by Vicki Lane
Glory lay on the floor at my feet, blood pumping from the great wound … so much blood … soaking her blouse and spreading … my sister’s blood …
I snatched the pink cape from Nigel’s body, then fell to my knees and tried to stanch the hopeless wound … to stop the seemingly unstoppable tide … so much blood.
Outside, the shouting intensified and the continuing sound of the festival music played a strange counterpoint to the voice on the bullhorn.
Slowly Joss knelt beside Gloria, his rage spent, his painted face a cartoon mask of anguish. “Oh, my little mother. Why? Why did you jump in front of her? I didn’t want to hurt you. It was Elizabeth who should have died …”
He leaned over her, keening as he stroked her head, oblivious to the blood that was everywhere. My eyes were full of tears as I too leaned close, desperately pressing the darkening fabric to the horrible wound.
The voice on the bullhorn was calling my name now, but it didn’t seem to matter. I was trapped in this bubble of time at the side of the sister I’d just discovered—only, it seemed, to lose her. Joss also seemed oblivious to the clamor outside. It was just the two of us, caught in the terrible moment at the side of the woman we had both loved.
“I won’t let you win, Aunt Elizabeth. I won’t let you keep me from my little mother. It was you and your family who separated us—but now we’ll be together for eternity.”
As he spoke the words, once more I saw him bring the revolver up. Once more I stared into the black O of the barrel, helpless to act.
And the barrel continued to rise. Joss’s red lips closed around it in an obscene parody of a lover’s embrace.
Once again, a deafening roar filled the little salon. Then Joss fell across Gloria’s limp body, his shattered head beside hers.
My ears were still ringing when the door burst open and uniformed men swarmed into the room. And Phillip came to me and held me as the EMTs carried Gloria away.
My sister. My hero.
XIII~Amarantha
Sunday, May 29, 1887
Amarantha sat on her porch, the letter and newspaper in her lap, her lips moving as she read the letter yet again. A smile spread itself across her usually severe countenance.
My dearest Amarantha,
Here is the piece I wrote and, as you wished, I did not mention your name nor reveal all of your part in our glorious exploit. My lips are sealed forever. But, oh my, you were wonderful and I only wish I could have the benefit of your Sight to guide me in the future months and years! Ah, well, I understand your objections. But should you ever “take a notion” to travel, the offer remains open.
Your own,
Nellie Bly
Laying the letter aside, the mountain woman took up the newspaper and looked once more at the drawing of her young friend—the dark eyes and hair, the straight back, the waving hand.
Was it hello or good-bye?
Hard to say—and in her experience Amarantha had found them to be much the same.
She began to read the newspaper, sounding out the unfamiliar words.
SENSATION AT SPA!!!
By Nellie Bly
On Friday night last, the packed audience at a lecture on Spiritualism was witness to the unmasking of a trio of heartless rogues, the callous exploiters of many a mother’s grief and many a bereaved spouse’s sorrow.
The pair of mediums known as the DeVine sisters and the man (alleged to be their brother) who acted as their manager had been resident at The Mountain Park Hotel for some weeks, “resting,” it was said, after a triumphant tour of the Eastern seaboard. (See related story, special from The Charleston Courier, on page 2.)
Your reporter, having been moved by the plight of a mourning young mother, driven to self-destruction by the ruses of these cold-blooded frauds, came to the Mountain Park under her own name and took care that none should suspect her true purpose nor connect her with the exploits (see related story “Nellie Bly in Mexico” on page 2) that so recently stirred the imagination of the reading public.
Putting her very life at risk, your reporter was on the brink of collecting the needed evidence—the very apparatus used to produce the supposed wraiths of the departed—when she was overcome by the man known as Lorenzo DeVine, stuffed into a steam cabinet, and left to perish. (Note: this reporter in no way wishes to imply that The Mountain Park Hotel bears any responsibility for the actions of the “DeVines.” On the contrary, one of the hotel employees was instrumental in saving this reporter’s life as well as in the public exposure of the charlatans. See paid notice at the bottom of the page.)
