Ghosts of Romances Past

by Laura Briggs

  No doubt, she would have been shocked by the lack of silk and fine garments. Yet I enjoyed this gathering all the more for its cheerful ease.

  Among those present was a familiar young man with red hair and striking sea blue eyes, his suit shabby but neatly pressed, his calloused fingers cradling his tea cup as if it were made of paper. We were not formally introduced, but I understood his name to be George by something Alecia said to him.

  George seemed less sure of himself in a formal setting, and could barely meet my eyes as I inquired after his injury. He told me his arm is healed, and he will soon be returning to his work aboard the merchant ship.

  Before we could speak further, I was called upon by Alecia’s younger sister, Rachel, to recite one of my poems. I should have felt silly doing so in any other setting, but this atmosphere was so different, so warm and open.

  George paid me a fine compliment by sitting forward in his chair, his head resting on one hand. An attitude of fierce concentration that should have unnerved me, but instead spurred me on to greater emotion. It is the best recital I ever gave.

  A memory swept over Alice like a shadow, an image so strong and so sudden that she couldn’t turn from it if she wanted to. The memory of a tousle-haired boy with dark brown eyes and a crooked smile, who inspired her own creativity to greater heights, his artist’s brush sweeping alongside hers, the two trails of color uniting to form one bold mural.

  Can you recreate a perfect moment or capture a memory with words? The diary asked, in MaryAnne’s sweeping cursive. How I wish to preserve every detail of this day, so that I might revisit it again and again in my mind. Though it may be fruitless, I shall try to record the events as exactly as I can.

  It began with Rachel’s request for a game of croquet, which involved most of the guests. I am not fond of sport, however, and instead wandered to a far corner of the garden, where I settled with this book onto a bench beneath a canopy of birch limbs. Taking up my pen, I began to sketch the landscape.

  Scarcely had I begun this task, though, when George appeared, hands jammed awkwardly in his coat pockets like a schoolboy. He asked if he might not sit beside me and I said yes. Perhaps it was wrong of me to do so, but there was nothing but politeness in his manner.

  My recital must have cured his shyness, for he talked openly of his favorite poets and their works. He flattered my own small piece, comparing it to the writings of Shelley (though I am sure it does not deserve such rich praise).

  Indeed, he spoke so eloquently on the subject, I could not resist observing that he might have been a teacher rather than a sailor. A remark I should not have made since, no doubt, his vocation was less a matter of choice and more about necessity. He was not offended, though, and we continued in a familiar fashion.

  From a distance, I heard shouts of laughter from the other guests absorbed in croquet. A cool breeze fluttered through the birch limbs overhead, fanning the pages of the volume in my hands.

  “May I see your sketch?” He asked, placing his hand against the cover.

  I saw no harm in the request and let him take it. But the breeze returned and blew the pages open to “Song of the Sailor.” A second too late, I realized what he saw—my face burning with shame as his lips silently formed the words on the page.

  When he looked up, his gaze caught my own and seemed to hold it there, suspended. The first drops of rain fell, splashing the stone walkway, but I scarcely noticed in my haste to apologize for what must seem a terrible presumption.

  He checked my words with a gentle shake of the head, his smile deep and warm. The book fell closed between us, its cover splashed by drops from the leaves overhead. I let my eyes drift closed, aware of his warm breathe against my hair. The soft rain pattered against my face, against my fingers too, as they sought his own.

  But nothing more would happen, I fear, since Alecia appeared to shoo us out of the rain.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  28

  Heart-pumping, Alice turned to the next entry. Never did she imagine that her own great-great-grandmother—a respected wife and mother of ten—would have an impulsive romance anywhere in her background. One her family must have forbidden if they knew of it. But did they?

  August 26th, 1883. Our attachment is a secret one, and that is how I intend to keep it, at least for now. There is not a shred of evidence to connect us, save for George’s dear gift, which I wear every day, concealed beneath my dress collar. It is a medallion fashioned after an intricately formed knot, carved from a thin piece of poplar wood.

  A lover’s knot, George told, me when he slipped its ribbon over my neck. “Hard to undo except by them that wants to be free,” he said.

  He gave it to me but two days before his ship sailed. Though we shall be separated for many months, he has promised to write me as soon as they make port. What I shall do ‘til then, I cannot say, for the memory of his company occupies my mind at all times.

  Wait—this sounded like Aunt Phylis’s mistake all over again. The secret romance, the treasured token of love. Would MaryAnne take a different route? Or should she prepare herself for another story of missed opportunities?

  October 1st, 1883. I have watched anxiously these five weeks for the promised letter, but none has come. I am certain his ship must have docked in Maine by now, so I do not understand the delay. Perhaps there has been some accident or some illness among the crew. Lord, I pray it isn’t so.

  Still, how can I help searching Father’s newspaper each morning for word of shipwrecks or lost crews? The mere mention of storms at sea turns my heart cold these days. I must be careful or else, people will begin to suspect. Mother has caught me crying once already and Father says I look a trifle too pale these days.

