Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Savannah Scarlett

  Becky Lee Weyrich

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1996 by Becky Lee Weyrich

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition June 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-327-4

  Also by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Swan’s Way

  Sands of Destiny

  Rainbow Hammock

  Captive of Desire

  Almost Heaven

  Once Upon Forever

  Whispers in Time

  Sweet Forever

  Tainted Lilies

  Rapture’s Slave

  Summer Lightning

  Gypsy Moon

  Hot Winds from Bombay

  The Thistle and the Rose

  The Scarlet Thread

  Forever, For Love

  Silver Tears

  For my brother, Bill Lee, and my cousin, Sue Best

  They both knew Savannah way back when.

  Prologue

  Mary Scarlett could hear her parents fighting downstairs in the parlor, the very room where the shiny cherry wood coffin had lain on its bier until noon. The cloyingly funereal perfume of gladiolus, chrysanthemums, and carnations still hung in the air in the tall rooms of the old house on Bull Street. Granny Boo wasn’t even cold in the ground, yet they were already at it again. Big Dick’s voice boomed through the house like a cannon shot, out-blasting her mother Lucy’s shrill protests and accusations.

  Their hysterical racket brought an alarming change over Mary Scarlett Lamar, reducing the recent, poised graduate of Sweet Briar College to a weeping, fearful child again.

  “Make the yelling go away,” she moaned, covering her head with her pillow, shivering with terror and revulsion. “Please, Granny Boo, make them stop it.”

  Of course there was no answer. Except for the angry voices coming from the ground floor, the house seemed unaccountably still to Mary Scarlett. She had never realized before what comfort she had drawn from the sound of her great-grandmother’s footsteps overhead in the attic. Now only silence emanated from that dark hideaway under the eaves.

  From the time of her birth twenty-one years ago, Mary Scarlett had drawn solace and succor from the knowledge that her Granny Boo was always there—always ready to soothe tears, tell stories, chase away ghosts. Now a young woman on the very brink of adult life, Mary Scarlett knew she should be stronger. She should haul herself out of bed, march down the stairs, confront her parents, and demand that they put a stop to their ridiculous behavior. They should at least call a moratorium out of respect for the dead.

  “But what good would that do? It never ends.” Mary Scarlett turned on her back and stared up at the dark, silent ceiling, feeling tears of frustration slide down both sides of her face.

  A crash, then the sound of shattering china made her jump and set her trembling all the harder. She dug her nails into the pillow, holding it hard against her chest like a shield.

  “Granny Boo, where are you?”

  It was a foolish question. Mary Scarlett knew exactly where her great-grandmother was. The dear old woman had simply given out after a hundred and three years. Now, at last, she could have some peace and quiet, sleeping under the moss-draped oaks of Bonaventure Cemetery. It was difficult, though, for Mary Scarlett to imagine her prim and petite granny, embraced by quilted satin and lead-lined cherry wood, lying far below the flowering azaleas. The mental picture made her shiver all the more.

  “You’re not really there, are you, Granny Boo? You’re off flying with angels by now.”

  A stiff breeze blew in through the open window, bringing with it the delicious smells of springtime Savannah—Confederate jasmine, wisteria, honeysuckle, and the river, always the river. The lace curtains fluttered for a moment like butterfly wings. Mary Scarlett breathed in the sweet air. She sat bolt upright when she recognized another scent. Not flowers, but Pond’s face powder, the kind Granny Boo had always used.

  Despite her overwrought state, Mary Scarlett smiled. “No. You’re not buried deep in the ground. I knew it!”

  “Indeed not!” came a thin but distinct voice.

  Mary Scarlett jumped at the sound. “Granny Boo?”

  “You called?”

  She rubbed her eyes, then glanced about the bedroom. “I’m imagining things.”

  From below she could still hear the quarrel in progress, but the noise seemed muted now, as if she were suddenly protected from the drunken brawl by some invisible, otherworldly wall.

  “The only thing you’re imagining, young lady, is that you can stay here and know any peace. Why do you think I moved to the attic?”

  Mary Scarlett scanned the room again. She was all alone. So where was the voice coming from? Was she asking questions, then answering herself? If so, she must be as crazy as Granny Boo had been.

  “I was never crazy!” the voice replied emphatically. “I was simply eccentric, a Southern lady’s prerogative.” A familiar high-pitched chuckle followed. “It suited my purposes to have most of Savannah think I was crazy. As crazy as the rest of them. Truth be told, all the sane folks died years ago. I was about the only one left with a grain of sense.”

  Convinced now that she was truly hearing her great-grandmother’s voice, Mary Scarlett climbed out of bed and removed the black bunting from her vanity mirror. Granny had always been fascinated by mirrors. Maybe that’s where she was hiding.

  “If you’re really here, why can’t I see you?”

  “You can, dear. All you had to do was ask.”

  A strange lilac-colored light glowed suddenly in the mirror right above Mary Scarlett’s reflection. Still staring, she reached up to see if she could feel anything, maybe a warm spot above her head. Nothing. When she glanced up, she realized the glow existed only in the mirror.

