Her eyes burned with unexpected tears. Usually the tragedy of the war didn’t grieve her, but this morning was different. Probably the lack of sleep. Maybe because her birthday was next week and she didn’t feel like celebrating. Even if she had many friends to invite, it would be awkward to have people over for dinner. Walking past the brand-new sign for the Tupelo Free Clinic wasn’t something they could ignore. When they asked, she’d have to explain, and explaining meant talking about her family’s debts. She wasn’t living in a fantasyland, but she didn’t feel like having that conversation on her birthday either.
Shifting in her chair, she refocused on the little book. The diary’s author had written this at the very end of her life, and since she had never married, it had been handed to a nephew, then on down through the family until it turned up at auction. Lucy wondered if Hattie Winter knew she would be famous in certain circles years after she had passed away. Surely not. She couldn’t have revealed her secret while she was alive, and even now only a small group of historians cared about the women who fought in the War Between the States. But Lucy cared and she was willing to spend a quarter of the center’s artifact-acquisition funding to have Hattie’s diary in its collection.
“We’ll make you a nice display, with a silk-covered stand. It will be temperature and humidity controlled so you won’t get moldy,” she murmured. She might be embarrassed if anyone heard her, but her office door was closed, and the rest of the center’s bare-bones staff was off at lunch. The air conditioner hummed comfortingly in the background.
“But first we need to know why you pretended to be a man, Miss Hattie Winter.” Sometimes the why came much later than the how, but Lucy couldn’t help looking for a reason for the wildly brave acts these women committed.
The first few pages of the diary were filled with birth and death dates, then a few lines of Emily Dickinson’s poetry: They dropped like Flakes, they dropped like Stars, like Petals from a Rose. Lucy stared at the spidery cursive, tracing the letters with her finger. So much loss, so many friends and comrades vanished from the earth.
The next page answered her question. To Bismarck Johnson. The Lord says if we seek, we shall find. I looked for you at each battle, every roll call, in the rows of the injured and the dead. I never did find you, my love, but you will always remain in my heart. If God will hear my prayer, we shall see each other in heaven.
Lucy closed her eyes, feeling hot tears slide from under her lids. Oh, Hattie. What kind of love made a woman risk everything to follow her man into war? She would have said she had known heartbreak, but she hadn’t been strong enough to follow her man across the railroad tracks, let alone into battle. Drawing in a shaky breath, she wiped her cheeks. She was different now. If she got another chance at love, she wouldn’t let anyone stand in her way.
It had been ten years and she had never wanted anyone else. She might die an old woman still living in the shadows of a lost love. She imagined a cold lump of sadness, lifeless and still, sat under her ribs where her heart should be. She laid the diary back in the folds of archival paper. She needed to take a break before she started sobbing at her desk. Maybe some sunlight would lift her mood. It had been days since she’d been for a run, and her mental state was fraying along with her nerves.
Standing up, she stretched her arms up as far as she could reach, holding her breath and letting it out as she swung her fingers down to her toes. Just as she reached the ground, there was a knock at her office door and it swung open. Lucy straightened up with a snap. Her first thought was of Jem, and her second was irritation at the idea. Jem wasn’t going to be waltzing into her office on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Surprise,” someone called out.
“Rebecca?” Lucy started to laugh. Her cousin taught at Midlands College, only a few hours away, but she didn’t visit very often. Maybe only a few times a term, and then just for lunch and never unannounced. But there she was, bright-red silk shirt contrasting with her black ringlets, her slim form perfectly sheathed in narrow jeans, with red patent leather ballet flats on her feet.
“I thought you didn’t recognize me for a moment,” Rebecca said, holding out her arms.
Lucy squeezed her tight and then stood back. “You look amazing, and extra happy. Come sit down. Tell me there’s a special reason for this visit.”
Rebecca dropped into a chair and swept her hair off one shoulder in an attitude of extreme nonchalance. “I have no idea what you mean. Just because I don’t travel to Tupelo to see my Southern cousins very often doesn’t mean that there is any particular reason for me to be here.”
Lucy grinned. They called each other cousin, but the exact nature of their connection was vague. They knew Rebecca’s great-uncle Martin had married Lucy’s third cousin Pearl, which made them related in a way they still hadn’t figured out. Rebecca had contacted the Crawfords when she had moved to Spartainville, and Lucy’s daddy had welcomed Rebecca with pride. A professor of literature was a relative to brag about, even if she was a Northerner.
“I was going to wait until later, but if you insist . . .” Rebecca pulled a small, white envelope from her pocket. “An invitation.”
Lucy tried not to show her disappointment. Another party. She’d had enough parties to last a lifetime. She slid her finger under the flap and popped it open. As soon as she saw the delicate rosebud-patterned liner, her heart skipped a beat. She withdrew the card, eyes going wide at the elegant script on the front. Just two initials, intertwined.
She glanced up and almost laughed at Rebecca’s expression. She had both hands over her mouth, eyes brimming with happiness. Lucy slowly unfolded the card, reading the words once, twice. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Hughes request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, Rebecca Anne, to Thomas Paul Nelson, son of Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Nelson . . .
