dropped the locket down inside. It should have been buried with her mother. She would rectify that first thing in the morning.
She slipped the emerald ring on her finger. She’d never seen her mother wear it. It would have been too large for her mother’s dainty fingers. She had favored an opal ring in a ruby setting. Charlotte searched through the jumble of jewelry. That ring wasn’t in the box. So perhaps she had worn it to the grave.
Charlotte stuffed the box of jewelry up on the top shelf of her wardrobe. She started to hide Mellie’s paper under the box, but changed her mind. It was too important to let out of her sight.
When Mellie came in a few minutes later to help her dress for dinner, Charlotte slipped the paper out of her pocket and down into the top of her camisole when Mellie had her back turned. She couldn’t show it to her yet. Not until she had a plan, and before Charlotte could make a plan, she had to know her future with Edwin.
If she didn’t get an answer from him by noon tomorrow, she would ride over to Hastings Farm. She’d make him state his intentions. But tonight she would go down to the dining room and listen to Selena’s false chatter at the table. She would pretend there wasn’t a battle drawn up between them. Just as many in the North and South were pretending the same thing. It was better to keep the illusion of peace as long as possible.
Even as they ate their dinner that night with a pretense of good humor and fine manners, the illusion of peace for the country had already been shot down at Fort Sumter in South Carolina.
A messenger brought the news the next morning. Charlotte didn’t see the messenger ride up. After breakfast she had stopped in the kitchen and hid a heavy stirring spoon in the folds of her skirt before going out the back door to the family cemetery. She didn’t want help from anyone for the job at hand.
The ground was soft from a late afternoon shower the day before, and she had no trouble cutting out a circle of the greening grass and scooping out a hole at the base of her mother’s stone. She pushed the metal powder box down into the hole and tamped the dirt back in around it before carefully replacing the bit of grass sod. When she stood up and looked down, the disturbed ground was barely noticeable.
Charlotte ran her hands over the carved letters in the stone. MAYDA GRAYSON VANCE. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. AUG 5 1816–MAY 24 1857. Her baby brother’s small tombstone was beside her mother’s. In behind were the stones for her grandparents and her mother’s sisters, Alice and Emma, taken by cholera in 1833. Another stone that towered higher even than her grandparents’ stone bore the name of their one son, Richard Grayson III, in deeply chiseled granite letters. He had gone west to seek adventure and broken his parents’ hearts by getting killed in an Indian skirmish. His body wasn’t actually under the stone but was instead in an unmarked grave somewhere on the prairie.
Charlotte thought how different her life might have been if her uncle Richard had lived to come home and marry. His family would be living in the Grayson manor house. His son the descendant to carry on the Grayson name and tradition. But there were no Grayson sons. No sons at all. Up until now.
She raised her head to look out between the tall oaks that shaded the graveyard. Grayson land stretched as far as she could see in every direction. Good land. Her land. She could almost feel the roots attaching her feet to the ground as strongly as the roots holding the towering oaks around her. It would take a mighty storm to break her free.
She was so immersed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the artist walking up behind her until he spoke.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
She whirled to face him.
“I must beg your forgiveness once again, my lady,” he said with a smile as he stopped a couple of paces away from her. “I really didn’t intend to startle you. This
She slipped the emerald ring on her finger. She’d never seen her mother wear it. It would have been too large for her mother’s dainty fingers. She had favored an opal ring in a ruby setting. Charlotte searched through the jumble of jewelry. That ring wasn’t in the box. So perhaps she had worn it to the grave.
Charlotte stuffed the box of jewelry up on the top shelf of her wardrobe. She started to hide Mellie’s paper under the box, but changed her mind. It was too important to let out of her sight.
When Mellie came in a few minutes later to help her dress for dinner, Charlotte slipped the paper out of her pocket and down into the top of her camisole when Mellie had her back turned. She couldn’t show it to her yet. Not until she had a plan, and before Charlotte could make a plan, she had to know her future with Edwin.
If she didn’t get an answer from him by noon tomorrow, she would ride over to Hastings Farm. She’d make him state his intentions. But tonight she would go down to the dining room and listen to Selena’s false chatter at the table. She would pretend there wasn’t a battle drawn up between them. Just as many in the North and South were pretending the same thing. It was better to keep the illusion of peace as long as possible.
Even as they ate their dinner that night with a pretense of good humor and fine manners, the illusion of peace for the country had already been shot down at Fort Sumter in South Carolina.
A messenger brought the news the next morning. Charlotte didn’t see the messenger ride up. After breakfast she had stopped in the kitchen and hid a heavy stirring spoon in the folds of her skirt before going out the back door to the family cemetery. She didn’t want help from anyone for the job at hand.
The ground was soft from a late afternoon shower the day before, and she had no trouble cutting out a circle of the greening grass and scooping out a hole at the base of her mother’s stone. She pushed the metal powder box down into the hole and tamped the dirt back in around it before carefully replacing the bit of grass sod. When she stood up and looked down, the disturbed ground was barely noticeable.
Charlotte ran her hands over the carved letters in the stone. MAYDA GRAYSON VANCE. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. AUG 5 1816–MAY 24 1857. Her baby brother’s small tombstone was beside her mother’s. In behind were the stones for her grandparents and her mother’s sisters, Alice and Emma, taken by cholera in 1833. Another stone that towered higher even than her grandparents’ stone bore the name of their one son, Richard Grayson III, in deeply chiseled granite letters. He had gone west to seek adventure and broken his parents’ hearts by getting killed in an Indian skirmish. His body wasn’t actually under the stone but was instead in an unmarked grave somewhere on the prairie.
Charlotte thought how different her life might have been if her uncle Richard had lived to come home and marry. His family would be living in the Grayson manor house. His son the descendant to carry on the Grayson name and tradition. But there were no Grayson sons. No sons at all. Up until now.
She raised her head to look out between the tall oaks that shaded the graveyard. Grayson land stretched as far as she could see in every direction. Good land. Her land. She could almost feel the roots attaching her feet to the ground as strongly as the roots holding the towering oaks around her. It would take a mighty storm to break her free.
She was so immersed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the artist walking up behind her until he spoke.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said.
She whirled to face him.
“I must beg your forgiveness once again, my lady,” he said with a smile as he stopped a couple of paces away from her. “I really didn’t intend to startle you. This
Similar Books