  Then a lapse of many days gave way to this entry:

  October 26th, 1883. Two months now and not a word from George. I have seen no account of his ship in the papers and there has been no talk of any accidents at sea. Can it be he was only feigning his tenderness in all the times we met? It hardly seems possible, and yet I know so little about the heart of any man.

  I have taken the medallion and stored it away in my desk drawer. Only the most stubborn kind of hope keeps me from marking through the poem I wrote that first day we met. How it pains me to doubt his character this way, but what else am I to think?

  Mother is calling me from the stairs. She says that Edwin has come to take me for a carriage ride in the park. He means well, no doubt, but I tire so of his company. I must not let them see my tears.

  ****

  Alice’s breath caught with the strange turn in the story. Her great-great grandmother as a poor girl betrayed by a first love…it hardly seemed possible. And yet, her eyes turned to the next page to take in an even more surprising event.

  November 16th, 1883. Within the month, the papers shall announce my engagement to Mr. Edwin Clark.

  Mother is thrilled and talks of nothing but details for the wedding. She has already spent the better part of the week poring over catalogs, and has called in the family seamstress to take her measurements twice.

  I wish I could summon a similar enthusiasm for the event. True, Edwin is not unkind. He has even offered to have my ‘little book,’ as he calls it, published through his father’s firm. But I know he does not really approve of my writing endeavors. He much prefers my musical skills and encourages me to improve them daily, though I rather tire of long hours at the piano.

  A sinking feeling…a familiar image of two people trying to cram their very different worlds together. Except, instead of poems and piano lessons, she saw tennis dates and modern art paintings, salesman conferences, and villas in Denmark.

  November 21st, 1883. My engagement to Edwin is still pending, along with his new duties at the firm. His father has promised to make the arrangements in the next few days and then we shall discuss the plans for our future. How mother dotes on the notion of a wedding by Christmas. She is positively enchanted by the life I shall soon inherit.

&nb
sp; I’ve just heard a knock on the door. Perhaps Edwin has arrived early to escort me to the skating party. How I dread that he might choose to announce our engagement tonight among all our friends, even without his father’s permission.

  But wait. It is not Edwin after all. The maid has just called up to me that a letter has arrived.

  ****

  Tucked between the diary’s pages, the faded letter was fragile, the ghostly paper crumbling between Alice’s fingers.

  November 20th, 1883

  My Dear MaryAnne,

  I know that this letter may not please you, but I have wrote it anyway. I returned but a day ago and was told by our friend Miss Taylor of your courtship with a young man. She tells me you have given your heart to him and will no doubt be married soon.

  It is because of that I have written you, to beg one last time that you change your mind. I have heard no word from you since I took to the sea; as my letter has not been answered, I believe that you no longer love me. If so, then you consider us free of the promise that we made before I sailed.

  Your heart may now belong to another after so long an absence. But if it is not so and you love me still, I beg that you will change your mind. If I have not done wrong and have not hurt you, then come to me and we will keep the promise we made. I am at Sutter’s Boarding House, where I am staying until I board a ship sailing on December 1st. I would not ask it, except I love you deeply and cannot forget. I cannot sleep nor think until I know the answer.

  Whatever I have done, forgive me MaryAnne. Come to me and keep our promise.

  Your Loving George.

  Lowering the letter, Alice looked at the wooden keepsake box. Its open lid exposed the jumble of trinkets inside. Her fingers reached down and brushed them aside, leaving the bottom bare, where two intertwined hearts were carved, bearing two sets of initials: M.S. and G.H.

  MaryAnne Suder and George Headley.

  For a moment, she stared, trying to absorb the full picture of MaryAnne’s courage. How she risked everything—her place in society, her family’s approval—all for the uncertain promise of her own happily-ever-after.

  Lord, could I find the same courage to set aside fear and pride?

  Something caught her eye, the glint of metal inside the wooden box. Almost without looking, she knew what it was—a large jade stone surrounded by tiny diamonds. The promise she shut away from sight twelve years ago, hoping to bury her hurt among the unsorted pile of family relics.

  Its delicate band trembled between Alice’s fingers. The words of the letter echoed through her mind; her great-great-grandparent’s courtship preserved in delicate pen strokes to inspire her own romantic path.

  Brush, brush, brush. The sound of soft and steady bristles emerged from her bedroom. Alice stood frozen over the wooden box, then lifted it and carried it with her to the bedroom, pushing open the door which stood ajar.

  At her dressing table sat MaryAnne Headley, brushing long red hair with a silver brush. Her reflection faced Alice with a pale complexion and delicate features. A long gown of pale purple swept the carpeted floor below the chair.

  She paused at the sight of Alice watching in the mirror. Her fingers reached down and touched the small row of photographs tucked in the lower corner of Alice’s mirror with a tender gesture.

  Turning towards Alice, she smiled slowly. Then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  29

  “She turned it down? But why?”

  Jamie winced at the peeved tone in his editor’s voice. At least he didn’t have to see the expression that matched it.

  Rick must be fuming.

  But how could Jamie have guessed the “important decision” was something this earth shattering?

  “Things are kind of busy for her right now,” he said. “Family stuff,” he added, hoping Rick would let it go at that. Painful enough in his head, the news would sound even worse coming from his mouth.