All three were on stage before an audience of almost three hundred. Mr. DeVine had spoken briefly on the principles of Spiritualism and one of his sisters was demonstrating the trance state by relaying messages from the departed spirit of a Cherokee maiden who had drowned in the previous century, it is said, not a quarter of a mile from the hotel itself.
When the gas lights flickered and dimmed to a Stygian gloom, doubtless many in the audience assumed it to be a part of the demonstration. And when a ghostly form in trailing white, with streaming tresses, appeared at the back of the hall, gliding silently toward the speaker’s dais, surely there were those who believed themselves to be viewing the veritable manifestation of the sad Cherokee princess. (Continued on page 2.)
Amarantha laid aside the newspaper and closed her eyes. For a little somebody, that Miss Cochrane—or Nellie Bly, to give her the name she’d chosen—could surely use some big words.
But, oh, how fine it had been to see that Lorenzo jump at the sight of the woman he’d thought dead and out of the sight of prying eyes till the following Monday. He must have thought that he and his sisters would be well away by then. How he’d grabbed for his throat as Nellie Bly, white with talc from head to toe, came toward him.
“Murderer!” she had called out in a trembly voice loud enough to wake the dead. “Murderer!”
Amarantha felt the hair rise on her arms as she remembered the sound. She would never forget the fuss that followed—Lorenzo’s crazy talk, the sister in green swooning, the manager and several of the younger and stronger waiters hurrying to the scene.
And then Nellie Bly, taking the stage while she, Amarantha turned the lights back up. Nelly had stood there before that crowd, bold as a preacher, and told just what these scoundrels had been up to and by the time she was done, had the sheriff and his men not have arrived, it would have gone hard for Lorenzo.
Lorenzo was still in the jail and happy to be there with all the talk there was in town of tar and feathers or worse. The green sister, Little Dorry, as all the ladies had taken to calling her, had cried for mercy. She swore the other two had put her up to the tricks and had made her go on, even when she had begged them to stop.
Little Dorry had become a great pet with the church ladies and had even stood up several times in meeting to beg forgiveness and to witness. There was talk that one of the guests at the hotel was courting her right heavy but others said that Dorry had been called to do the Lord’s work and would soon be traveling to all the big camp meetings and revivals, as soon as she got done grieving for her sister.
It must have been just before the manager had brought his black fellows in to quiet things down that the purple sister had slipped away. Folks figured that she’d planned to follow the tracks to the next railroad stop and board there. It was said she’d made off with a fine diamond jewel bracelet but likely that was at the bottom of the French Broad now. An evil woman and a fool to think she could cross the trestle bridge in the dark.
People mostly gets what they deserves, mused Amarantha.
Chapter 37
Summer Solstice
Thursday, June 21
Yes, we did consider postponing the wedding because of Gloria. It just didn’t seem right … but Janie and Seth and Caitlin already had their tickets and Rosemary had taken time off … Who knows when we could have gotten all of them here at the same time again … Well, after a lot of thought and discus
sion, it made sense to go ahead as scheduled.”
I had repeated this little speech till it was beginning to sound like a recording. The very next day after the nightmare events in Asheville, friends had begun calling or emailing. It hadn’t taken long for the news about Gloria to get around. My little community of friends had all responded as I’d known they would, offering assistance and comfort in every form.
It had been a rocky, emotional time but we’d come through it. I’d even been in contact with Joss’s adoptive parents, who seemed to feel the need to apologize for their dead son’s actions. Poor people—he had been their only child. Coming to terms with his loss, as well as the delusion-fueled destruction he had wrought, had been heartbreaking for them. The presumption that this delusion and subsequent psychotic behavior had been caused by the head injury, rather than something in his upbringing, was the sole crumb of consolation they had to comfort them.
