A Sound Among the Trees (12 page)

“I found them in an escritoire after my grandmother died. Stuffed to the back.”

The man looked up. “And you didn’t notify anyone, like a museum curator or a historian or something?”

That had never occurred to Adelaide. Not then. Not ever. “No. They were personal letters.”

“But of historical significance.”

“There is nothing significant in the letters that you could not read in any of the mountains of literature written on the Civil War.”

“Well, except for any parts that would exonerate your great-grandmother.”

Adelaide stiffened. “My great-grandmother never required exoneration. She was never charged with any wrongdoing.”

The man smiled. “Yes, but the perception is that she—”

Adelaide cut him off. “Young man, you are a journalist. You deal with facts, not perceptions. You of all people should know this. People will think what they want. They will always think what they want.”

The newspaper’s design staff had lifted that quote and set it off by itself in a shaded box with large type.

The reporter then said he’d like to close by asking her if she had any
comments for those with perceptions about her great-grandmother that were untrue.

“I shouldn’t have to tell the world that things aren’t always what they seem,” Adelaide had said. “Just because you hear a rustle in the trees, that doesn’t mean that the bogeyman is preparing to pounce on you the minute you turn your back. Sometimes the rustling is just God sending a breeze to cool your skin after a hard day in the blazing sun. But I suppose the notion of the bogeyman makes the story more interesting.”

The man laughed. He told her he enjoyed their interview immensely and that Sara’s macaroons had been exquisite. He promised to send copies of the story after it was published, and then Sara showed him to the door. When she returned to the patio, Adelaide still sat at the table, wondering if she had said too much.

Sara reached for one of the empty glasses on the patio table and picked it up. “When you said you gave the letters to a family member, you meant my mom, didn’t you?”

Adelaide snapped her head up, infant hope blooming inside her that Sara knew where the letters might be. “Has she told you about them? Have you seen them?”

Sara shook her head. “She told me about them, but she never offered to show them to me. She did tell me that none of us has the remotest idea what happened here, that she was the only one who did. She said Holly Oak should be … should be leveled.”

Adelaide still felt the sting of those words at the mere remembrance of that short conversation with Sara after the reporter left. Picturing Holly Oak in ruins, in the state of devastation it was spared over a century earlier, pained her.

“When did she tell you this?” she had asked Sara.

“Couple of years ago. The last time she was here.”

Sara had been sixteen. Caroline had come home out of nowhere to get a copy of her birth certificate to get a new passport. And she’d asked for
some money. She only stayed for two days and left in the middle of the night without saying good-bye to either one of them.

“Your mother hasn’t … She hasn’t always had a firm grip on reality,” Adelaide had responded.

Sara picked up another empty glass. “I know,” she said. And she reached for the third glass and headed back into the house.

The story had been published two weeks later, and for a short while Adelaide was a bit of a celebrity among her friends and neighbors in Fredericksburg. But then the novelty wore off, people went back to believing whatever they wanted about Susannah Page, and Adelaide went back to sewing uniforms in obscurity.

Adelaide hadn’t looked at the article in nearly a decade. As the aroma of hot fabric now dissipated, Adelaide turned to a bookcase and withdrew an album from a middle shelf. She leafed through the pages until she found the article folded inside a page protector. She withdrew it and spread it out flat on the table: “Fade to Gray: Descendent of Suspected Union Spy Sews Confederate Reenactment Uniforms in Her Historic Fredericksburg Home.”

Adelaide shook her head. “Suspected union spy,” she mumbled to no one. She studied the photos. Sara had said the photographs of her were wonderful, that Adelaide hadn’t looked a day over sixty. There was one of her sitting at the patio table with Holly Oak in the background, one of her sewing on a button, and one of a finished uniform on a headless mannequin, straight and true, as if the camera had been able to peek into time and catch a glimpse inside Stonewall Jackson’s closet.

And then there was the long photo of the portraits on the stairs. The one of Susannah, in particular, seemed to stare back at her, peeved at the interruption that had whisked her onto the pages of a Richmond newspaper.

Adelaide began to read the story, which opened with a nod to the
uniform-making business but seemed to rather quickly morph into a commentary on who the real Susannah Page might have been.

Adelaide suddenly became aware that she was not alone.

Marielle had stepped inside the room.

“My word! I didn’t even hear you come in.” Adelaide looked past Marielle for the children. She saw no one. “Where are Brette and Hudson?”

“They wanted to stay at Lynn’s and play for a while longer. She said she’d bring them home by supper time.” Marielle came to the table and stood by her.

“Did you have a good time at Pearl’s?” Adelaide asked.

Marielle nodded. “Very nice.”

“I suppose she peppered you with questions about your personal life?” Adelaide said as she started to fold the article to put it away.

“Not too many. What is that?” Marielle peered at the article, moving in closer to read its headline.

Adelaide suddenly wished she had put the album away sooner. Or perhaps not taken it out at all. “Oh. Just an old article someone wrote about me and the sewing.” She had forgotten how transparent she had been with that reporter.

“May I read it?”

Adelaide couldn’t think of a good reason why Marielle shouldn’t read the article. Carson wouldn’t get after her for it, would he? There was no mention at all of a ghost in the story. Eldora Meeks hadn’t been to the house yet.

“All right.” Adelaide pushed the album toward Marielle, who pulled out a chair, smoothed out the newsprint and began to read. Adelaide returned to her own chair and threaded a needle to stitch the hem of the coat.

A few minutes later, Marielle raised her head. “That’s a very interesting story. I liked what you said about the rustle in the trees.”

Adelaide felt a warm rush across her cheeks. She hadn’t blushed in years. “Thank you.”

Marielle folded the article and placed it back inside its protective covering. “Can I ask you who you gave those letters to?”

