Gillian frowned. “That almost sounds like you’re asking me out on a date.”
Carrie looked away with a sigh. She hated these conversations.
She’d had them before and they never went well. Anything she said would be wrong. She pushed her hair back from her face with a quick brush of her fingers. “You said you weren’t like that, Gillian, and I’m not interested in chasing phantoms.”
Gillian folded her arms across her chest and then unfolded them. She put a hand in her pocket and then took it out again. “I said—” She closed her mouth and looked at the attic floorboards.
Her hands were clenched into fists, her lips pressed in a tight line, but she didn’t look angry. She looked scared. “I said I’m not like Jo.”
Carrie watched Gillian for a moment. She didn’t know what her words meant or understand why saying them would scare her so much. “So, what’s Jo like?”
“She cuts her hair short and wears men’s clothes. I don’t do that.”
“Yes, I can tell.” No, that was the wrong thing to say. Carrie frowned as Gillian’s arms wrapped around her middle. “But I don’t see anything wrong with Jo wearing whatever clothes make her feel comfortable.”
Gillian shook her head. “I didn’t mean to say that there was.”
“Then I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to say.”
“I’m just saying that I like being a woman.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that either.”
Gillian shook her head sharply. Her shoulders hunched as her arms tightened around her stomach. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
Ah. She understood now. Carrie smiled gently even as her heart started racing. “Have you ever said it before?”
A flush spread over Gillian’s skin. “Not out loud.”
“Then you should try it. Just this once. If it comes out all wrong, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
Gillian took a breath, her chest rising and falling. “I’m not like Jo, but I am…I mean, I have…” She turned her back. “No, I can’t say it. I’m sorry, Carrie. I can’t. It’s such an ugly word.”
All of Carrie’s tiredness slipped back into her bones. She sat heavily on the flat top of a steel trunk. “It’s not an ugly word, Gills. People say ugly things about it, attach ugly ideas to it, but the word itself isn’t ugly. Gillian, you’re not an ugly person, no matter who you find attractive.”
Gillian turned halfway back toward Carrie, her profile emphasizing her long, straight nose. “You’re not ugly either.”
“Thanks,” Carrie said dryly.
Gillian let her arms fall to her sides. “I mean to say that I think you’re really quite attractive.”
“That almost sounds like you’re asking me out on a date.”
Gillian looked at the floorboards again. “There isn’t anywhere around here where two women can go out on a date. You have to drive to Richmond for places like that.”
“Don’t friends go out to dinner sometimes? Can’t they meet for pecan pie and coffee at the diner?”
“Not in this town. It’s too small and everyone’s in everyone else’s business. Friends have to be very careful if they don’t want people to know they’re…friends.”
“What would happen if everyone knew they were friends?”
“They would end up like Jo, a pariah, an outcast that everyone talks about and no one talks to. She has no friends here other than me. Her family doesn’t even acknowledge her anymore.”
Carrie rubbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’ve always been sorry about that too, but you can’t change the way people are.”
Carrie nodded her head slowly. “Especially if you don’t try.”
Gillian turned with an angry spark in her eyes, hands planted on her hips. Her eyes met Carrie’s steady gaze and the spark faded. She let her hands fall back to her sides. “It’s not as simple as that, but I hear what you’re saying.” Carrie smiled at her and Gillian smile back, tentative and shy. She looked at her watch again and the smile faded. “I really do have to get on with my day. Places to go, people to see and all that. I’m already late for my first appointment.”
“Will you come over tomorrow to do the inventory? We can argue about dinner and dates after we count things.”
Gillian laughed softly, almost too softly for Carrie to hear.
She touched the face of her watch and then covered it with her hand. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Carrie’s smile turned into a huge grin as she got up off the trunk. It probably made her look like a fool, but she didn’t care.
She was going to go on a date with the most elegant woman she’d ever met.