And somehow, in the busyness of preparation for the ceremony, I had found myself feeling closer to Gloria than ever. I saw all the lovely little refinements of food and decoration that had been her ideas and felt the bitterness of her absence. Gloria. How she would have enjoyed making sure that Laurel put the flowers here rather than there, and what wonders she would have worked supervising the arrangement of beautiful foods on the buffet tables.
Ah, well, I told myself, life goes on. And we were moving minute by minute toward the ceremony in which Phillip and I would publically affirm the union, the partnership of heart, mind, and body that already existed between us. Had existed, for some years now …
“Miz Goodweather—time you were getting changed.” Phillip pointed to the clock on the kitchen wall. “Though if you want to stick with the casual look, the T-shirt and jeans look fine to me …”
I finished filling the big coffee urn with water and gave a last look around. The house was awash with hydrangeas in every shade of blue and lavender, as well as creamy greenish-white. There was champagne on ice out back; the dining table was set, buffet-style, with Gramma’s silver and linen, awaiting the trays of food safely stowed in the refrigerator and in the array of coolers in the basement. Little sandwiches—chicken salad, cream cheese and nuts, asparagus—lovingly made by Rosemary and Amanda; an array of beautiful salads, courtesy of Laurel; a baked ham with little biscuits— “Honey, you can’t do a wedding lunch without one of these,” Sallie Kate had insisted; little lemon tarts, and a stack cake Miss Birdie had sent over by Calven …
“Let me just check the dessert table—I’m not sure there’re enough forks.” I headed for the table in the living room, where a three-tiered, white-frosted carrot cake was the centerpiece. It had been a gift from Phillip’s children and Janie had spent the morning pressing fresh-picked wild violets one by one into its thick-swirled cream cheese icing.
“Come on, woman; we don’t want to be late for our wedding.” Phillip caught my hand and pulled me to him for a quick kiss, then propelled me toward the bedroom. “Go! Five minutes!”
The dress—the one Glory had insisted on buying for me on that last day—was exactly what I might have dreamed of. Almost a period piece: Somewhere between a Jane Austen heroine’s Empire-waisted frock and the romantic flowing robe of a Pre-Raphaelite heroine, it still managed to look appropriate for a fifty-something bride at a small outdoor wedding on a farm.
I surveyed myself in the big mirror over the dresser. The periwinkle blue of the simple square-necked linen bodice brought out the blue of my eyes, just as Gloria had insisted it would. And the ground-sweeping skirt of Liberty cotton—a riot of tiny fruits and trees and fantastic birds in deep blues and purples—was a celebration unto itself.
“Thank you, Glory,” I whispered, pulling on the beautiful garment. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
As I came out to the porch where Phillip was checking his watch, he looked up. “Is that the one your sister …” He stared, his eyes taking in every inch of my magnificent dress. Then he smiled. “Lizabeth, you look beautiful. The dress is—”
The smile disappeared and he slapped his pocket. “Holy shit! The ring—I left it in the office. Right back.” And he vanished through the front door at a run.
I walked to the end of the porch to survey the garden below. Simple wooden benches were placed between the beds of flowers and herbs—all of which, for a mercy, were lush and beautiful, thanks to a little last-minute filling in with blooming plants. Jake and Sarah were off to the side, their banjo and fiddle filling the air with old-time mountain music. The cheerful lilt of “Under the Double Eagle” rang out accompanied by the chatter of the wedding guests as they took their places. The three dogs wound their way among them, greeting friends.
My friends—now our friends. And our family—Rosie and Laurel flanking the indomitable Aunt Dodie. She had giggled like a little girl at surprising me and had made Phillip actually blush by planting a robust kiss on his cheek. Seth, Phillip’s handsome son, was there with his fiancée Caitlin, and his sister Janie. Janie—soon to be my stepdaughter—a relationship that I hoped would blossom into friendship rather than the wary neutrality we seemed to have achieved so far.
