by Barbara Best
Some of the men raise their glasses and others nod their approval. Jane’s eyes lock with Matthew’s for a few brief seconds in something only the two of them share.
Mr. Nichols, the newspaperman, quickly moves to speak further. But before another word is uttered, there is a pretty musical tinkling sound of silver on expensive crystal.
All eyes turn to Mrs. Marshall, who makes an announcement, “Ladies and Gentlemen, our lovely dinner has ended. We ladies will now retire for our evening coffee. If you will please excuse us . . . Ladies?”
Jane swallows the lump in her throat. Her ears are hot, and she feels flushed. Hopefully no one will notice.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
What a piece of work, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel.
After meeting Edwin Booth and hearing all the rant about Shakespeare, Jane had borrowed from the classics in the Hopkins’ library. Shakespeare’s words in Hamlet were so like her impression of society’s Mary Marshall. She is bigger than life and Jane loved everything about her.
How could you not! Mary is vibrantly alive and exceeds her counterparts in wit, energy and achievements. Barring the occasional reference to Mary’s years on this earth, you will never find it evident in manner. Her step is light and her posture arrow-straight. Secretly, Jane thinks of Mary as the cool grandma she never had and is delighted to have any time with her.
What a fabulous storyteller! Mary is a walking textbook full of fascinating tales that can entertain for hours. She is especially flattered and encouraged by Jane’s interest and attention.
Jane’s head is swimming with colorful accounts of Mary’s life, which she rushes home after each visit to record in her diary. The diary is a gift from sweet Clara and the back pages are being filled with delicious tidbits of historical facts, precious details that are lost forever. She thinks she may write Mary’s story one day.
Mary says she has led a “fruitful life.” A descendant of the colonies, she wears the banner of her founding Fathers. True to her past, Mary is the poster child for patriotism and committed to the foundation of liberty and justice. And freedom for the South. Jane is astounded by her ardent and fiery support of Georgia’s secession. She is a fervent believer in what she deems their constitutional right. Mary says the states are in no way obligated to obey federal law. When government is destructive of the ends for which it is established, the people have a right to change their government any time they choose.
When she was Jane’s age, Mary said she had designed and created a silk flag “as I am quite talented with a needle” and presented it in due pomp and circumstance from the balcony of her home before the Corp of Volunteer Guards in the street below. She had given a speech, a time fondly recalled as if it were yesterday.
Making excuses for the many years that had passed, Mary is still able to recite a portion from memory before Jane, “Gentlemen, it is with infinite satisfaction I am enabled on this auspicious day, sacred in the hearts of Americans as the birthday of their liberties and independence, to present you with this address . . . But should the voice of your country, in the cause of Justice and Freedom, summon you to the tested field to unfurl it in the face of an enemy, I feel a proud confidence that you will valiantly defend this banner, and your country’s rights, surrendering either but with your lives . . . oh, it was such a fine occasion and so long ago,” she smiles thoughtfully.
During the ceremony, Mary’s husband of just seven years stood by her side. She says, when she closes her eyes, she can still see her brave, dashing young lieutenant. Forever the love of her life. He is the tall oak that gave her strength, the gentle breeze that transformed her thoughts, and the changing tides that opened her soul. Mary had lost her dear Colonel some years back after forty-five blissful years of marriage. Jane was once asked to accompany Mary to the Laurel Grove Cemetery where her husband rests in peace. And where Mary says she will willingly go to join him one day.
In Mary’s vivid descriptions of her world and life with the Colonel, it had become obvious there was a reluctance to talk about her daughter, and even more difficult to get a reading on why. At first, Mary spoke fondly of Margaret’s involvement in a number of charitable endeavors. She even showed Jane a newspaper clipping carefully pressed in the pages of a book. A poem about mother and daughter published in the Savannah Daily Morning News.
Oh, blessing on that mother good
And on that daughter mild,
Who find within their heart and home
Place for the stranger’s child.
