by Autumn Sand
“Talk about awkward.” She blushes some more.
Oddly, it wasn’t. Even though I had to direct most of the conversation, it never felt awkward. It was one of the most natural conversations I’d ever had. I felt like I’d known her all my life. Her only hesitation was getting used to speaking to me as an equal; something I know will pass with time.
“There is a strong presence in this house,” Willa says, as she casts more sage smoke around the room.
“You can say that again,” I mutter under my breath. Dawn catches what I said and chuckles lightly.
“But the presence means you no harm,” Willa speaks in between her chants.
“Yep, kind of figured that part out on my own,” I moan grumpily. I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but I believe more than what she is giving me at the moment.
Willa rolls her eyes in my direction and goes back to chanting. I lean closer to Dawn. “Is that all she has, from blowing sage smoke in my home and chanting nonsense?”
I’m tired and irritable. I canceled the workmen from coming for the next few days, with full pay; I expect some answers from this.
“Patience, Evan. She will give you some answers,” Dawn chides and, for a moment, she reminds me of Rae. Rae often used to scold me about my patience, or lack of it, and right now, it seems that Dawn is filling in for her sister on that point.
“Where is she buried?” Willa interrupts.
I look from her to Dawn and shrug. “No clue.”
Willa places her finger on her bottom lip. “Hmmm.”
“Hmmm? What does hmmm mean?” I stand and walk toward her, with Dawn following behind.
“Well, it would be great to be able to go to her place of burial and summon her.” Willa fans more sage smoke around.
“Summon her? We have the mirror.” I point to it and its gilded glory. “Remember, I chatted with her through it.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But maybe she needs peace. Besides, can you summon her from it or does she just come to you?” She speaks to me like I’m a five-year-old who is just learning the ways of the world.
I let out a loud groan. What the hell was I thinking, asking Dawn to bring her here? She isn’t giving me any answers, and my house stinks from the sage shit.
“Listen—” I point at her with my finger, like a loaded gun, ready to set off my temper.
“Whoa, Evan. Let me do the talking.” Dawn steps in front of me and toward Willa. “What Evan is trying to say is, he would like a better understanding of why this is happening.” She turns to me for reassurance that she is going in the right direction. I nod for her to go on, and she smiles, turning back to the fruitcake. “He’s not afraid of the person that he spoke to. He believes that they are both alive in their own present time, but somehow, they are able to communicate with a one-hundred and fifty-eight-year difference in time.”
Willa fingers stroke her chin as she thinks. “I’m not sure. We may never really have that answer, but more communication between them would help to get to the answer, or at least get us closer to one.”
Finally, a response that makes sense. I walk over to my nightstand and grab my wallet and car fob.
“Where are you going?” Dawn asks, as I walk toward the door.
I dangle the key fob above my head. “To get some answers. Going to the South Carolina Historical Society. Coming?”
Chapter 15
I whip the car into park in the municipal garage so fast that Dawn holds on to the handle above the door in order not to fall over. I’m out of the car and marching toward the exit before she has a chance to unbuckle her seatbelt. The soft pads of her footsteps quickly follow behind me.
“Evan, what’s the rush?” she pants as she tries to keep pace with me. Willa stayed behind at the house to keep “sageing.”
“I want to do some research before I speak to her again.” The words tumble out of my mouth, without much thought or reason to them. I’m a man with a dogged determination at the moment, and conversation doesn’t fit into what I need to do.
“But.” Pant. “I thought.” Pant. “She said.” Pant. “It might be.” Pant. “A few days or something.” Pant.
I stop suddenly and spin around to face her. “That’s it!” I grab her arm and run toward the South Carolina Historical Society’s building.
“That’s what?” she screams, as we dodge oncoming traffic.
“It. That’s it!” I yank the doors open with Dawn in tow, startling the woman sitting behind the reception desk. Dawn yanks her arm from my clasp; I release easily because I have already moved on in my thoughts.
“May I help you?” The woman takes in our appearance, and I’m pretty sure we look the sight to be seen at the moment. Me, with red-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes and a day-old beard; Dawn, disheveled from me dragging her around Charleston.
I open my mouth to ask her about information on the De Wolfe Plantation when my eyes settle on the portrait behind her. She turns her head to the portrait, then back to me.
“Lovely painting, isn’t it?”
My mouth is agape as I stare at it, being sandblasted back to my conversation with a woman from one-hundred and fifty-eight years ago. “Who, ummm…”
“That is Franny. She was once a slave at the De Wolfe Plantation. “
She’s wearing the exact outfit I saw her in; the eyes, the birthmark on her cheek, everything. Her breasts are fuller than her image in the mirror, but I’m sure that is just artist interpretation.
Dawn gasps. “She’s beautiful.”
“Why yes, she was. We hear tell that she was one of the loveliest creatures in these here parts.” She smiles. “I’m Jenn, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Jenn. I’m Evan, and this is my sister-in-law, Dawn. Do you know the story behind the painting?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off the image in front of me.
“Why yes. The painting was done by one of America’s most renowned artists, Henri LaSalle. His foundation donated the work to us,” she says proudly.