Carrie could almost feel the pieces of her heart snapping back together.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Carrie sat in the library in one of the thinly cushioned chairs that flanked the fireplace with her feet propped up on the ottoman, crossed at the ankles, as she tried to read the oldest copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel she’d ever seen. A 1905 edition with yellow pages that crackled under her fingers. She hated the story just as much as she did the first time she read it, but it was still strangely fascinating in an “Oh, my God, I can’t believe she wrote that” kind of a way. The late afternoon was gray and gloomy with the rain starting and stopping, pretty much as it had been ever since Gillian left that morning.
The only lamp on in the room was the small fringed table lamp beside her chair, but the light it shed was soft and warm.
It made Carrie’s eyes feel heavy. She turned the page gently and settled deeper into the chair. The words seemed fluid and hard to catch. She read about an inn by the sea, a fancy ball in London, an angry crowd in Paris and a mysterious someone who always signed his notes with a flower. The flower meant something that her mind only half grasped, but pimpernel was such a crazy name for a flower. Other flowers had better names like iris or rose, lily, violet, daisy, holly, laurel…Carrie’s eyes closed.
The book fell to the floor with a thud and Carrie started awake. She rubbed her eyes and then at the crick in her neck as she looked at her watch. It was five thirty in the morning.
Her back and legs were sore. Her knees and hips were creaking stiff, and she had to move slowly to get her feet onto the floor.
She turned in her chair and looked out the patio doors. The sun should have just been starting to rise, but it was still mostly dark. A deep gray fog pressed close against the windows. All the plants in the little garden in between the wings looked steel gray through the mist. The color of Gillian’s eyes. The air was quiet and chill. She rubbed her neck again, rotated her shoulders in a circle, bent her knees and wiggled her toes. Her left foot was still half asleep, the other half had pins and needles poking and scratching.
The clear note of a horn blew through the fog and then came a faint baying of hounds. Carrie looked at her watch again. It was still five thirty. The hunters were out very early. She couldn’t imagine what the difference was between breaking your neck at dawn and breaking your neck at dusk. Whoever they were, they must be half-baked to risk horse and neck for a chase on a morning like this. She wondered if they were riding across her land. It was okay if they were, though they should have asked first. She didn’t mind too much. It was only that she hoped the fox really was as clever as its reputation.
Carrie yawned and stretched. She picked the book up off the floor, closed it and put it on the table beside the chair. She turned the lamp off. A nap before breakfast wouldn’t hurt, or a quick brush for her fuzzy teeth. She headed for the stairs. Her foot was on the first step when she heard the music, the tinny plinking of metal tines against brass spokes, the odd harmonics of short, sharp notes brushing up against one another. The library doors were still open and the steel gray dawn made the room beyond look black and white.
Carrie walked slowly back into the library. Over by the fireplace, the lid to the music box was open. The winding key turned slowly. It hadn’t been open.
She knew it hadn’t, and the song seemed more familiar to her this time than it did before.
Carrie shivered as a chill washed over her skin. The shade of a memory fluttered through her mind. Soldiers with ghastly wounds playing an oddly cheery tune on fife and drum, a tattered flag hanging limp in the wet heat of a summer afternoon. Words flowed into her head, onto her tongue…
In hurried words, her name I blest
I breathed the vows that bind me
And to my heart in anguish pressed
The girl I left behind me…
…and then they were gone again. She couldn’t remember the words she’d just sung.
Carrie slammed the lid shut and the music died abruptly. She closed her eyes tight and thought hard of pizza and beer. Right.
Pepperoni pizza and pasteurized beer. Something specifically of her time and not of another. Not of foxes and hounds or soldiers and flags, but pizza, fresh and hot from the oven and buckets of cold beer chilled in the ice house. Carrie shook her head sharply.
No, not buckets, not the ice house. Bottles in the refrigerator.
Beer came in bottles and went in the refrigerator. That’s right. And later today, Gillian would come over and she would take her out for pizza and beer, drive to Richmond if they must, in her car, on the interstate, very fast. Pizza and beer.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes slowly. The lid was still down on the music box. The key was not moving. The library was silent as the fog. Her eyes rose to the mirror. And she froze. A lady was standing behind her. Her image was wavy and faint. She smiled at Carrie from underneath a wide-brimmed hat and lifted a gloved hand out to her.
