He reached for the handkerchief in his right front shirt pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. This work, what he was now responsible for overseeing, was an enormous waste of his time. Jon knew the slaves were crucial to his family and their wealth, but his heart was not in his work. It was elsewhere, anywhere but Schelling House.
The cessation of the South from the Union had put a halt to his dreams of attending medical school in the North. Though his tuition was paid in full, the moment the War began all dreams of studying medicine at Dartmouth College in Hanover ended. His brother, Carter Pembroke Schelling, immediately enlisted, as did his father. At the tender of seventeen, Jonathan was quite capable of enlisting to defend the South from northern marauders. His mother, Mable, was the only reason Jonathan was standing in the middle of the field as the slaves picked the Boll Weevils off the cotton. Though a strong southern woman from a long-lined family, Mable would not send both her sons to die in the war.
“I am coming, Hannah,” Jon shouted. “Come on, let us call it an early day.”
The Schelling family owned over 100 slaves. This fact alone showed their standing in the surrounding community of Savannah Oaks. But what was even more impressive was the results of how Jon worked with the slaves and had increased their profitability by two-fold. They respected Jonathan Schelling and his kind demeanor. He treated them as equals and respect.
“Morning, when the dawn breaks, we will pick up where we left off.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain said and nodded his head. He was old, so old no one really knew how old he was. Jonathan never made Captain work, he just had him come to the field, sit in the shade of the oak, and dole out water when the slaves were thirsty.
“Have a nice evening, Captain,” Jon said as he tossed his straw hat into the air before placing it on his head and beginning the long walk to the house.
Schelling House was the nearly the envy of every Southerner in the Savannah Oaks area until the Bolivars built their new house, after the old one was struck by lightning and burnt to the ground.
The Antebellum columns were hand carved by artisans from England to mirror those seen at the Parthenon. Jonathan often stood in the field, admiring the house from afar. They rarely saw the Bolivars. Anna Bolivar was getting on in years, her sons had all left to fight in the war, and her husband was long in the grave. Anna was a striking woman, despite her age, and Jonathan had always mused if she had been a bit younger, every man in Savannah Oaks would have beaten a path to their door. Now only Anna, her daughter Louisa, and Louisa’s husband remained at the house. Cecil Bolivar was maimed years back in a riding accident and was left with a crippled leg that prevented him from fighting in the War of the States, unlike their four sons.
When Jon reached the house, he stepped into the mudroom, stripped off his clothes, and bathed in the cast iron washtub to remove the sweat of the day before joining his mother for dinner. She was not one to appreciate the way a day of work caused a man to smell at the dinner table.
“Mr. Jon, you have got to stop dallying when supper is on. You know how mad that makes your momma,” Hannah said as she handed Jon a towel and laid his fresh clothes across the back of the chair. She tinkered with the toiletries, looking for one his father might have left for him, and settled on a bit of Cypress water.
“The work of a man is never done when the sun still shines, Hannah. Mother can be appeased, especially when I tell her what Captain and I devised today to kill the Weevils.”
“Now what you out there doing? You sure are not overseeing.”
Jon smiled. Hannah was at least seventy and had been a household servant since long before his birth. She was set in her ways and thought all slaves had a place because that was how she was raised. Mable was extremely fond of Hannah and tried to retire her on more than occasion, fearing her age would not lend well to her work. Hannah would have no part of it and told Jon’s mother the devil lives in idle hands.
“Captain knows a good deal about the cotton, Hannah. What kind of man would I be if I did not listen to the wise words of an old man?”
“You mean an old coot,” Hannah muttered. “Dinner is on the table.”
Jonathan picked up his suit coat and walked to the dining room where his mother was seated at the head of the table in his father’s absence.
“At least you are not late,” Mable said and motioned for dinner to be brought to the table. “How does the crop look this year?”
“Captain and I made a solution out of Willow bark, ground Nasturtiums, and Lye to sprinkle on the budding plants. It killed the Boll Weevils right off. We might be onto an important discovery.”
Mable smiled at her son’s creative endeavor, pleased he had taken a liking to overseeing the family wealth and longevity in his father’s absence.
“Well, now, if that be the case, I would hold that as a secret close to the breast.”
It pained Mable to see her son lose his dreams of becoming a fine doctor but never was it mentioned. Her husband believed the true character of a man was determined by his ability to cope with disappointment.
There was little conversation during dinner. Jon ate and quickly excused himself from the table.
“If you would excuse me, mother, I need to pay a call to the Widow Bolivar and her family.”
Mable nodded and shooed her son with her hand.
“Such a good boy,” Hannah said as she cleared the table. “Such a good boy.”
Jon straightened his jacket as he walked down the long hallway to the front door and picked up his rifle. One could not be too careful in these times.
He decided to walk through the fields past the lone oak standing between their properties. Once he reached the Bolivar Estate, Jon tucked the rifle under his arm and knocked on the front door.
“Mrs. Anna, Mrs. Louisa, it is Jonathan Schelling.”
Cecil answered the door, glad to see it was the Schelling boy.