“Yes, but normally slaves wouldn’t have portraits done of them. How did this come to be?”
She nods her understanding. “Well, this is strictly folklore, but the story goes that he fell in love with her from the moment he saw her. He was a permanent guest of the De Wolfes, and rumored to have been Enid De Wolfe’s lover. Her marriage to Simon De Wolfe was not a success.”
I lean on the counter, mesmerized by her tale of the De Wolfes.
“Did Enid know that her lover fell in love with Franny?” Dawn asks, equally captivated.
The woman nods her head and leans in closer to us, bringing us into her confidence. “Yes, that is how the story goes. When Enid found out about Henri falling in love with Franny, she was furious and killed her. Some say he killed Franny himself when she rejected him. But I’ve always believed that Enid was a woman scorned.”
“Killed? Where did they bury her?” Dawn asks before I get a chance to.
“Well that’s another thing; no one rightfully knows. When Simon returned home from the war, Franny was long gone, and so was he.”
“Is it possible that they ran off together?” Dawn asks, and my stomach lurches.
“It’s possible,” she says thoughtfully.
I’ve become more determined than ever to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Franny and Henri’s disappearance. I wonder if Franny can tell me. No, she isn’t dead yet in her time. I scratch the top of my head as I stare at her portrait.
I point to the painting. “I bet this caused an uproar when he painted it. Did he have a showing?”
If he had a showing, there would be a record of it somewhere, and perhaps help me narrow down the timeframe of his disappearance.
“No, actually. The portrait was found in his studio after his disappearance.”
“Does his studio still exist?” Dawn asks, as she leans on the counter.
“Yes, it’s a museum now. Just two blocks from here.” She smiles brightly.
“I have the
feeling I know how I’m spending my afternoon.” Dawn smirks.
“The museum? Well, it’s closed for the season. It’s only open during the spring and summer months.”
My heart drops, and desperation slowly kicks in. “Who owns the museum?” I ask.
“It's run by his foundation.”
I make a mental note of it, then say, “I recently bought the De Wolfe plantation.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off and proceed.
“We came here today to see if we can do some research into the plantation.”
“Oh, of course. We have records from them. Do you have something in mind that you’re looking for?”
I swallow deeply. “Do you have slave records for them?” The words taste disgusting as they leave my mouth.
She plugs the information into the computer and looks up. “Well, it seems we have some, but it is not complete. From which year?”
“Eighteen-sixty through eighteen-sixty-five.” I clasp my hands together in anticipation, as she types in the numbers.
“Yes. Well, the records go up until eighteen-hundred and sixty-four.” Her glasses move down the bridge of her nose as she speaks.
“Perfect; it’s as I expected.”
She smiles and waves for us to follow her.
“What is as you expected?” Dawn whispers.
“The Emancipation Proclamation was signed in eighteen sixty-three. Most slaves would have run by then. You can’t keep records of people that you don’t have.”
We get off the elevator, and she leads us into a room, where she directs us to take a seat. She quickly pulls down two large volumes of books and places them on the table in front of us.
“I believe you should be able to find what you need in these.”
“Would there be records if the slaves were ill?”
“Yes, though, I’m unsure if the De Wolfe plantation kept extensive records like that. But it should be in there if they did.” She smiles pleasantly at us before asking, “Anything else I can do for you?”
“No thanks, you’ve done plenty. You were a great help.” I nod at her, and she blushes.
“There you go again,” Dawn whispers, as the receptionist walk away.
“What?” I ask, as I type out an email to James.
“You charmed her, and now she is in love.”
I give her a sideways glance and shake my head. “Let’s get to work on this. We will be going to that museum later today.”
“Huh? But—”
“I emailed James. He’s reaching out to Henri’s foundation now for us. He will tell them that I need to research a book.”
“Must be nice,” she mutters under her breath.
Chapter 16
Sitting in a wooden seat for hours on end is not exactly what I would call a fun day out. I stretch a bit before leaning back down to read some more pages. I glance at my cell phone and realize we have to head over to the museum. The foundation confirmed with James that they are willing to open the doors for me.
Dawn’s head rests in a nest between her arms; she’s fast asleep and snoring lightly.
I wonder for a moment if I should keep going, or just give up and head straight to the museum. As if my fingers take on a life of their own, I close the book and reopen it. A Photostat of the ledger appears.
“Dawn,” I whisper loudly. Patrons look up and over in my direction. I nod and look down at the ledger again. “Dawn,” I hiss.
She shifts in the uncomfortable seat but shows no signs of waking up. Reaching over, I nudge her, startling her awake. She jumps up in her seat with a shout, her eyes wide and red.
A few people shush her, but she doesn’t notice because she is angrily glaring at me.
“I swear to God, Evan.” She rests the palm of her hand on her heart.
“Look,” she begins to protest, but I stab my finger at the ledger.
“Will you shut up and look?” I forgot what a deep sleeper she can be, and how grouchy she is when she wakes up.
“You found it?” She pulls the book over to her and scans it. “My goodness, you found it.”
“Yes. There is a record of her in here. Now, I need to track down the last entry about her.”