They stared at each other for a moment and then Lucy hugged Rebecca so hard that the invitation was crushed between them. “I can’t believe it. I mean, I can. I just, I’m so surprised. I’m not sure why, really. I always knew you would get married, and Tom is a wonderful guy. It’s that I didn’t even know you were engaged.” Lucy’s words tumbled out, hitching their way past the sudden lump in her throat.
“Everything happened so fast.” Rebecca let her go, smiling hugely. “We got engaged a week ago and we’ll be married at the end of next month. In September, I’m leaving for a sabbatical year in Bath, so we thought we should just get married. He works remotely most of the time, so he could come with me, although my mother was pitching a fit about the quick wedding. She’s sure everyone will think it’s a shotgun wedding since it’s all such short notice and then I’m leaving the country.”
Lucy laughed, shaking her head. “That’s your mama.”
“I’m surprised they’re giving their blessing, really. She was set on picking out my husband.”
Glancing at the invitation again, Lucy paused. “The wedding is in Oxford?”
“Since he’s from Miami, and I’m from DC, we thought we’d meet in the middle.”
Lucy felt her eyes go wide.
“No, I’m kidding. He lives in Miami right now, but his family still lives around here.” Rebecca leaned closer. “Don’t tell, but I’ve always wanted a big Southern magnolia wedding.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“You’re right, I haven’t,” she said. “Did you read the whole thing?”
Lucy bent her head and read the invitation more slowly . . . at St. Mark’s Catholic Church, Oxford, Mississippi, July 26th, 2014, at 1:00 p.m. The Regency-themed reception will be held at Rowan Oak, Old Taylor Road.
“I didn’t know the William Faulkner House did wedding receptions.”
“One of the perks of being an English literature professor. Plus, we’ve promised not to let anyone deface the scribbles on the study wall.”
Lucy blinked, searching her memory for anything about Faulkner and
his walls.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been there,” Rebecca said. “I’m going to rescind your Southerner’s card.”
“You can’t. It’s tattooed on at birth. But what about the scribbles?”
“He outlined his Pulitzer Prize–winning novel A Fable on the study wall. They’ve preserved it as part of the tour.” Rebecca sighed. “Actually, the entire reception will be held outside. There’s no way they would agree to let a big wedding party run through that place. The good news is that Bailey’s Woods will be the perfect setting for my Regency dance.”
Lucy glanced back to the invitation. “ ‘Regency-themed’? Is everyone supposed to come in costume?”
“Only if they want, but you should see my dress.” Rebecca searched for her phone, then held it out. “It’s patterned after an original Regency wedding gown. There’s a dressmaker in Oxford and she’s working on it as we speak.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lucy said, and meant it. She wasn’t wild about 1800s fashion, but this dress was stunning. The bodice was gently gathered, and the neckline was decorated with tiny roses. A long, graceful column of white silk fell from the Empire waist, and embroidery circled the hem.
“I’m glad you like the style because the bridesmaids’ dresses will be the same, just simpler and a pale color.”
It took Lucy a moment to understand her words. “You mean . . .”
“Will you? Be a bridesmaid? I promise not to be a total bridezilla and make you drive me around so I don’t ruin my manicure or anything like that.”
“Of course,” Lucy practically shouted. “Of course I would love to be part of the wedding. And you can dress me in anything you want. I’ll drive you around and rub your feet when you’ve been dancing all evening, and hold up the train of your dress when you have to go to the bathroom, and—”
“Whoa. Not so fast.” Rebecca looked horrified. “I’ll be handling my own potty breaks, thank you.”
“Oh, well, Janessa needed a lot of help on her big day.” Not that Lucy had enjoyed any of it. If her mama had been there, she would have told Janessa to act like she had some raisin’, but she hadn’t been. Janessa spent the day screaming, “Bride’s day, bride’s way,” until everyone got the message and just stayed out of the area if they could help it.
Rebecca reached out and grabbed Lucy’s hands. “I’m not Janessa. I want to celebrate my wedding, with friends and family, while having a really good time. If someone spills punch on my dress, I’m not going to cry about it.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, I may cry just a bit, but it’s only because it’s an Austen-era reproduction and anybody would feel the pain of destroying something so lovely.”
“Does Tom love Jane Austen, too?” Lucy figured he must if he was willing to dress up in a cravat and tails.
Rebecca waved a hand. “He doesn’t really care one way or the other. In fact, he’s never read a single Austen novel.”
“But . . . that’s your whole life. That’s all you study, all you teach.” For a moment, Lucy felt a pang of fear for Rebecca. Maybe the marriage was doomed from the start. A literature professor from DC and a computer programmer from Miami might not be the best match after all.
“It’s not my whole life.” Rebecca had a dreamy look on her face. “And I like seeing it all new through his eyes. Almost everyone I know has read the books or at least seen a movie or two.”
“I guess Tom and I will have a lot in common, then.”
Lucy could have said she was joining the circus and Rebecca would have been less surprised. “You’re kidding.”
“Absolutely not. I think I read half of Pride and Prejudice when I was in high school.”