As Miss Birdie, Dorothy, and Calven were taking their places just behind Dodie and my girls, I saw Laurel introducing the two octogenarians who seemed to take to one another right away. I found myself straining to hear that conversation but it was no use; the music and the many happy voices were all one joyful symphony of sound.
The glorious noise was suddenly stilled by a peal of barking from James. Heads turned at the crunch of gravel as the Jeep crept slowly and carefully up the road. And there, being helped out of the Jeep and ushered like royalty to a cushioned armchair by Ben and Amanda, was Glory.
Dear, dear, infinitely dear Glory. Still a little pale, still a little shaky, she was wearing the coral silk dress, its accompanying jacket draped elegantly around her shoulders. Her right arm was in a sling covered by a brilliant Hermès silk scarf and her left arm was gesturing imperiously as she directed the placement of her chair. Glory was obviously on the mend.
Dearly beloved. All of them.
“Are they here?” Phillip came through the front door and I turned to admire my groom. Most dearly beloved …
“They just got here and she looks great! Talk about a grand entrance. The doctor wasn’t thrilled about releasing her so soon but you know Glory …”
“It took a while but yeah, I think I do now.” Phillip put his arm around my waist and we stood, watching the wedding guests below. “It’s strange; when I first met her, I didn’t see how she could be related to you at all, but it turns out that you two were … what’s that saying … ‘sisters under the skin’ all along.”
He glanced at his watch. “Aren’t we supposed to get on down there? Seems like they’re ready for us.”
“Almost. We start down to the garden as soon as they play ‘Haste to the Wedding.’ ”
Right on cue one tune ended and another began. “And there it is now.”
Phillip’s lips brushed my cheek then he stepped back and offered his arm. I bit my lip to hold back the tears. Happiness … such happiness as I’d never thought to know again.
My heart was so full I couldn’t speak. Even if there had been time to say all the words that were tumbling over one another, trying to be heard. Thank you for your patience … Thank you for believing in me … Thank you for loving me even when I was unlovable.
But all that I could manage was a husky, heartfelt “Thank you, Phillip, for everything,” as I hooked my arm through his. His dear familiar face was turned toward me and through the shimmer of my tears I could see his reassuring smile.
He drew my arm in close to his body and we began our stately walk down to the garden. Down the rock steps to the grassy road that led to the garden steps, pacing in slow and careful unison toward the rest of our lives together.
The lively dance tune ended and the fiddle began the slow, achingly sweet “Ashokan Farewell.” I could see the little cluste
r of family and friends hushing one another and turning to watch as we climbed the rock steps and made our way to the flower-bedecked arbor where the judge waited.
The music stopped; the judge cleared her throat and began.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered today …”
The sweet old words ran on, like a river flowing in its course to the sea, so inexorable, so fitting. And when it was my turn to speak my vows, it was with all my heart and my mind, my soul and my body—reason and faith reconciled at long last.
“Do you, Elizabeth …” said the judge.
And I did.
“Vicki Lane shows us an exotic and colorful
picture of Appalachia from an outsider’s
perspective—through a glass darkly. Old Wounds
is a well-crafted, suspenseful tale of the bygone
era before ‘Florida’ came to the mountains.”
—SHARYN MCCRUMB,
New York Times bestselling author
If you enjoyed Under the Skin,
please read on for a look
at Vicki Lane’s acclaimed novel Old Wounds.
Available online and at your local bookstore
Prologue
Saturday, October 1
The glowing computer screen, the only light in the dim gloom of the tiny, windowless office, cast a sickly green hue across the young woman’s exhausted face. She slumped back in her chair and let out a profound sigh that spoke of surrender … and relief. At last it was done: the story that had, against all her careful defenses, clawed its way into existence. The story that had haunted her for too many long years, tapping with urgent, insistent fingers on the clouded panes of her memory, the story that she had pushed away like an unwanted and unloved child. Now, at last, she had allowed it into the light, had unbound it, had let it speak.