  She watched the circle of light slowly widen and intensify. Two eyes and a familiar thin-lipped smile materialized. Gradually, her great-grandmother’s face took shape around the smiling eyes and mouth.

  “There, dear. Wasn’t that clever? I learned it from a cat I met here. Claims he came from Cheshire.” The ghostly face turned thoughtful. “Isn’t that in Effingham County? I believe I had some kin there a long time ago.”

  Another loud crash from below made Mary Scarlett jump back into bed. The image in the mirror wavered and all but disappeared.

  “Don’t go!” Mary Scarlett begged. “Don’t leave me alone with them, Granny Boo.”

  “I’ll try to stay, but they make it difficult. We’re not allowed to remain where we aren’t wanted. It was different in life.”

  “They always wanted you here.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. I’d heard whispers about a nursing home in the past weeks. That was enough to send me packing. But, actually, they were getting on my nerves, so I decided it was time to go.”

  “You decided?” Mary Scarlett cried. “Granny Boo, how could you do that to me?”

  “It’s a free country, my dear. You don’t have to stay either, you know.”

  Thoughts of the funeral service in the front parlor and the interment
at Bonaventure Cemetery flashed through Mary Scarlett’s mind. She shuddered. “I don’t think I’m ready to go yet.”

  “Heavens, child!” Again the lavender image in the mirror wavered dangerously. “I didn’t mean for a minute that you should join me. You have your whole lovely life ahead of you.”

  “Lovely? I doubt it,” Mary Scarlett mumbled, thinking of the probable cause of her parents’ combat. The major reason for their endless fights in recent months was Mary Scarlett’s stalled marriage plans. The two men in her life, Bolton Conrad and Allen Overman, had both proposed. She had given neither man an answer. Her stubborn indecision had set her parents one against the other. Not that they needed her for that.

  “It’s not their choice, you know.” Granny Boo seemed tuned in to Mary Scarlett’s every thought and worry, just as she had been during her lifetime.

  “Then I have to decide,” Mary Scarlett replied in utter frustration.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. I can’t leave Bolt and Allen hanging forever.”

  “Why not? At least until you know what you want from life and with whom you wish to spend it. Might I mention a small matter called love?”

  “Mama says marrying for love is only for foolish women and white trash.”

  “Poppycock! Your mama should have her mouth washed out with soap. She is the foolish one in the family—marrying Richard Habersham Lamar because he could support her in style. Some style! Just listen to them. If she’d minded what I told her, she wouldn’t have married any man until she could see his face in my mirror.”

  “Mama says that’s just an old wives’ tale.”

  “Ah, I see. And her method of choosing a husband has proved so much sounder than mine.” Granny Boo’s words reeked with scorn and her image went from lilac to fluorescent purple. “Have you taken a peek in my mirror lately, Mary Scarlett?”

  “Yes,” she confessed.

  “And which of your beaus did you see?”

  “Neither. That’s the problem.”

  Granny Boo’s ghost frowned thoughtfully. “Hm-m-m! That is a problem.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  After a moment’s thought, Granny Boo said, “I suggest you simply disappear for a time. Leave Savannah. Maybe neither man is the love of your life.”

  “I’m not even sure I know what love is, Granny Boo. How am I supposed to know if I ever find the real thing?”

  “Ah, love!” The thin lips in the mirror caressed the word as if it were a kiss. “Believe me, child, you’ll know it. Let’s see now. How can I put this? When you fall in love, he won’t be someone you can live with, but the one and only man you can’t live without. Does that make sense?”

  Mary Scarlett thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Mark my words, it will make sense when the time comes. Yes, I think it best that you go away until you know your heart for sure.”

  “Daddy would never allow it. He’d be furious and Mama would have one of her spells for sure. She’s made all these wedding plans, even bought my gown. Now if only I knew who I’m supposed to marry.”

  “Is this your life or theirs we’re talking about?”

  “Mine, but…”

  “No buts, my dear! There have been too many broken hearts and broken lives in this family because the women gave in to pressure instead of following their hearts’ desire. If you only knew. I won’t have you added to that sorry list. I named you and I raised you and I mean to see that you have a good and happy life.”

  Mary Scarlett was tired of arguing with her mirror, and beyond weariness from worrying over her dilemma. She decided to change the subject. “What’s it like where you are now, Granny Boo?”

  The old shadow giggled like a girl. “Oh, simply delightful! I was at a party tonight until I heard you calling. Such a grand soiree!”

  “A party?” Mary Scarlett asked skeptically.

  “Indeed! Why don’t you come with me now? See for yourself.”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate, do you?”

  “Oh, I see your point entirely. Nothing to wear. That skimpy black nightie certainly would never do.”

  “Well, clothes were not exactly my main concern. Actually, I’m not sure I’d fit in. Where is this party anyway?”

  “Right here at Bonaventure, the Tattnall Plantation. The house is all decorated for the holidays—cedar, bay, and shiny magnolia leaves everywhere. All the folks from plantations up and down the river are coming in by boat. You can tell who’s arriving by the songs their slaves sing as they row. Close your eyes, dear. I’ll show you.”