Carrie spun around. There was nobody in the room. She looked back into the mirror and saw only her own pale face, her own eyes wide and bright. She looked back at the room again. It was still empty but for the faint smell of flowers and the tea roses still slowly wilting in their vase.
Carrie was bleary-eyed when Gillian came back over to help her with the inventory. She was showered and changed, but she opened the door yawning.
Gillian laughed as she came through the door. “It’s ten o’clock. Were you still asleep?”
“No,” Carrie said but she couldn’t bring herself to smile back.
“I woke up early.”
“Is something wrong?” Gillian asked with the smile slowly fading from her face. “You look a little, I don’t know, frayed around the edges.”
Carrie looked down at herself, sneakers and blue jeans again.
“Gosh, I’m sorry. I showered and everything. I can change into something nicer if you want me to.”
“No, I don’t mean that you look bad, just really worn.”
Carrie opened her mouth to tell her about the music box and about the lady in the mirror, but she closed it again. She really liked Gillian and didn’t want her to think she was crazy. Even if she might be going a little crazy.
Gillian touched her arm. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
Her touch seemed to clear Carrie’s head, ground her a little more firmly. She managed a weak smile. “I’m okay. Just a little tired.” Carrie closed the front door and Gillian followed her deeper into the foyer. “I didn’t sleep well. It was the rain, I think. It made funny sounds on the roof and gave me strange dreams or something. But I’m fine. Really.”
Gillian looked like she didn’t believe her. “You weren’t dreaming of me, I take it.”
Carrie blushed. She’d been dreaming of another woman, but it hadn’t been that kind of dream. Not exactly. “I’ve been thinking of you. All day yesterday. All this morning.”
Gillian laughed. “Good recovery. I’ll accept that.” She looked at the stairs. “Shall we get started on the attic?”
“Sure.” Carrie headed for the steps. “I put bulbs in all the sockets yesterday, so it lights up really bright, and I stashed pen and paper up there too, so we wouldn’t have to search around for some this morning.”
“Excellent. It’s always nice to work with someone who’s prepared,” Gillian said from behind her.
At the top of the stairs, Gillian passed her and led the way down the east hallway. She opened the door to the linen closet and flipped the latch to the attic stairs. Carrie followed her as she went up the stairs and pulled the string on the first light. They both looked at the dress form and then grinned at each other.
Gillian turned in a slow circle, looking around the attic.
“Well, where should we start?” Carrie asked.
“Let’s start with an overview. We’ll just open boxes and trunks to see what kind of things are in them, make a note of it and then do a detailed list of the more interesting ones.”
Carrie pulled the strings on two more lights. “What if everything is interesting?”
Gillian pointed a toe at a box marked “Christmas Decorations.”
“If that’s not more than a hundred years old, it won’t be very interesting.” She knelt, opened it and pulled out a tattered green garland.
Carrie peered over her shoulder and at the boxes of thick-wired cords strung with large-bulbed lights and tangled ropes of bright-colored beads. “I see what you mean.”
Gillian rummaged around in the box a little and then closed it back up. She shoved it to one side. Her eyes fell on the steamer trunk Carrie had been sitting on yesterday. She pointed to it.
“Let’s open that. If it’s not locked.”
Carrie reached for the latch and flipped it up. “It’s not locked.”
She opened it.
“What’s in it?” Gillian asked reaching for paper and pen.
“It looks like clothes.” Carrie picked up a blouse with a big puffy bow at the neck and an outrageous pattern of swirls and stripes running every which way across the fabric. “Ick.”
“You can say ick all you want, but retro is very much in fashion right now. Somebody will want that blouse.” Gillian leaned over the trunk and shifted some of the clothes around. “Nothing too interesting here.”
