Swan's Way (2 page)

The discreet wooden sign on the rolling lawn read in elegant gold script, “SWAN’S QUARTER.” Smaller lettering below the name of the former plantation identified the current establishment as a “Rest Home and Sanatorium.”

Beyond the sign stood the old mansion. On the veranda, Pansy Pennycock, Elspeth McAllister, and Sister Randolph huddled together around the white wicker tea table, clutching their crocheted shawls close about their shoulders. They waited. They whispered among themselves. Nervous, excited, dry-throated bird twitters. All the while they talked, they watched the path that led out of the woods to the swan pond and up the hill, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ginna’s lithe form.

Ginna always came on Mondays.
Always!
She came to laugh and chat and charm the inmates of the rest home. She came to hear how they had spent their weekend, to find out who might have had a surprise visitor, to inquire as to which of the three white-haired ladies had sung the loudest and most harmoniously at chapel on Sunday.

But this Monday was fading quickly, with yet no sign of Ginna. As the afternoon sun began its gentle descent, the three little ladies—two widows, one spinster, all mothers who had outlived their children—shifted uneasily in their cushioned wicker chairs, their hopes fading with the setting sun.

Why was Ginna late for tea?
Today of all days!
A day when the three friends were absolutely bursting with anticipation at the special news they had to tell. News of a mysterious young man who had arrived at Swan’s Quarter since Ginna’s last visit.

“She’ll come,” Elspeth stated, adamantly, staring out toward the clearing west of the sun-spangled swan pond. She cradled an antique china doll in the crook of her mahogany-skinned arm and asked, “Did you ever know her to miss a Monday, Miss Precious?”

Sister, who didn’t hold with talking to inanimate objects, snapped, “That old rag of a doll won’t give you any answers. Don’t act foolish, Elspeth. She’ll either come or she won’t, and that’s the long and the short of it.”

“Oh, dear me!” Pansy’s pudgy, blue-veiled hands fluttered like moths before the flame of her cinnamon-brown eyes, eyes focused on the line of woods. “There was that one Monday last January. We waited and waited and she never came until a whole week later. Remember, Sister?”

Sister had outlived all her six siblings, but still wore her nickname with pride and authority. She gave Pansy an arch look. “We had a blizzard, you ninny. The roads from Front Royal and Winchester were impassable that whole week long. Even the postman couldn’t get through.” She sighed. “Not that it mattered. No one ever writes to us, nowadays.”

“It’s not their fault, dear.” Pansy always felt it her duty to apologize for everyone, even the dearly departed, as she added, “They’re all dead.”

“And likely better off for it. You call
this
living?” Elspeth’s scornful voice trailed off in a weary sigh.

“There, there now, Els.” Pansy patted her hand. “We still have our moments. Mondays at least are special—when Ginna comes.”

A tense, watchful silence fell over the threesome. Six rheumy eyes searched the clearing near the pond. But something was missing, something more than the first glimpse of Ginna. Elspeth would never have admitted it to Sister, nor Sister to Pansy, but a change in the atmosphere always preceded Ginna’s arrival. It was a shifting of light, a modulation of shadow, accompanied by a delicate breeze, flower-scented even in the dead of winter. And, most amazing of all, the old tulip poplar always materialized to cast its giant, ancient limbs over the pond, announcing Ginna’s approach. The tree, they all knew, had been wounded in the war, then blown down in a fierce storm back in 1924, over seventy years ago. Yet when Ginna came, the tree materialized miraculously, rising tall and strong, as if to banish the present and recall the past with its looming presence.

“Tea’s getting tepid,” Elspeth said, through a scowl. “Miss Precious can’t abide cold tea. Shall I pour out?”

“Please,” said Sister.

Fluttering again, Pansy simpered, “Shouldn’t we wait, dears?”

Ignoring her weak protest, Elspeth carefully tipped the heavy vessel toward Sister’s blue-flowered china cup.

The late afternoon sun glinted off a disfiguring dimple a half inch below the old English 5 engraved on the right side of the antique silver teapot. The dent in the metal was as much a battle wound as any suffered by the men of Swan’s Quarter during the long-ago War of Northern Aggression. The women of the Swan family had suffered their wounds as well, but they had worn them deep inside, unlike their men and their teapot.

The war might have been decided well over a century past, but all three ladies knew the conflict’s history by rote. They knew the teapot’s story as well, although each one of them told a different version of the bravely scarred vessel’s travails. For this reason, they seldom discussed the tale, because of the disagreements the telling always precipitated. But today was different. Today, Ginna had yet to come and there was little else to do besides retell old tales.

