afternoon was waning, and I had not located Nathan. There had been no signs of cavalry, as the young soldier had pointed out. Apparently they were bivouacked away from the park. It hadn’t occurred to me, but perhaps Nathan did not constantly ride his horse. The idea that he was out coaching young recruits in the dialogue and dialect of the 1860 South tickled me. I hadn’t known him long, but I was willing to bet he was a good teacher.
I drove back to the front gate and stopped to talk with the park rangers. When I asked about a cavalry colonel, the ranger was friendly, but not very helpful. The reenactment forces were so numerous, the park made no efforts to manage them. He did not have a list of the participants in the battle. As he explained, some of the units were volunteers, history buffs who went around the country acting out roles at different battlefields. Others were like Nathan, professional historians and scholars paid for their work. I went back to Ravenwood hoping that Nathan would take an evening ride through the estate. He would see my mini van and stop. I felt good about the progress I had made in looking into Frank’s death, but I wanted a sensible sounding board.
Maybe the tragedy of the battlefield had caught a ride home with me, but when I turned in the gate at the plantation, I had a sudden poignant sensation of Mary Quinn’s life. It must have been a fairy tale before the war. I could imagine the old plantation running at full blast, the house ablaze with lights and laughter. From all I’d read, the Quinns were a happy family with a love of parties and feasts. Before the war.
It was foolish of me, but I couldn’t resist looking around the ground for Frisco’s hoofprints. There was no sign that Nathan or his horse had paid a visit to me while I’d been out.
Since I couldn’t find him at the battlefield, I decided to call Mississippi College where he worked as a professor. It took forever for the secretary to answer the phone. When I asked for Nathan Cates, the young girl explained that she was a work-study student and that she didn’t have an extension listed for a Dr. Cates. A pleasant young woman, she apologized and said that the regular secretary would be back the next day.
Since I had no other plans for the evening, I decided to make my version of chicken alfredo. Cooking is an act that many Southern women turn to in times of anxiety or periods of waiting. Frank and I had once spent our evenings bantering in the kitchen as we explored cuisines from around the world. There was nothing he wouldn’t attempt. I’d lost my interest in cooking after his death, and my desire to work in the kitchen surprised me. I even chilled a bottle of white wine I’d brought along. Just for the fun of it I’d cater dinner to myself in the big old dining room. While the pasta cooked, I hurried over to the old house and set up two candelabras. Anything worth doing was worth doing well.
When the meal was prepared, I sat at the elegant table in the main dining room. There was seating for at least twenty, and the candles glowed against the burnished mahogany of the lovely table.
I was halfway through the meal when I remembered the oven. I’d left a small portion of bread in it to warm. There was little chance trouble would occur, but I couldn’t enjoy the rest of my meal if I was worried about burning the bread. Feeling as if I should excuse myself, I left the table and hurried to the kitchen. I could see where servants would have worked up a sweat carrying dishes back and forth for three large meals a day. The bread was very toasted, but there was no damage. I turned off the oven and went back to my meal.
I had just settled my napkin into place when I saw the yellow rose beside my plate. The chill that ran up my body was indescribable. The front doors were locked, and I’d used the back one. The gates to the plantation were also locked. No one could have slipped into the house without my knowing it—except a ghost. Mary Quinn! She’d left me a message to let me know that she hadn’t abandoned me, that she was considering my plight. Perhaps it was even a sign of approval that I had taken some action on my own.
Should I finish dinner and wait for her to make her appearance, or should I attempt to find her? The sound of footsteps on the second floor ended my questions. Instead of the light footsteps of a teenage girl, the tread was heavy. Ominous. Anticipation turned to fear. Old houses attracted all kinds of weirdos. I’d been gone from Ravenwood all day. Anyone could be hiding in it.
My thoughts halted as I took a sudden gulp of air. The footsteps were coming down the stairs.
Chapter Four
The footsteps continued toward the dining room. The lighting was poor, only half a dozen candles in two candelabras. There was a chance I could slip into a corner and then make a run out the door once the intruder was in the room. Of course, my chance for success was about as good as a snowball’s survival in hell. Basically, I was trapped like a rat.
Without making a sound, I left the table and pressed myself into the darkest corner of the room. Heavy draperies hung at the windows, and I shrouded my body in those. Of all the childhood games I’d played, I’d hated only hide-and-seek. I couldn’t stand the torment of waiting for the hand on my shoulder, the moment of capture. Even when it was only Shane pursuing me, it frightened me. Sometimes, when I couldn’t stand the torture of waiting, I’d hear Shane coming closer and closer and I’d scream, “Here I am! Here I am!”
This was a million times worse. My heart hammered loud enough to wake the dead. The possibilities of danger were endless. The owner of the footsteps that came closer and closer could be anyone—an escapee from prison, a robber, a fiend. Unexpected violence had visited me once. I knew I was not immune.
“Emma?”
I almost didn’t hear the sound of my name over the frantic jackhammer of my heart.
“Emma?”
I couldn’t believe it. The voice belonged to Nathan Cates. I peeked out from behind the draperies.
“Emma! I frightened you.”
He strode toward me with a chagrined expression.
“I knocked. The door was open. I thought you’d gone to Mary’s room. I left the rose…” He took in the situation. “You thought Mary had visited, didn’t you?”
Feeling extremely foolish, I nodded as I gave up the questionable protection of the draperies and stepped forward. “I went to turn the oven off. I came back and saw the rose.” I shrugged. “You could say I’m gullible. I mean, I believed I’d been transported back to the Civil War when I met you.”
Nathan’s laughter was deep. “You’ve had a hard few days, Emma Devlin. You came to Ravenwood wanting to believe in something more powerful than yourself. You’re not gullible. You’re desperate.”
“I thought Mary had left the rose, and then when I heard the heavy footsteps upstairs, I rushed into believing the worst.” It was a funny situation, but I wasn’t laughing. “I guess I am desperate. I’ve opened my mind to too many possibilities. Ghosts, robbers…” The tears were inexplicably close. “The fact that my husband may have been deliberately murdered.”
Nathan’s arm around my shoulders was a comforting pressure. “I’m sorry, Emma. It’s a hard thing to accept.”
“It might explain Frank’s…return. But, God, I don’t want to believe it! To lose him by accident is horrible enough. If he was deliberately taken, well, that makes it worse. And it makes me want to strike back.”
Nathan led me to the table and seated me. He took the chair to my right. In the light of the candles, his expression was intense. “Tell me what you found.”
At