  Wary, but trusting her granny, Mary Scarlett stretched out on the bed and shut her eyes tight. The minute she did, all sounds of the escalating fight downstairs vanished, replaced by the deep, melodic voices of black boatmen singing their songs as they plied the darkly gleaming ribbon of the Wilmington River.

  Mary Scarlett found herself with the group of partygoers waiting near the plantation dock when she opened her eyes. She wasn’t really herself any longer, however. The handsome, dark-haired young gentleman standing next to her—a Tattnall cousin—called her “Miss Lou.”

  When a new boatload of guests from Ceylon Plantation walked up from the landing, her companion introduced her to a stranger as Miss Louise Manigault Robillard. “But we all call her ‘Lou,’” he added.

  The new arrival, a tall, dark-haired Adonis with sherry-brown eyes, bowed over Miss Lou’s hand. Mary Scarlett felt the warmth of his breath through her lace glove.

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Robillard.” He had a New Orleans accent that curled her toes inside her satin slippers.

  Thanks to her French mother, Louise spoke the language. She answered the young man, Jacques St. Julian, in kind. Mary Scarlett felt immediate intimacy flowering between them. Every other young man at the party vanished from her mind and heart the instant her eyes met Jacques’.

  For the rest of the evening, Lou and Jacques were never apart. He swept her over the polished floor of the gold-and-blue ballroom of the Tattnall mansion while slave musicians filled the scented night air with songs of love. Her heart felt lighter than her feet as the folds of her Savannah-silk gown swirled about her.

  They found themselves seated together at dinner, side by side at the long table in the grand dining room of the Tattnall house. An unimaginable array of lowcountry dishes was offered. As silent as ghosts, the servants passed silver platters piled with roasted venison, wild turkey, pink prawns, oysters on the half shell, and every manner of vegetable from Bonaventure Plantation’s kitchen gardens.

  Midway through the meal, the butler hurried into the room and whispered something quietly to Mr. Tattnall. The man’s face went grim for a moment, then he smiled at his guests.

  “If you please,” he said, “I believe we must move our feast out of doors. We have a slight problem, it seems.”

  Amidst excited murmurs, the guests filed out through the wide front door. Jacques held Lou’s arm as they descended the veranda stairs. If he clung a bit too tightly, no one noticed but the young lady herself.

  A general gasp went up as soon as they all reached the lawn and saw flames, vivid orange, leaping through the roof of the beautiful mansion.

  “No need for alarm,” their host announced calmly. “We’re all safely out. Shall we resume our dinner by the light of the fire?”

  The servants scurried this way and that, setting up tables, spreading damask, and resuming service. As the great plantation house turned into a massive bonfire, their host proposed a toast to his dying home, then smashed his crystal goblet against one of the ancient oaks under which they dined. The guests followed suite.

  No one noticed when Jacques St. Julian brought Mademoiselle Robillard’s ungloved hand to his lips. No one but Lou herself. Flames hotter than any fire licked at her heart. Only the smoky black curls against her cheeks hid her blush.

  Later, as the house
burned to nothing, Jacques led his new love through the dark garden. They stopped by the burying ground where the moss-darkened stones stood enclosed in a spear fence of wrought iron. The silent dead seemed to welcome the young lovers.

  Jacques bent low to kiss Lou’s bow-shaped lips. This was her first kiss, and with it he captured her tender young heart.

  “Forgive my boldness,” he whispered. “But, you see, I believe I love you, Mademoiselle Robillard.”

  She blushed, her heart hammering, her joy boundless. “Will you be stopping long in Savannah, sir?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Alas, no. I must leave for New Orleans with the dawn. But I shall return, my darling Miss Lou. And when that time comes, I mean to ask your father for your hand in marriage. Would that displease you?”

  Feeling another, stronger blush of happiness, Louise lowered her lashes. “By no means, Jacques. I do believe you’ve won me with one kiss.”

  Mary Scarlett found herself back in her room as quickly as she’d left it. Her heart was still pounding and her whole body burned with excitement and joy. Her lips tingled from Jacques St. Julian’s kiss.

  “There, you see?” Granny Boo said proudly from her mirror perch. “That, my girl, is love!”

  “But it wasn’t real,” Mary Scarlett argued. “It was all a dream, wasn’t it?”

  “My goodness, no, Mary Scarlett! That party took place long before my time. November of 1800, if memory serves. But every detail you experienced was exactly as it happened on that night. The dashing Jacques St. Julian made his promises to my own Great-Grandmother Louise.”

  “And did Jacques come back to Savannah to make Miss Lou his wife?” Mary Scarlett asked hopefully, sure that they must have married and lived happily ever after.

  “No,” the ghost said with a sad sigh. “Upon his return to New Orleans, he lost his life saving a woman and her child when their carriage plunged off the levee. Poor Lou grieved for him the rest of her life. A suitable marriage to an older man was arranged for her.”