a portable table to place in front of Miss Susie so that she wouldn’t have to balance the thick, unwieldy packet of papers on her lap.
“You must be quite a researcher,” Trish remarked, eyeing the bulk of the file.
“I never intended to become one, to tell the truth,” Miss Susie told her. “But before Father passed, he entrusted me with our family records, and as I perused them, I found some gaps that I wanted to close, and then I became interested in the families that connected with ours, and they all intermarried with other old families in the county, so it became a hobby to research many of the early families in the area.
“I have to tell you, it’s been the strangest thing—I’ve never had a hobby that so totally engrossed my time and my interest! I absolutely couldn’t put it down for more than a day or two at a time without feeling almost compelled to get back to it. I’ve never been an obsessive-type personality—I prefer doing everything in moderation—but I surely was obsessed by this work. Now, of course, I can’t get to the courthouse much to search the records—not that we have such good ones, anyway, being a burnt county—but I still write letters and have even learned to use the Internet, and Arlene is helping me compile my work into a book about our first families. It simply amazes me, the volume of information I’ve collected over the years! And I wasn’t even a very enthusiastic history student in school. I majored in English literature, if you can imagine—for all the good I thought that would do me!”
The bishop and his wife exchanged knowing glances. They knew exactly why Miss Susie had developed such an interest in genealogy, even if she did not.
“It’s a wonderful thing to investigate our histories,” he told her. “It gives us perspective and wisdom, and appreciation for those who gave us what we have, today.”
“Yes, and I find that more than that, it gives one a feeling of connectedness, of family, that one loses when one has grown older without spouse or child to continue the line, as I have done.”
She smiled, a deprecating, heartbreaking little smile. “I could have married, you know, several times. But the young men I brought home never sufficiently impressed Papa, and once I left school and came home to live, I simply didn’t have many opportunities to meet anyone interesting. Then one by one, my family died out. My brother was killed in World War Two, before he had a chance to marry. My older sister died childless. My younger sister had one daughter, who herself died in childbirth, along with the baby. So I am the last of the Throckmorton line, and I cling to my memories and my records—and hope to recognize my dear ones when we meet in heaven—assuming, of course, that I qualify for that blessed place! Now, why am I telling you all this? You didn’t come here to learn my history! I do apologize. Let’s see what I have in my files about your Annie Burke.”
Arlene brought their drinks and a plate of small sandwiches. The bishop sipped gratefully, his outsized barbecue lunch having made him thirsty, and Trish nibbled at a couple of sandwiches. They sat quietly
, so as not to disturb Miss Susie in her search.
“Well, here we are,” she said at last. “I’m afraid the only reference I find here to your grandmother, Annie, is that she was a war widow when she married Mr. Mitchell.”
“Really? That’s more than we knew,” the bishop said excitedly. “So Benjamin must have been killed in World War One!”
“Yes—and that should open up some good opportunities for you to search his military records,” said Miss Susie. “I’ve seen draft records on the Internet—actual images of the forms the boys filled out when they registered.”
“I’ll look into that as soon as I can,” he promised. “Miss Susie, you may not think that’s much, but to me, you’re a goldmine.”
“Well, you’re kind. Others have shared with me, so why should I not share with you?” She shook an arthritic finger at him. “Mind you, most researchers are glad to share. A few are not. I know one woman who answered my query with the remark, ‘I spent my time and money to discover this information, and if you want it, you can do the same.’ So I did. And, I rather suspect, more thoroughly than she! Now, I have a copier in my study, and I’m going to select the records I have that pertain to your branch of the Burkes, just in case I have something you don’t.”
Trish spoke. “We’ll be more than happy to reimburse you for the copies.”
Miss Susie raised both hands and looked around her. “Oh, my dear! Do I look as if I need to be reimbursed for a few sheets of paper and some ink? My money, my house, and my precious records are all I have in life. If I can share something useful with you, my day is complete. However,” she added, pulling a blank pedigree chart and family group form from the back of her file, “I will ask you to fill out all you can on these, while I make the copies. And I’ll add you to my Burke file, where you belong. And when your little one arrives, send me an announcement, and I’ll make sure he or she is included, as well.”
Trish smiled as she accepted the sheets. “I’m not worried about your place in heaven,” she said.
Chapter Three
* * *
“My weary, wand’ring steps he leads . . .”
“Okay, Mom,” Tiffani announced as they drove away from Roseacre, “that backyard was gorgeous! You would—”
“Yeah, if you like pink,” interrupted Jamie. “Even the lemonade was pink.”
Tiffani laughed. “I know. But, Mom—seriously, you’d have loved what she called the arbor. Except it was really a—what do you call those little houses made of crisscrossed white wood?”
“A gazebo?”
“Yeah, right. Except it had like a little hallway leading out of opposite sides, covered with arched wood, with rosebushes and some other vine growing all over it, and the hallways circled around and met, and in the middle of everything was a rose garden. There wasn’t much blooming now, but it’d be so pretty when there was.”
“I’ll bet it would. It’s a little hot right now for roses. But obviously Miss Susie sees to it that the house lives up to its name.”
“I guess! She was awesome. Dad, did she know anything about your grandpa?”
“Well, I did learn one new thing, Tiff. Grandpa Rice evidently died in World War One, because his wife was referred to as a war widow in Miss Susie’s records. Plus, she copied some things for me on the Burke line. It wasn’t much, regarding Grandpa, but I’m stoked to know that much! Hey, gang—we’ve got time to hit a cemetery or two. Who’s game? Trish, you’re navigator. Which one are we closest to?”