She glances at the wall clock. “Aren’t we supposed to be at the museum in, like, five minutes?”
I nod. “Maybe they will loan the book to me.”
“They won’t loan out a resource book.”
I debate if I should just head to the museum and come back here tomorrow.
“Okay, this is what we will do. I’ll keep digging, and you go to the museum.” She reaches over to the other books that I had managed to accumulate while she was sleeping.
“Are you sure?” I wonder how good she would be at research. Dawn isn’t known to be the academic type.
“I’m positive. Especially now that I know what to look for. Between the two of us, we should have something by the end of this evening.”
I nod my agreement and rise. “Call me if you find anything important.”
“I promise. Now go, before you’re late.” She turns back to the book and begins scanning pages.
I run down the steps—no time for the elevator—and with a quick wave to the helpful receptionist, I’m out the door and heading toward the museum.
“Mr. Taylor, what a pleasure to meet you.” Barry holds his hand out for me to shake.
“Thank you for opening the museum on short notice.” I grip his firm hand.
“We are honored that you are writing a book about Henri LaSalle. We couldn’t possibly miss this opportunity,” he says, his back to me as he types a code in the security system.
“Well, Henri was such an important figure in American art. How could I not write a book about him?” My words about a book that will never be written drip like honey on a hot buttered biscuit.
“Exactly,” he says with enthusiasm. “Entrez. Entrez.” He smiles as he holds the door open.
I walk into what is Henri LaSalle’s gallery and workspace. The lights flicker on, and I find myself standing face-to-face with a life-size statue of Henri. The plaque says, “Henri LaSalle. Born September 21, 1830. Missing 1861.”
I turn around to face Barry. “When did Henri die?”
He clasps his hands in front of himself and rocks on his heels. “Unfortunately, that has been a great mystery. You see, he was scheduled for an exhibit in Paris, France, on August 31, 1861. But he never showed up. This was a huge scandal at the time.”
“When was the last time anyone saw him?”
“Well, there are varying accounts of this. His benefactress, Mrs. Enid De Wolfe, claims that she saw him off on the ship that was to take him to France for the exhibit.” He walks over to a framed newspaper hanging on the wall. A drawn picture of a boat called the Carolina Queen; the headline reads, “Henri LaSalle’s Last Voyage.”
“What about the ship’s records. Did anyone check?” I read the article as I speak.
“Yes.” He points to a framed ships ledger, opened to the page that shows Henri LaSalle did check in.
“And no more word from him since his arrival in France? Did he check into his hotel?”
“No, not at all.” He snaps his finger in the air. “Poof. He was gone.”
I snap my finger in the air too, as I wrap my head around the mystery. “Do you believe foul play?”
“There had long been the rumor that Mr. De Wolfe killed him. You see, Henri was not only a talented artiste, but he was known to be a womanizer as well. He was originally from New Orleans, but had to leave and move to Charleston because of an affair with a governor’s wife.”
“Are you saying that Henri was having an affair with Mrs. De Wolfe?” I ask the question, the answer of which I am very much aware of. Sometimes you can get more information from a person when you feign ignorance.
He shrugs. “So the rumors go; yes, they were lovers.”
I look around the small space-turned-museum. Smal
l knickknacks are on the walls, his desk; basically, all over. Little introductions into Henri’s life. A Victorian secretary sits in the corner next to a window. I walk over and look out the window that Henri must have stared out of so long ago. It now faces a trendy restaurant, but I can only imagine what was there before. Perhaps it was open scenery or a carriage house? The possibilities were endless. A journal lay open on the desk. I look down at it, my access restricted by a velvet rope and a “Do Not Enter” sign.
Thank goodness for my keen eyesight. The ink on the pages is slightly faded, but is protected by the glass encasing the journal.
“He wrote daily journals, I see.” I point.
“Yes, Henri was an avid journalist.”
“What is the last entry of his journal?” I ask.
“The last journal we found is the one that you see on his desk.” He lifts up the velvet rope for me to enter.
I bend down to get a better look at the date: January 15th, 1861. It reads…
Enid was suddenly struck with an illness that has left her weak and at death's door. I fear my beloved may die. Simon appears not to worry at all about his wife’s wellbeing, and has yet to go to her room to visit. I vow to take her with me when I leave for Paris in August, God-willing, if she lives. We will start life anew together in a new land.
It looks as if he had to stop writing suddenly. I look up at Barry with more questions running through my tired brain.
“If the ship did not sail until August of eighteen-sixty-one, there must be another journal.”
“Well, he had an art journal. He wrote about things that inspired his art. I can’t begin to tell you how much of a help that journal has been to us. It opens our eyes to what was going on in his mind.”
“Yes, I can imagine. May I see that journal?” I probe.
“Well, we don’t normally show it to the customers.” He hesitates.
“I want to have a better understanding of Henri. I want to capture his true essence in the book.” I dig myself in deeper to the lies I have committed myself to.
He nods and digs into his pocket for a key. As he disappears into a backroom, I walk around the small space and find a sketch on the wall of the painting of Franny. He comes back out, his now gloved hands holding an old worn book.