As long as gratitude shall form
Of memory’s chain a part
The name of Marshall ere shall live
In every throbbing heart.
But then, Margaret is not here now with her mother. Understanding that it was a private matter, Jane kept quiet and never asked questions. She would be the first to maintain everyone is entitled to his or her own secrets. Those dark, awkward burdens that are hidden away in the most unlikely places. The worrisome truths you dare not let out. When Mary did choose to open up more about her daughter, she did so carefully and with a certain amount of sadness.
So far, Jane has surmised Margaret is around her age and adopted by the older couple. She is a reclusive young woman, prone to long bouts of unhappiness. Mary suggests an unstable disposition. Jane might assume she is suffering from some type of depression. With no knowledge of how to control symptoms, mental illnesses during this time are unfortunate, and a great strain and embarrassment to families. If you are among the privileged, like Mary, a loved one might be shipped off to more gentle treatments.
Mary explained her precious daughter is on a period of respite in Europe. Not long before Jane arrived on the scene, Margaret had evidently made the trip to Bath and Great Malvern, England where she is taking the waters. The wealthy, of course, enjoy the freedom of having options. For those less affluent, an illness such as this must bear an entirely different circumstance. The afflicted might be completely isolated at home or in more serious cases, locked up at a lunatic asylum with others who are similarly diagnosed. Contained in a place where crude and barbaric remedies are administered and senseless and brutal experiments may be performed.
During their long strolls, arm in arm, Jane enjoyed stories about Mary’s accomplishments as a true businesswoman of her day, who had learned how to move about in a world of male supremacy. She claims the secret to her success in society is mastering the art of conversation, creating a need, having a vision and always humility. Mary adds with a chuckle, “And with prosperity, of course, comes immeasurable influence.” She tells Jane how Savannah’s Marshall Row and Marshall House came to be.
Jane knows the Marshall House. Although it has changed hands over the years, in Jane’s time it is once again fully restored to the original and very grand Marshall House hotel. Jane is bursting to tell Mary that her good deeds and successes are still evident one hundred and fifty years from now. But at present, she must be satisfied in pouring her heart out to her diary.
Where do these people come from is the rhetorical question of the day. Jane’s life in 1862 is like hanging out with celebrities. She just can’t get over the fact she is hobnobbing with some of the South’s finest.
It’s fascinating, even hilarious, how in 2012 she is a simple Georgia girl in cut-off jeans and flip-flops. A tiny invisible and insignificant speck of dust, which rests lightly on the chart of life and can easily be brushed away, unseen, unclaimed, unproven. When in 1862, she is transformed into a person of interest and mystery, a resource, respected, supported, empowered. With a bit of practice and grooming from Anna, Susan and Clara, she is becoming quite the lady. They all marvel at the swiftness of her progress. Although some of the pieces of the puzzle do not fit and many more are completely stolen away, Jane is beginning to feel more comfortable with the thought she is going to be okay. She can even say with particular conviction she is happy at times.
/> “This is just so pretty out here, even this time of year.” Jane pulls her light wool cape up close around her neck and breathes in deeply as she surveys Mary’s private garden, lovingly cultivated and a compliment to her stately, four-story Savannah mansion. Enclosed within brick walls and ornate black iron gates, decorative walkways are trimmed in fall flora particular to the region and accented with fountains, abundant statuary, and carefully placed groupings of evergreens. Jane had heard many times that Mrs. Marshall’s garden was one of the prettiest in the state. And she must agree.
“It is my crowning achievement. To plant a garden is a wonderful thing. It improves one’s satisfaction with life and gives us belief in tomorrow. I never tire of it. It always seems to be changing, and I change with it.” Mary points at a new planting with her cane, which Jane was sure she carried for looks more than real necessity. Mary could run circles around most in her time, or Jane’s time too for that matter.
“I know about passions.” Jane offers.
Mary stops for a minute and looks long and hard into Jane’s face before she says, “Yes, I believe you do.” And leaves it at that.