“Juniper really should have wrapped the teapot in a crocker sack or a quilt, before he tossed it into the well to hide it from the Yankees,” Pansy began.

Both Elspeth and Sister cut their eyes her way. Pansy met neither of their gazes, but kept her dimpled chin tucked, as she sipped her tea. They always scoffed at her story about the Swan family’s butler dumping the silver service down the well. Still, it
could
have happened that way, she reasoned.

“Juniper would never have done such a thing, and you know it. He was said to be a fine servant, a credit to his people. Besides, that’s the first place anyone would have looked for valuables.” Sister clucked her tongue and waggled a finger at Pansy, who pretended not to notice. “It was those crude Yankees who dented the teapot. And after Miss Virginia offered it to them filled with a cool drink from the well. They imbibed of that sweet Southern water, then tossed Miz Melora Swan’s prized teapot right here onto this very veranda, and it bounced across the paving stones and got the dent in it. They rode off just a-laughin’ afterward. And that’s the truth of it!”

Replacing her fragile cup with such force that the saucer danced, Elspeth glared at her two companions. “Neither of you knows a blessed thing about it! You make up history as you go along, to suit yourselves. If you’re going to tell it, for pity sakes, tell it right! My great-grandma was right here on the place when the Yankees came that day. I got the true story handed down to me through my own family. Great Gran told my granny, and she told my mammy, who told it all to me, just the way it happened.”

Sister and Pansy settled into a bored, but polite, silence. They had heard it all before—a hundred times—but they pretended to listen again, as they kept their eyes keened on the road, watching for Ginna.

“Now, as you all will likely recall,” Elspeth began, “Colonel Jedediah Swan rode off to war at the head of his own cavalry unit and all four of his sons went with him. They were a fine looking passel of manhood—big, fair-haired, square-jawed, and strapping. The very steel and cream of the South. Back here at Swan’s Quarter, they left only Miz Melora and young Miss Virginia, the prettiest belle in Frederick County, to look after the place and the hundred slaves.”

“Last time you told it, they had
two
hundred slaves,” Sister interrupted, with a good deal of satisfaction at catching Elspeth in a mistake.

“Well, some of the sorry ones ran off with the Yankees. It was just my Great Gran and the other loyal ones that stood by the family. At any rate, Miz Melora Swan and her daughter, Miss Virginia, had their hands full taking care of all this land and this house and our people. It was early in the war—May or June of 1862—that the Yankees first showed up around here. Stonewall Jackson had been chasing them up and down the valley, trying to run the blue-bellies far away from the Shenandoah. But he’d lick ’em one place and they’d pop up somewhere else. Well, with the Yankees tramping all over and burning whatever they didn’t steal, it was no easy task for Miz Melora and Miss Virginia, I can tell you. They had to be strong and stern to keep up their spirits and their faith. Those were no ordinary times.”

Pansy loved this part of the story and couldn’t help interjecting, “And Miz Melora Swan and her daughter, Miss Virginia, were no ordinary women.”

Elspeth nodded her approval. She didn’t mind interruptions, when they added emphasis to her tale. “Right you are, Pansy. No ordinary women at all. They were the bravest of the brave. So when the Yankees came here on the twenty-fifth of May, back in 1862, and burned their fields and threatened to set their torches to the house, the women of Swan’s Quarter stood right up to them, as bold as brass. Miz Melora ordered them off her land. She had made pretty Miss Virginia dress like a boy so the Yankees wouldn’t be tempted at the sight of her. But one of them noticed that a golden curl had escaped from under her daddy’s old cap and saw the tempting rise of her young bosom, even though Miz Melora had ordered old Mammy Fan to bind her breasts tight. That lusting blue-belly marched right up to Miss Virginia and snatched the hat off her head, freeing her long hair to tumble down like golden coins spilling from a money bag.”

“And they all laughed and those that had turned to go turned back to see Miss Virginia,” Pansy added, too eager to wait, when Elspeth paused for a sip of tea.

“That they did!” Elspeth nodded, solemnly. “But Miz Melora stood her ground. ‘Y’all get out of here now,’ she warned them. ‘My daughter is untouched and promised to another brave soldier.’”

“But they didn’t listen, did they?” Sister asked, as she knew she was expected to, at this point in the telling.

Elspeth shook her head sadly. “They were no gentlemen, those Yankee devils. They closed ranks around poor Miss Virginia and stroked her hair and
touched
her.” Elspeth leaned close and whispered that one word.