“We’re going to have to remedy that situation before the wedding. You can’t wear a Regency gown without knowing how very special it is.” Rebecca was smiling, but something in her tone promised that she would find a way to force-feed Lucy some Austen.
“And the bridezilla rears her head.”
Rebecca snorted. “I wouldn’t insist, but I’d love to have some people at the reception who could lead during the dances or felt comfortable in the costumes. I wish some of my JASNA friends could come, but the wedding is happening so fast that most are off on vacation or busy that weekend.”
“JASNA?”
“Jane Austen Society of North America. I’m a member of the DC group and the Mississippi group, and if we spend any time in Miami, I’m going to join there.”
“There are whole organizations of people like you?” Lucy wasn’t sure whether she should be encouraged or worried that there were hundreds of other people so enamored of Austen.
“Strange, isn’t it? People coming together to study and enjoy their passion. Just like all these Civil War buffs you hang around with,” Rebecca said.
“Yes, but this is important history and that is . . .” Her words trailed off at the look on Rebecca’s face. Lucy could tell she was treading on thin ice. “You’re right. I do need to educate myself. And then maybe I can help out more during the reception.”
Rebecca’s expression softened and it seemed all was forgiven. “Anyway, even if I weren’t having a wedding, it would be my solemn duty to make sure you were versed in all things Jane.”
“You sound like my aunt Olympia. She feels it’s her solemn duty to make me do a lot of things that every good Southern girl should do, like learn how to cook a turkey or fry up some chicken.”
“Perfect activities for a vegetarian,” Rebecca said, laughing. “I sort of miss your aunt. The way she bosses everyone around is kind of cute.”
Lucy tried to smile, but her mouth didn’t want to cooperate.
“Uh-oh.”
“It’s nothing, really.” Lucy shuffled a few papers.
“What’s her current project? Finding you a husband?”
Lucy wanted to cringe. Aunt Olympia had done the opposite of finding her a husband. “We’ve had some financial problems.”
“I remember you mentioned that. Is it getting any better?” Rebecca leaned forward, concern on her face.
“No. Well, yes.” Lucy rubbed her forehead, trying to straighten out her tangled thoughts. “Aunt Olympia found a way for Crawford House to make a bit of income. The Free Clinic of Tupelo is renting out the back rooms as their new space. It’s enough to start paying off some of the home equity loans Daddy took out on the house.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, right?” Rebecca paused. “It must be really strange for you, though, to have people in your house.”
Lucy stared at her hands, wishing she could tell Rebecca everything, but not knowing where to start. She would have to go back ten years, and even then it would be almost too complicated to explain. “It is. Really strange. But I’m glad we’ve got the chance to save the house.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was that bad.”
Lucy nodded. “It was and it is. As long as we can keep the lease with the Free Clinic, we should be out from under some of the worst debt in about five years.”
“So, this isn’t a short-term project.” Rebecca took a deep breath. “And how are the clinic people? Are they nice?”
“Sure, very nice.” Lucy rubbed her nose.
Rebecca’s eyes went wide. “They’re not.”
“What? They are. Very nice.”
“You rub your nose when you lie. Did you know that?” Rebecca started to giggle.
“I do not,” Lucy protested. She searched her memory but couldn’t come up with any proof that Rebecca was wrong.
“Tom says that everyone has a ‘tell,’ something that betrays their subconscious when they’re trying not to speak the truth. When we first met, he asked if I thought his job was cool, and I said I did, but I did this little shrug with one of my shoulders.” Rebecca lifted one shoulder and dropped it. “He laughed and said most people t
hink programmers are complete nerds, living like a Dilbert cartoon, in a cube farm. It was weird. I never knew I did that, but now I catch myself, especially when I’m talking to my mom about the wedding. Everything she suggests is awful, from the enormous centerpieces to the eighty-dollar-a-plate dinner.”
Lucy smiled, imagining Rebecca shrugging her way through a lunch with her mother.
“So, spit it out. What’s wrong with the clinic people? Are they loud or messy or rude?”
“No, nothing.” Lucy lifted a hand and stopped it halfway to her nose. Rebecca crossed her arms and gave her best “gotcha” smirk.
Sliding out from behind her desk, Lucy went to the window and stared out. She’d wanted to talk about Jem, but now that she had the opportunity, she didn’t know what to say. “One of the doctors is from this area.”
Rebecca said nothing.
“We knew each other a long time ago.”
“Uh-oh.”
Lucy turned. “It’s not a big deal. We’re fine. We’ve talked to each other and everything.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Senior year of high school. We met at a spoken-poetry group.” Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know why we started hanging out. We both loved words, I guess.”
“Hmm.” Rebecca stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Something tells me that you shared more than poetry. You wouldn’t be upset about him moving back here if you’d been just friends.”
“Of course we were more than friends.” Lucy’s face went hot. She couldn’t admit it without flashing back on the memory of that one glorious summer, full of passion and yearning. “But we had nothing in common. We were from completely different economic groups, our families would never have gotten along, and he didn’t even know if he was going to college.”
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 4