“Welcome in, Jonathan. How fares your mother?”
“She is fine, just fine, Mr. Bolivar. Thank you for asking. I will be sure to let mother know you asked.”
“Would you like some tea,” Louisa called from the parlor. “I just picked a fresh handful of mint.”
“That would be lovely, thank you, Mrs. Louisa.”
Jon followed Cecil into the parlor and took a seat on the divan.
“If you are not busy tomorrow evening, son, could you please come by and help me move a bit of furniture?”
“Of course, Mr. Bolivar.” Jonathan smiled, thinking it was a bit of an odd request during times such as these.
“The look on your face betrays your thoughts,” Cecil said with a laugh. “Let me show you.”
Cecil walked to the far wall of the parlor, a wall that had no windows, and kicked the side of the fireplace. The fireplace slid forward, revealing a hidden corridor.
“Well, I never,” Jonathan said under his breath.
“When the house was rebuilt, Harris, God Rest his Soul, insisted it be constructed. I always felt that my great-grandfather was a bit of a seer. He said times may come unpleasant. I cannot say if he was speaking as to the war or not, but I can say it was the finest idea old Harris ever had. Louisa is worried about the Yanks coming south. She wants the paintings stripped to save them in the event the worst happens. She also has some family heirlooms to be placed inside, but I just do not have the capability to do what I once did.” Cecil took his cane and tapped the wooden supports tied to his lower leg.
“I will come after supper, if that suits you.”
Cecil laid his hand on Jon’s shoulder.
“That will suit me just fine, son, just fine.”
Jon looked at the wall, wondering if the time came when the Yankees pressed South, if that hidden room would be used to hide not only the Bolivar wealth but also their family.
Chapter Nine
Petulia
Cordie rolled over and looked out the open doors of her room, leading to the balcony and realized it was Saturday.
“Yes,” she squealed and leapt from her bed.
It was early, and she knew her aunt would have breakfast waiting. Cordie quickly looked at the alarm clock. She had overslept.
“No time to shower,” she said to herself and quickly dressed. In ten minutes flat, her hair was pulled into a bun; she had dressed, and was bounding down the stairs.
“Just in time,” Sadie said as Cordie sat at the table. It was something that had taken her a little while to get used to, eating all their meals together in the dining room. Her parents were rarely home from work come dinner time, so Cordie often ate in front of the television. That did not happen at Whispering Oaks.
“Morning, Uncle Jesse,” Cordie said and kissed him on the cheek before sitting at the table.
“Grits…bluck,” Cordie said with a smile. “How do you eat those things?” She reached forward to help herself to a helping of ham and stopped. No one had said grace yet.
She placed her hands in her lap and waited for Sadie to join them.
“Heavenly Father, bless this food and our family. Thank you for each day. Thank you for family,” Sadie said with her head lowered. “Amen.”
Cordie reached for the basket of steaming biscuits and a helping of ham.
“So, it’s Saturday,” Sadie began.
“Yeah, I can’t wait to get over to Cricket’s house. We are researching the old Schelling House for our history project.”
“And,” Sadie said, laying her fork on her plate.
“And what?”
“Cordie, you have to remember to keep engagements.”
Cordie rolled her eyes not remembering she was to meet the other members of the Daughters of the South at three in the afternoon. They were going to vote on accepting her as Sadie’s successor when the time came.
“We have a meeting today,” Sadie said.
“Oh…yeah, I forgot. I promise I will be home in time.” Cordie’s heart sank. She was hoping her aunt had forgotten like she had.
“Make sure you are home at least two hours before three. We need to make sure you are ready when they arrive.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cordie conceded.
The rest of breakfast was painfully quiet as Cordie waited to be excused.
“Go on,” Jesse said.
Cordie leapt up and kissed him.
“I promise I won’t be late, Aunt Sadie,” Cordie yelled as she grabbed her backpack and headed out the front door.
“Sadie, let her be a kid, for Pete’s sake. She has a friend. Let her be a teenager.”
Sadie walked to the door and peered through the lace curtain to see Cordie getting into Cricket’s old Honda Civic and smiled.
“I have to be home by one,” Cordie said as she climbed into Cricket’s car and closed the door.
“That bites, why?”
“My aunt is introducing me to her woman’s club, you know, Daughters of the South.”
“Oh,” Cricket said with a slight sneer.
“Hey,” Cordie said, turning to face her friend. “Why don’t you tag along? I mean, I don’t have anything in common with them. I am going to be bored.”
“Yeah, that isn’t going to happen.”
“Why not? Oh come on, it will be fun.” Cordie laughed and made quotation marks in the air with her fingers.
“Cordie, I am what they call being from the wrong side of the tracks.”
Cordie’s expression went completely blank.
“You Yanks, gosh, don’t you know what that means?”
“NO! Fill me in.”
“When you are from the wrong side of the tracks, you aren’t as good as everyone else.”
“That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard,” Cordie said as she crossed her arms and propped her feet against the dashboard of the car.
“Besides, they don’t like my family.”
“That is nonsense. Aunt Sadie said you come from a good southern family.”