Adelaide poked the needle through the fabric. “I gave them to Caroline.”

“Oh.”

There was a momentary lull.

“You’re probably wondering why I gave them to someone as irresponsible as Caroline.”

Marielle started to shake her head, but Adelaide continued.

“It was before she ran away. Right after Charles died. She took her father’s death so very hard. And she wasn’t emotionally healthy to begin with. I gave her the letters because I thought it would comfort her to know that Susannah lost her father when she was a teenager too. I thought she would find a connection to Susannah that would help her. But I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“What do you think happened?”

Adelaide shrugged. “I don’t know what Caroline did with those letters. Maybe she burned them; maybe she sold them to buy drugs. I don’t know. But I don’t think they did for her what I hoped they would. She hates this house and everything about it.”

Adelaide heard Marielle’s voice catch in her throat.

“She hates this house?” Marielle echoed.

“She’s one of those people who thinks …” Adelaide didn’t finish. If Carson were here he wouldn’t approve. She needed to shut up.

“Who thinks what?” Marielle asked.

“Nothing.”

“Who thinks what, Mimi?”

“That it
is
the house’s fault. That it is cursed. What I told you the day of the party—we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

But Marielle closed the album and took a step toward her. “Did she tell you that?”

Caroline didn’t have to.

“I’ve seen it in her eyes. Every time she comes here, which I know is not often. She hates this house. And she’s not well, you know. She has mental issues. I am sure Carson has told you.”

“But surely she didn’t hate Sara. And she doesn’t hate her grandchildren?”

Adelaide set the coat down and ran her finger across the tiny new stitches. “No. I think she loved Sara as best she could. That’s why she left Sara with me, even though Caroline hated this house. She told Sara once she was safer with me at this horrible house than with her anywhere. She was probably right about that. And I think in her own strange way she loves Hudson and Brette too.”

The two women were silent for a moment.

“Do you miss her?” Marielle asked.

Adelaide reached for her scissors to cut the thread. “I miss everything that could’ve been.”

Marielle said nothing. She stood and reached out to touch Adelaide on the shoulder. Then she turned to leave. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Adelaide turned her head as Marielle walked away and hesitated for a second at the doorway. Marielle then touched the door frame with both hands on both sides, a lingering caress, it seemed, with her fingertips, and stepped out into the hallway.

arielle lay next to Carson, her head tucked into the hollow of his underarm. He was quiet, as he often was after they’d made love. In the first couple of weeks of their marriage she had wondered where his thoughts traveled after they’d been intimate, but the usual caress of his fingers on her shoulders suggested he was not far. She wanted to believe he was not far. He hadn’t loved anyone since Sara, in any kind of way. And he hadn’t loved anyone before her. She liked to imagine that in his contemplative silence following sex, Carson was merely lost in wonder at having found love again.

Marielle turned her head in the shadowy darkness to look at him. A second passed before he seemed aware of her gaze. He bent his neck to kiss the top of her head.

“What is it?” he murmured.

She had no suitable answer for him. She smiled though he probably could not see it. “Nothing.”

Just wondering what you’re thinking
.

He shifted his body and drew her closer. “I’m glad you had a nice time at Pearl’s today,” he said. “You were sweet to accept her invite. I’m sure you probably would’ve liked to have spent that time getting your office up and running.”

“I didn’t mind.” She lowered her head to his chest.

“Must’ve been a bit awkward, though, trying to find things to talk about. Or did she do enough talking for the two of you?”

A moment passed before she spoke. “Actually, there was a third person there.”

“Maxine?”

“No.” Marielle inhaled deeply, quietly. “Eldora Meeks.”

Carson’s head lifted off his pillow. “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“She just showed up?”

Marielle tipped her head upward, but she could barely make out Carson’s face in the darkness. “I asked Pearl to invite her. I wasn’t going to bring it up that I had. But it felt like lying to let you assume it was just the two of us when it wasn’t.”

“Why did you want her there?” He sounded dumbfounded.

“I wanted to talk to her. It’s not that I believe any of that stuff about Susannah’s ghost or anything,” Marielle replied. “And I know Adelaide doesn’t believe it either. But she believes
something
, Carson. There is something about this house that compels her. Something I think I need to understand if I’m going to live here. In this house. With her.”

Carson said nothing and Marielle continued. “On the day of our reception here, you told me Adelaide has a deep respect for this house, remember? But it’s more than that. It’s like … it’s like she thinks the house has a memory, a soul. And it’s in some kind of turmoil.”

Carson hesitated before he spoke. “Adelaide is an old woman who has known a lot of sadness.”

“Yes, but you know about this, right? How she feels about the house?”

“Yes.”

“So, were you not going to tell me?”

Carson’s arm around her loosened somewhat. “I just didn’t want you thinking she’s crazy. I wanted you to get to know her first. She’s not crazy. She’s just … I guess she’s what people would call eccentric. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before now.”

He sounded genuinely disappointed in himself.

“It’s okay,” Marielle said.

He began to stroke her arm again, slow and measured.

“What did Eldora tell you?” he said.

“She thinks Susannah is stuck here, unable to get past her horrible crimes against the house.”

“Crimes against the house? Is that what she said?”

Marielle leaned away from Carson and propped her head on an upturned elbow. “No. But I think that’s what she means. Eldora thinks Susannah’s loyalties to the Union were the cause of too much sorrow and so she has regrets. Or maybe it’s that Susannah is still torn between her loyalties, like you said on the day of the reception. Adelaide, on the other hand, thinks the house has some sort of awareness that what Susannah did was an act of treason against the house. And that’s why the house takes out all its frustrations on its women. It wants penance. Or absolution.”