Jane adds, tentatively, “I have a passion for history, which, I am afraid, we are living right now. The great American Civil War. One of many great wars in American history.” Jane draws another breath, shaking her head in frustration. She wants to tell this lady so much more. Better not. It could cause more harm than good.
“Civil War, you say. I’ve never heard it called that. American . . . Civil . . . War.” Mary turns the words over. “How original. Why, I do think it suits quite nicely.”
“There is no such thing as an original idea, Mary. Believe me, you will hear it used again one day.”
“If I should live so long. One day I hope to see an end to this bloody suffering and sacrifice. I pray it will not last much longer.” She says fiercely. After walking on a bit, “Your supplies at the hospital, will they suffice?
“With the port sealed tight as a drum, it is becoming more difficult to obtain supplies we desperately need. I don’t know what we would do without your influence and the charitable contributions of your organization, Mary. You are able to work miracles and we all have you to thank. Where in the world did you get the bolts of mosquito netting? That’s a real lifesaver. More than you’ll ever know. It is just one more thing that allows us to successfully do our work at the hospital.”
Jane can’t thank Mary enough for her backing. Doctor Arnold has candidly expressed satisfaction in their advancements. Jane adds, “Scamp was finally released yesterday. I miss him.” Jane was mighty proud of Scamp’s recovery. He had lost his leg, twice! But had kept his life. He had a chance for a future, a chance to marry, have a family, live. Scamp was a milestone for Jane and the turning point at the hospital. Because of Scamps rapid recovery, Jane’s treatments are finally acknowledged as more than mere coincidence or the frivolous ploy of a female.
They walk a bit more before Mary suggests an afternoon ride. Her favorite carriage, imported from England, is waiting just outside the carriage house on the property behind the home. It was a gift from Mary’s dearly departed husband. It has been readied in advance with two of her finest horses. Planned.
The weather is slightly chilly, overcast and damp. The storm they had the night before and the drizzle of rain earlier in the day has washed away the last evidence of dead leaves that clung stubbornly on some of the trees. It is a welcome break from the exceptionally dry weather that sends dust up off the streets to settle on every surface.
“What are you up to?” Jane is suspicious when Mary’s eyes give her away. They have that certain sparkle, a gleam that points to mischief of some kind. The two are assisted into their seats and off they go.
After traveling a number of blocks out, away from the center of town, “Well, what do you think?” Mary’s carriage pulls up in front of a plain white house with black shutters and a small sign attached to a black iron gate. It says, Madame Néve.
“OMG. Are you serious? Really!” Jane blurts out, sitting forward in her seat to get a better look at the sign and house.
“Gracious, child, you do have a way with words! I most certainly am serious.” Mary is delighted with Jane’s reaction, “Would you like to have your fortune told, my dear? Most scandalous, I warn you. But I assure you quite harmless and very entertaining.”
Mary was entertained by some of Jane’s vocabulary and use of words. She found this odd speech refreshing although she couldn’t place it. She has traveled the south, east coast and abroad to London and never has she met anyone who talks, or acts like her Jane. The nature of her existence, where she is from and why she is here is unknown to anyone, even to those closest to her.
Maybe Madame Néve will unlock some of the mystery. She had certainly planned to pay an outrageous fee for her services today.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A pretty young woman with silky-smooth skin the color of roasted coffee beans greets Mary and Jane at the door.
Mary hands the woman a calling card, “Angel, please let Madame Néve know Mrs. Marshall and Miss Peterson have arrived?”
Before Angel goes to find Madame Néve, she leads Mary and Jane into a cheerful room that is washed in pastel shades of lavender and gray with splashes of bright color. There is a lovely cut-glass vase with an arrangement of glossy green holly sprinkled with bright red berries on a highly polished black lacquer fireplace mantel. The furnishings are modest and there appears to be subtle Feng Shui touches in the house. This is something Jane studied in college. The furniture in the room is balanced and arranged to invite easy conversation. Jane notices the legs of all the chairs and tables in the room are resting on a repeat pattern carpet with wavy lines in a space that is clear of the normal Victorian clutter. Jane feels her attention to the room doesn’t go unnoticed.