“That’s your aunt and that isn’t how everyone else feels about it, at least not those old bitties in that dumb club.”
Cordie knew she had struck a nerve, but didn’t understand why.
“Could you explain, cause I am in the dark here.”
“Part of my family is old southern and part of it isn’t. That is the part I am from.”
“This is like pulling teeth. Would you just spit it out?”
“My great grandmother was a slave, Cordie.”
Cordie looked at Cricket with her big hazel eyes and dark, wavy hair.
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Well, what does that have to do with anything?”
Cricket looked at Cordie and frowned.
“Really? Do I need to spell it out for you?”
Cordie thought about it for a minute and realized the implication behind what wasn’t said.
“Oh,” Cordie whispered. “Well, that doesn’t matter to me and if they want me in their stupid club, they need to respect my friends.”
Cricket laughed and slapped the steering wheel, then punched Cordie in the arm.
“Petulia is going to love you.”
Cordie turned her attention toward the road and watched the houses slowly pass. The longer they drove, the more worn and tired their surroundings looked.
“Welcome to the poor side of town,” Cricket said and laughed.
But what Cordie saw was not poor in her eyes, it was rich, filled with history, and stories that were begging to be told. The houses were modest, small, but well taken care of and loved. To Cordie, it didn’t matter that where they were headed was not like where she lived.
“We’re here,” Cricket announced as they turned into the drive of a small white house with a wrought iron fence.
Cordie opened the car door and smiled at the women sitting on the porch.
“Aunt Petulia, this is my friend, Cordie Bolivar. She wants to research the Schelling House. She is the one I told you about.”
“Well, don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open. You’ll catch flies,” Petulia said to break the ice.
“I should tell you, she really isn’t my aunt. She’s my grandma’s friend, but like an aunt, well, to me at least.” Cricket smiled.
“Come on in and I’ll get us some mint tea.”
The inside of the house was quaint, decorated with old pictures, some of which were tin. Cordie stood admiring them as Petulia entered the living room with a pitcher of tea and three glasses.
“It must be nice to have so much family history,” Cordie commented before sitting down.
“Child, now how can you say that when you are a Bolivar?”
“I don’t know anything about my family. I grew up in New York.”
“Sad, sad thing when a pretty girl like you doesn’t know her southern heritage.” Petulia poured the tea and offered the girls a glass. “What makes you interested in the old Schelling place?”
“I just think it’s sad that the house sits over there, all boarded up, no one living in it, like it doesn’t have a soul. I just wondered what could have happened. Why did they just leave?”
“That house has been boarded up as long as I have been alive, Cordie. They pay people to keep the place up, but the Schelling family hasn’t lived there since a few years after the war. I don’t even think that place has plumbing in it yet.”
“Wow,” Cordie whispered. “So is the inside still the same as it was when the war ended? That would never happen in New York. Someone would have looted it a long time ago.”
“The Schelling house was one of the only houses not looted during the war. Some say they hid their possessions someplace, but no one knows where. To this day, no one really knows the truth or how they managed to hang onto everything until after the Yanks left. Regardless, no one will step foot on that property. No one would dare.”
“Why?” Cordie asked and took a sip of tea.
“There are spirits, many spirits, living in that house. Some of them are not so friendly.”
&nbs
p; “That can’t be possible! I have been over there and talked to Jon. I think he is their caretaker or something. He’s kind of cute, even if he does dress weird.” Cordie blushed as she thought about Jon and their brief encounter, how polite he was, and how his hair shone in the moonlight.
The glass slipped from Petulia’s hand and crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.
“You spoke to Jon?”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry, did I do something wrong?”
“And he was as real as me, right here, in the flesh?”
“You’re scaring me, Petulia.” Cordie’s hands trembled as she placed her glass on the table.
“And he was real to you?” Cricket asked in disbelief.
“What is going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
Petulia didn’t know what to do at this point, but to just come right out and say it.
“Jon Schelling died in 1864.”
Cordie awoke to Petulia and Cricket leaning over her.
“Thank God,” Cricket said as she helped Cordie to sit forward. “I was beginning to think you would never snap out of it.”
“What happened,” Cordie asked, slightly confused and not quite sure what was happening.
“You fainted, that’s what happened,” Petulia said as she handed Cricket a cold cloth for Cordie’s forehead.
“You weren’t serious, were you?”
“Aunt Petulia doesn’t lie when it comes to the spirits. That’s why when you said you were interested in that place I wanted you to meet her. She knows more about the spirits of Savannah Oaks than anyone I know.”
“But he seemed so real,” Cordie said as her voice trailed off to a near whisper.
“The spirits make themselves known to very few people, Cordie. I think your father was the last one to see Jon, but he didn’t talk about it much. Your aunt may have seen him too, but I can’t rightly say.”
Cordie looked down at her watch, suddenly realizing if she didn’t leave soon, she would be late.
“Could I come back again, another time maybe? My aunt is expecting me home.”
Petulia stood, hugged Cordie, and whispered, “You come back anytime you like.”
House at Whispering Oaks Page 4