Trish consulted her map and the notes they’d made. “I think the nearest one must be the one that Harvey fellow talked about—King’s Chapel. I know we crossed Highway 32 on our way here, and from the direction he pointed, I’d say we need to turn right at the intersection.”
“Are you okay, Trish, for a little further adventure? I know it’s hot, and I don’t want you to overdo.”
“Oh, I’m fine, after that lemonade—and especially after Miss Susie invited us to use her ‘facilities,’ as she called them. I was afraid I was going to have to find a friendly bush.”
“What for, Mommy?” queried Mallory.
“To go pee behind, Mal,” her brother whispered. “What do you think?”
“Mommy! We’re not s’posed to do that outside, ’member? You yelled at Jamie the last time he—”
“I never—” Jamie began, and Trish interrupted.
“I know, sweetie. That’s why I’m glad we had a nice bathroom to use. Oh, here comes Route 32, Jim. Now, kids, watch for a big old barn on the left with a road going by it.”
They passed farm after farm, field after field—some fallow, some burgeoning with green rows. The bishop recognized beans, potatoes, peanuts, and of course, corn. There were barns here and there, but none had roads beside them until they spotted a huge, looming old structure on the left, with a narrow road beside it that led into a tunnel of dappled green shade. The bishop was reminded of his favorite stretch of road on the way to his ancestral home, Shepherd’s Pass. As he always did there, he slowed the car here as they passed under the canopy of overarching trees.
“This is nice,” Trish remarked. “I bet it’s ten degrees cooler under here.”
“Which should bring the temperature down to about a hundred and five,” said Tiffani wryly.
“Ah, Tiff, you’re a cynic,” her father teased. “And riding in an air-conditioned car. Look at this—it’s beautiful!”
“What’d be cool would be riding a horse through here,” she said. “Or maybe driving, so that I could see it all better—please?”
Her dad chuckled. “Maybe on the way back to Mrs. Hinton’s,” he promised. “If you don’t complain too much about the cemetery, that is—because I see it now, and it’s pretty grown over. Oh, boy.”
“It really is, Jim,” Trish said. “I don’t know if we should have the kids roaming around in there. I’m thinking snakes, poison ivy, poison oak, ticks, chiggers, sandspurs—and Jamie and Mal have shorts on, and Tiff’s wearing sandals.”
“The place really could use a good mowing—or maybe a machete,” he agreed. “Tell you what—you guys stay here and keep the air-conditioning going for a few minutes while I go poke around the newest-looking tombstones. I’m hoping I can tell from the dates whether there’s any chance that Grandpa could have been buried here.”
* * *
“You be careful,” Trish advised, as he left the road and picked up a small fallen tree limb. He stripped the twigs away and pounded the stick on the ground a few times, continuing to do so as he made his way into the cemetery. There were a number of old, lichen-rimmed stones, and far to one side he sensed as much as saw the foundation of a fallen building. That, he supposed, might have been the King’s Chapel for which the cemetery had been named. Did “King’s” indicate that the congregation who had worshiped here had been Church of England, or was the chapel named for a King family who had donated the land for it to be built? Had the worshipers built a more modern church to accommodate their needs, or had the congregation dwindled until all had died off or moved away? From the condition of the cemetery, he had to assume the second because it was obvious it had been many years since anyone had been here to clear the undergrowth. Fairly mature trees had sprung up in several places that he was pretty sure, from the layout of the gravestones, had once been pathways between them.
The silence was deep in this place, and the inhabitants slept soundly in the sun. Using the branch as a snake-scaring device, he thumped it on the ground, then moved it back and forth before him like a blind man with a cane as he worked his way toward the whitest and most modern-looking of the markers. Small scrabbling or slithering sounds headed away from his intrusion.
Heavenly Father, he prayed silently, if my grandfather Benjamin Rice is buried here, please help me find his marker. I know it’s Thy work that we seek our kindred dead and provide ordinances for them, and I pray for guidance and success in doing so. I thank Thee most sincerely for the assistance we’ve been given thus far. Ma
y all who help us be richly blessed.
He closed his prayer and began to read the gravestones, noting the death dates, none of which seemed later than the eighteen-eighties, even on the newest-looking stones, and he soon returned to the car.
“You know,” he said, as Trish opened her window, “these all seem a little early for Benjamin, though I realize that some of his people might be buried here. But I don’t want to take the time right now to tramp through all this. It occurs to me that maybe somebody, somewhere, has transcribed all these markers, and published their work. That’d be so much easier to check than physically hacking my way through the brush, though I’m willing to, if need be. What do you think, babe?”
“Well, who would know? Maybe Miss Susie—and she gave us her phone number. Why don’t you check with her on that?”
“I will. Although it seems like she would’ve mentioned such a thing, when we talked about finding gravestones.”
Trish nodded. “Call her anyway. Maybe it just slipped her mind.”
“I’ll do that this evening. I think I’m ready to relax a while, how about you guys? Tiff, your turn at the wheel.”
Tiffani successfully navigated the country roads and delivered them safely to the home of May Hinton just as the afternoon sun was beginning to sink behind the stand of trees, sending long shadows across the landscape. While the Hinton homestead in no way compared to the grandiosity of Miss Susie’s, it was large and seemed welcoming—a two-story farmhouse with peeling paint and window boxes of colorful petunias across the front. A small lawn of close-cropped grass set off the front porch, but most of the yard was hard-packed clay. A barn and two other outbuildings could be seen behind the house, plus a pen with a couple of black-and-white goats who crowded against each other like competitive children, rearing up to peer through their fence to see who was coming.
The family unfolded themselves from the car and approached the house. The bishop imagined that they all felt a little strange, as did he, showing up for bed and board at the home of a virtual stranger, even though they had been cordially invited.
The Thorny Path Page 3