“And one even stole a kiss,” Pansy added, breathlessly, her pale cheeks flushed to dusty rose at the very thought of such a disgrace.

“They shamed the poor girl,” Elspeth said, with a sad nod. “And after she’d been so kind as to serve them cool water from this very teapot. Brutes they were, and some of them married men with children—
churchgoers
, mind you!”

“Tell what Miss Virginia did,” Pansy begged. It was her very favorite part of the story, the part that purely made her swell up with Southern pride.

“Well,” Elspeth drawled, lengthening the suspense. “You’ll recall she’d just poured them water from this very teapot. She still had it in her hand. When the brute who’d snatched her hat off caught her about her slender waist and tried to press his randy body to hers, she hauled back and cold-cocked him with this very pot. He gave a fearful yell, staggered backward, tumbled down the veranda stairs, and landed in a heap in the dirt of the carriage drive.”

“Good for her!” Pansy crowed, clapping her arthritic hands.

“It’s a wonder those nasty Yankees didn’t shoot Miss Virginia and Miz Melora Swan,” Sister said, with a shudder.

Elspeth’s attention now seemed focused on something far away, as her gaze searched the woods beyond the swan pond. “They might have,” she said softly, “but for an accident of fate. The troop’s captain, a member of General Nathaniel Banks’s forces that had just been whupped by old Stonewall at Winchester, came riding up about the time that Yankee bastard landed at the foot of the stairs. All the others—a dozen or so—had drawn their pistols and had them aimed right at Miss Virginia’s wildly beating heart. But the captain—a handsome fellow, even if he was a Yankee—yelled, ‘Halt! Put your guns away. Whoever harms a hair on the heads of these ladies will answer to me.’”

“And they backed right down, didn’t they, Elspeth?”

“That they did, Pansy. They put away their guns and left the veranda. The captain ordered them off the property, down beyond the entrance gate, out of sight of the house. They camped there for the night.”

“But the captain didn’t join his men in camp, did he, Elspeth?” Pansy said, with a sly grin etching her thin lips.

“Sh-h-h!” said Sister. “That part of the story’s a secret.”

“Not to
us!”
Pansy insisted, through a pout. She loved hearing this romantic part of the tale. It reminded her of her own life and lost love. “Tell the rest, Elspeth. Tell it! Do!”

“Very well, but it’s to remain among the three of us. Always. Swear?” She clutched her doll closer and looked hard at the other two.

“Always! I swear it!” Pansy crossed her heart, holding her breath after she spoke.

“Very well, then. You’ll recall that Miz Melora had told the rude soldiers that Miss Virginia was promised and still a virgin.”

The other two nodded, blushing at Elspeth’s use of such a forthright word.

“Miss Virginia’s mother spoke the truth. Her daughter had been betrothed not long before the war broke out to a fine young man who lived over at Belle Grove plantation. But she never married. The start of the war put an end to their plans and near broke Miss Virginia’s poor heart. You see, the man she loved had graduated from West Point and felt obliged to join the Union forces.”

“A turncoat in blue!”
Sister said, with disgust.

“A misguided young man,” Elspeth explained. “But he did love Miss Virginia with all his heart and soul. They vowed to wed, once the war was over. It was Colonel Jedediah Swan who forbade the union, not wanting to divide the family and possibly meet his daughter’s husband across the line of fire in the heat of battle.”

“We know that,” Sister broke in impatiently. “Get to the point, won’t you?”

“
The point is,”
Elspeth paused dramatically, “that Miz Melora held more with love than with war. She saw the look that passed between her daughter and the captain—the pain and sorrow and longing in their eyes. It proved more than a mother could bear. So she told my Great Gran to prepare a feast of what little they had left to eat—one scrawny hen, a bit of bacon, a few dried beans, and some yams. Miz Melora invited the captain to dine with them. She even opened the last bottle of Colonel Swan’s fine old French brandy, a surprise she’d been saving to celebrate the end of the war and her husband’s safe return. She told Miss Virginia to put on the white satin wedding gown they had hidden in the attic, beneath a loose board under the eaves. They had a jolly evening with the captain as their guest. After dinner, Miz Melora told all the house servants to gather in the parlor. Then she instructed Brother Zebulon, a self-styled minister to the people, to perform a marriage ceremony. It was an odd affair, a combination of a Christian service and a broomstick jumping. Likely the Lord Himself had never seen anything to match it. However, what it lacked in orthodoxy, it made up for in sincerity.”