Gunpowder Green by Laura Childs Page A

Quaid, bore looking into as well.
    â€œCan you help me?” asked Lizbeth Cantrell. Her pale eyes transfixed Theodosia with their intensity. “I know you’re a good lady. A smart lady.”
    â€œYou live at Pamlico Hill Plantation,” said Theodosia. “A few miles down the road from my aunt Libby’s.”
    â€œThat’s right.” Suddenly, a ghost of a smile played on Lizbeth Cantrell’s plain face, bringing with it a softness and quiet animation that hadn’t been visible earlier.
    â€œI know you, don’t I?” said Theodosia. Somewhere, in the depths of her memory, a faint recollection stirred.
    â€œYes, ma’am, you do,” Lizbeth replied.
    Theodosia stared at Lizbeth as though she were a distant shadow and tried to conjure up the memory. “You were there when my . . . my mother died,” she finally said.
    â€œYes,” Lizbeth replied softly. “You were just a little bug of a thing back then, couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old.”
    The flashback of that long-ago summer rushed at Theodosia in a Technicolor whirl and exploded in her brain. And along with it, came a wash of memories. The oppressive heat, her father’s hopeful whispering, her heartbreaking sadness.
    â€œMy mother helped take care of your mother,” explained Lizbeth. “And sometimes I came along.”
    â€œYou came along,” said Theodosia, as though she were in a trance. “You were older than I, and you took me swimming on hot days.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Lizbeth. “We went to Carpenter’s Pond.” Her smile was gentle, and she waited patiently as Theodosia’s brain processed everything.
    â€œYes, I remember you,” said Theodosia slowly. Her initial shock now over with, she was able to look back and slowly replay the memory. Her mother’s last summer on this earth, spent at Cane Ridge Plantation in the low-country. Her mother had wanted more than anything to be able to watch sunlight play across the marsh grass, to gaze upon pink sunsets over shadowy, peaceful pine groves. And, finally, to be laid to rest in the old family cemetery there. Theodosia stretched one hand out tentatively, touched Lizbeth’s sleeve. “You were so kind.”
    â€œYou were so sad.”
    The conference room’s double doors rattled noisily.
    â€œI got to go,” Lizbeth said as she began to gather up her purse and notebook. “I think your meeting’s about to start.” She paused and gave Theodosia a look filled with longing. “Will you help?” she asked.
    The door burst open, and a half-dozen people crowded into the room. They swarmed around the table, paying little heed to Lizbeth and Theodosia, totally unaware of the highly charged atmosphere that seemed to permeate the room.
    Theodosia dropped her arms to her sides and nodded. “I’ll try,” she said. She didn’t know exactly what she was promising. Or why. But how could she not?
    Lizbeth blinked back tears. “Thank you,” she said simply.

CHAPTER 12

    A POT OF lentil soup simmered on the back burner; popovers baked golden and fluffy in the oven. Although Theodosia’s upstairs apartment was not overly large, it possessed that rare trait so often lacking in many newer apartments: style. Aubasson rugs in faded blue and cinnamon covered the floors. French doors gave the appearance of a living and dining room that flowed together flawlessly, while cove ceilings gave the rooms a cozy, architectural ambiance. Draperies and sofa were done in muted English chintz and prints.
    Earlier, Drayton had gone next door to Robillard Booksellers and borrowed one of their oversized magnifying glasses on the pretext of trying to decipher some old Chinese tea labels. Now Theodosia held the magnifying glass in her hand as she sat at her dining room table, studying the black and white printouts. They’d been transmitted