Gillian jotted a note on her pad. She moved over to a smaller trunk sitting beside the large one, and Carrie moved to open one on the other side. Carrie’s trunk was again full of clothes, but these were much older. Thickly woven coats, ankle-length skirts and high-collared jackets. Carrie looked over at Gillian who was sitting still as statue, staring into her trunk, her mouth hanging open. “What do you have over there?”
Gillian looked up. Her eyes were glazed and her face flushed.
“Beaded purses and old hats.” She gently picked up a hatbox and tilted it so Carrie could see inside. It was a small round hat that looked like it was made out of thousands of tiny black feathers.
“Aw, poor little bird,” Carrie said, looking into the box.
“Birds,” Gillian corrected her. “Many poor little birds. This is an extremely valuable hat. Very old. Very rare.”
“Very gross.” Carrie turned back to her trunk. “I like the stuff in here much better.”
“What is it?” Gillian put the lid back on the hatbox and put it back carefully. She pulled a small packet of sticky notes out of her pocket, wrote something on one and stuck it on the lid of the trunk. She turned to watch Carrie rummaging. “What do you have in there?”
“It’s mostly old clothes, but they’re old enough to be interesting. And then there’s this at the very bottom.” Carrie pulled out a long flat case of wood and cracked leather.
Gillian looked like she was going to faint. “Oh, my God.” She put a hand to her head. “Open it.”
Carrie opened it. The inside was gray felt. Nestled in the felt was a sword. Carrie laid the case on top of the steamer trunk and put a hand on Gillian’s arm to steady her.
“Easy, Gills. It’s just a sword.”
“It’s not just a sword. It’s an exquisite sword.” Gillian reached for the case and tilted it up to catch the light. The blade gleamed under the bare bulbs. “It’s Civil War era. See the C.S.A. on the pommel? And look at the etching on the blade. Oh, hell,
just look at the blade. There’s not a spot of rust on it. It looks almost brand-new. I’ve never seen one in such pristine condition.”
“What does the etching say?” Carrie had to ask because Gillian was hovering over the case, blocking her view.
“It reads, Lieutenant Beauregard J. Covington, C.S. Artillery, Eighth Battalion A.N.V. Valor under fire. Fredericksburg, December 1862.”
“I know that name. He’s buried in the cemetery out back under one of the bigger obelisks. Only I think it said Colonel on the stone.”
“That was your great-grandfather, if I remember correctly.
He served in the Army of Northern Virginia for almost the whole four years, mostly under General Lee. Men were promoted quickly back then if they were reasonably competent and lucky at staying alive.”
Carrie looked over Gillian’s shoulder at the sword shining in the attic light. “Is it worth anything?”
“Quite a bit I’d say, historically and monetarily.” Gillian closed the case and ran her hands gently over the wood and old leather. “I’ll need to bring an oil cloth the next time I come over and wipe that down properly. I recommend that you don’t handle the sword or even open the case if you can stand not to.”
Carrie shrugged. She wasn’t much interested in bright swords and old wars. “Wonder why it was in this trunk? You’d think there would be uniforms or something to go along with it.”
“What else is in there?”
“Dresses and pointy-toed shoes. Nothing as fancy as the dress on the form, but there are still a lot of puffy sleeves.” She held up a shirtwaist with flowing bishop sleeves and a high, stiff collar.
“I don’t understand how anybody got any work done wearing clothes like this. Of course, I don’t imagine that people who wore clothes like this had much work to do.”
“That depends on how you look at it and what you consider to be work.” Gillian fingered the material. “Women who wore clothes like these didn’t plow fields or pick cotton, but they were expected to bear children, whether they wanted to or not, and then they raised them all pretty much on their own. Running a household of this size wasn’t easy either. They had to manage the household finances, organize supply and delivery of raw materials to meet the needs of both family and staff. Even a wealthy woman had to know how to cook, clean, wash, darn, knit, crochet and all that stuff. I’d bet that your grandmother or even her mother made some of those throws in the closet.” Gillian took the top from Carrie and held it against her chest.
The Color of Dust Page 11