  A long sigh echoed across the line. “Well, all right. I suppose emergencies can’t be helped. Still, I was hoping you guys would become a permanent team, so to speak.”

  “Me too,” he muttered. Raw disappointment flooded his being, along with the knowledge that more than a professional dream had been spoiled. Every hope he harbored for winning Alice back shriveled the moment he saw the diamond on her finger.

  “We’ll work something out,” Rick promised, as if sensing his depression. “Some Happy Valentine’s Day, huh?”

  You have no idea.

  Jamie listened to the click, then the hollow sound of the dial tone. Reluctant to be alone again with his thoughts, he toyed with the notion of going to a movie or just for a walk. But it seemed pathetic somehow to be celebrating Valentine’s Day alone while Alice was across town toasting her future with another man.

  It’s your own fault. True enough words. If only he’d answered that first letter she sent after their break-up, instead of letting juvenile pride dictate a cool indifference to her plea for friendship. What did he expect anyway? That she’d come bang down his dorm room door, begging to elope?

  He groaned and rumpled his hair. Despite the lukewarm temperature from his heating unit, the room seemed stifling. He cracked the window and soft music floated in from somewhere down the street, along with the damp night breeze. The sudden waft of air ruffled the cloth that covered the canvas.

  He tugged the fabric back down, his eyes avoiding the image hidden beneath. Strange, he should’ve gotten halfway, just in time to lose its inspiration.

  With a sigh, he turned his back on the picture, and the memories it threatened to spark. Dropping onto the sofa, he pressed the “on” button for the TV remote, desperate for distraction. Then he groaned as the beginning credits for The Way We Were filled the screen.

  But the alternatives proved even worse, as he flipped past scenes from Casablanca, Love Story, and—to add insult to injury—My Best Friend’s Wedding. Didn’t anyone feel like cutting the brokenhearted a break?

  He switched it off, leaving only the dim glow of the corner lamp to light the room. His gaze shifted to the coffee table, where the faded Bible lay, still bookmarked from his reading session the night before. Picking it up, he let it fall open to the marked spot, where his gaze sought comfort in the promise of Psalms chapter thirty-four, verses seventeen through eighteen.

  “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and those who are crushed in spirit.”

  Words he’d seen proven time and again in his own life, as well as others. All the more reason to trust them now, when his heart seemed incapable of holding anymore regret. Tracing the letters with his finger, he dropped his head and asked for guidance.

  Why Lord? Why bring Alice back into my life just for this? I know there’s a reason, but I can’t see past the hurt right now. If there’s something I need to do, some message I need to understand, then please help me see it. Because right now, it just feels like the same old mistake repeating itself.

  A sharp rap on the door made his heart jolt. Setting the Bible on the table, he smoothed his rumpled shirt and his hair, and then pulled open the door to reveal Vicki Hanson, his neighbor from the second floor.

  “Hey you.” Wrapped in a coat and scarf, she clutched a set of car keys in her hand.

  “Hi, Vicki.” He forced a cheerful note into his voice, aware his expression couldn’t be too encouraging. Especially since deep down part of him hoped it would be Alice on the other side of that knock. An impossible wish, under the circumstances.

  Vicki didn’t seem to notice his mood, though, as she plunged on in a perky tone. “Some of us from the building are going out to dinner. Our way of celebrating Singles Awareness Day,” she joked. “I know you’re taking a break from the dating scene, but why not come and hang out?”

  He glanced past her shoulder to where the group of young men and women waited by the elevator. Many were recognizable from times he’d passed them in the hall or by the P.O. boxes, a couple of them he knew by name
.

  “C’mon,” Vicki encouraged, a sympathetic note creeping into her voice. “No one should be alone on the most romantic day of the year.”

  He gripped the door frame, torn by what to do. The thought of enjoying this evening seemed out of the question. Yet, the loneliness of his apartment was just as unthinkable, his thoughts haunted by the past and all its regrets.

  “Well? What do you say?” Vicki studied him with raised brows, her fingers jangling the car keys in a playful manner.

  “I…” He paused, grappling for the right answer, his mind racing with uncertainty. Is this a good idea, Lord? A first step towards moving on?

  But no answer came. Just the steady beat of questions in his head.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  30

  The lobby at the Glass House restaurant was packed with happy couples in elegant evening wear, all of them waiting for a table at one of Charleston’s most exclusive new restaurants. Alice found it difficult to maneuver, as she came in from the cool night air. Her hair and skin were damp from the light mist, her ring finger bare, where a diamond sparkled earlier that day.

  Wrapping her dress coat tight, she followed the maître d upstairs to the veranda. Beneath a canopy of white lights and paper lanterns sat Warren, the chair across from him waiting for her. He rose and took her hand. “You look lovely, as usual,” he said, kissing her fingers. “Except you’re damp. Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

  “I forgot.” She pushed wet hair from her face, her skin numb from something other than the February temperatures.

  “Sure you won’t be too cold?” he asked, frowning a little as he studied her rain-spattered coat. “We can always request a table inside. It would mean waiting a little longer for dinner, but—”