A beautiful middle-aged woman, who is almost as tall as Jane, glides gracefully into the room. Another surprise. Jane is expecting a dark, spindly old woman with chin hair hunched over a crystal ball. Well, the woman does have black hair and black eyes, but every other reference to what she expects to see is totally non-existent.
“Ahhh, Mrs. Marshall. I am delighted to see you again.” Quick eyes follow the very path of Jane’s, which had thoroughly scanned the details of her surroundings moments before. There is a meaningful pause, “And ziss ees?”
“Madame Néve, may I introduce to you, Miss Jane Peterson.” Jane notices Mary introduces Madame Néve to her. She uses the Madame’s name first, which means Mary must respect this woman and her station somehow. Jane wonders where she is from? Russia might be a good guess. Maybe she’s a distant cousin of the Czar.
The thick Russian accent with the rolling “R’s” and the buzzing “Z’s” make the experience more interesting for sure. It sounds kind of like the gypsies she had seen in old-timey werewolf flicks. Jane, who gets a total going over from head to toe that literally gives her goose bumps, thinks this is the coolest thing ever. The closest she had come to fortune telling was when she played around with a friend’s Ouija Board at a sleepover.
Madame Néve searches Jane’s face and bows respectfully, “It ees nice to meet you, Miss Peterson.” Every word is pronounced individually.
Jane smiles pleasantly, “So nice to meet you too.” Through a doorway on the other side of the room, she spies two wing-backed chairs with a round table between them. It sits catty corner to the parlor. “Are those Tarot cards over there?”
“Ah . . . how very perceptive of you, Miss Peterson.” Madame Néve speaks slowly and deliberately. “But zee most powerful source of information comes from within. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Marshall?” She smiles at Mary as if they share a great secret. “Zee Tarot aids in a greater connection with one’s higher self. Would you have a reading today?” Madame asks expectantly.
“I thought perhaps Miss Peterson might consider the idea an attractive venture.” Mary takes Jane’s arm. “What do you say, Jane, are you interested?”<
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“Why sure. Yes, I’m interested . . . it sounds like fun,” Jane is wondering how much this would cost and hopes she can afford to pay. “This will be my first . . .”
“Ahhh, your first consultation with an oracle. I assure you, it will be more zan . . . mere fun . . . as you put it, Miss Peterson,” Madame soothes in silky tones. “Angel, will you see Mrs. Marshall ees kept comfortable in zee parlor. Hot tea, I believe. Yes?” She nods at Mary and then to Jane, “My readings are private. You must trust what emerges will remain confidential. Come ziss way.”
The charcoal gray drapes are pulled tight and Jane and Madame Néve sit down facing each other in the twin wingback chairs. The single ring of a small bell sounds from somewhere just outside the room. Jane thinks maybe a signal of some kind.
The candles send light dancing around the room, catching on the prisms of cut crystals dangling from the branches of an unusual Manzanita candelabra centerpiece. There is absolute stillness. Total quiet, no noise from anywhere, like they are in a soundproof studio. Madame blows out all but one single candle in the center of the table.
Jane watches the smoke swirl up and around thinking it might form a shape of some kind. Almost feverish now with anticipation, she can feel the beads of moisture on her top lip and twitches her mouth nervously. Something inside her says, maybe she shouldn’t be doing this. Anna would not approve, that’s for sure. Then again, Jane has always been a skeptic of this sort of thing, but now anything is possible. After all, I’m living proof don’t ya know? Jane decides she’s here, so why not just go with it.
“Zee Tarot cards can provide us insight into zee events in your life. It gives us guidance, not answers. Zee art of Tarot will help us gain a better understanding of not only your life, but also zee lives of others who are important in your life.” There is a long, meaningful pause. “What ees your age, Miss Peterson.”
