betrayed him.
Before I’m written off as a crackpot, let me assure you that when I first heard of Mary Quinn’s ghost, I was a complete skeptic. Mary’s legend is well known in Mississippi, part of the lore of the Old South. I’d never put much stock in such stories. They’re rich in local color and emotion but often short on fact. But I was younger then, happily married, and immune to the type of tragedy that might make one consider looking to a spirit for help.
Life, and loss, have softened me. There are fewer blacks and whites and many more shades of gray. I suppose it could be said that now I want to believe. I need to believe in something, or someone.
My friends accuse me of still being in love with Frank. That, I suppose, is the brush with which I’ll be tarred. I do still love him. Intensely. Ours was not a trivial love, not one easily dismissed by even the finality of death. Without being overly dramatic, I can say that I never expect to love anyone but Frank.
So why, then, has Frank begun to visit me in the dark hours of the night, pointing his finger and speaking of betrayal? Five years ago I would have laughed at the idea of a woman so desperate that she would consult a spirit. Today I find myself standing at the gates of Ravenwood Plantation.
Before I’m labeled a maladjusted hysteric, consider that I’ve done everything within reason to resolve my problem, including several trips to a highly acclaimed psychiatrist. He spoke to me of guilt and how it can manifest itself in dreams and visions. He has recommended “stringent rest,” a contradictory term that escapes normal comprehension, but when translated from the shadowy jargon of psychiatry means institutionalization.
In our family, blood is thicker than mental disorders. After an attempt at psychiatry, I went to my mother. She loves me more than life and waits patiently for the grandchildren I will never give her. She said that Frank’s “visits” are the subconscious twistings of my mind trying to tell me to let go, to accept his death, to remarry, to have those grandchildren she waits to spoil. To gain this end she has even enlisted the aid of Frank’s family to convince me to get on with my life. She means well, but she doesn’t understand. The Frank that stood at the foot of my bed and pointed his finger at me, dark eyes ablaze, was not shooing me into another man’s arms. Not by a long shot. His exact words, delivered in a voice of wrath, were, “The past is never dead. I have suffered at the hands of those I loved. I am betrayed.” I can’t forget those words. And I can’t twist them into some type of license to find a new life. I also don’t believe that I’m losing my mind. So ruling out the extremes of psychiatry and motherhood, I’m left with few choices.
Now that reasonable steps have failed me, I’m taking the unreasonable. I have the key to Ravenwood—and two weeks to live in the old plantation without interruption. The house is generally open to the public for tours and is very popular, due to the legend of Mary’s ghost. But each year, for two weeks in April, Ravenwood is closed in honor of the anniversary of Mary’s death. These two weeks are mine. I must make contact with Mary, and she must help me to communicate with Frank.
I’m guilty of nothing, and I can’t go on with Frank accusing me. Whatever he feels I’ve done wrong, I must explain to him so that he can rest in peace and I can continue with my life.
In a manner of speaking, Mary is my last hope. My last “sane” hope.
THE KEY TO Ravenwood’s gates weighed heavy in my hand once I got out of my car and approached the wrought-iron fence. It was a work of art, iron twisted in curlicues that look as delicate as lace. With a grumble of protest, the gate opened. The driveway curved ahead of me, lost in a thicket of dark cedars and pristine dogwoods, a striking contrast of light and dark. Once my van was inside the fence, I got out and re-locked the gate behind me. There would be no need to leave the grounds. No one who could be stopped by a lock would be visiting me.
The scent of the paper-whites was as sweet as I remembered from childhood.
Ravenwood Plantation. I’d done my homework. The house was very old, dating back to the late 1700s when one wing of it was built by the original owner, Jeremiah Quinn. As the family prospered, the house grew. But the three-story structure has never been as awe inspiring as the grounds. From formal garden to acre upon acre of cotton and section upon section of woods, Ravenwood is one of the last remaining plantations.
The mini van I’d rented and stocked with two weeks worth of provisions cruised quietly down the winding drive. In the next few weeks as April’s sun kissed Mississippi hello, the grounds would shift from the frills of spring to the vibrant colors of summer.
My family is “old Jackson,” and I have several brothers who are in the legal profession. It was my older brother, Shane, who arranged for me to stay at Ravenwood. How he managed it, I didn’t ask. It was one of those friends of a friend of a friend things, and I know Mama had a lot to do with it. She probably told Shane I was going off the deep end with nightmares and visitations. Anyway, Shane stepped in and took care of all the details down to the fact that I would not be disturbed by anyone for two entire weeks. I had to suffer his amused comments about my “new hobby of ghost hunting,” but I got the key.
I drove around to the back of the main house. My quarters were to be in the newest portion, an apartment built above the old kitchen back in the 1930s. This was the only part of the house with electricity. Determined to settle in as quickly as possible, I hauled the ten sacks of groceries into the kitchen and my three pieces of luggage up the stairs to the bedroom.
From the moment I opened the door to the bedroom, I was enchanted. Three walls of the room were windows from waist level up. The fourth wall held the door to the bathroom and a fireplace. The bedroom was enormous. A cozy sitting area was structured around the fireplace and the bed, draped with coral mosquito netting and set up on a dais, occupied one sunny corner. If I remembered my history correctly, this room had been created according to the express wishes of Corrine Quinn, the last of the Quinn family to inhabit Ravenwood. A distant relation of Mary, Corrine had never married and had devoted her life to restoring and maintaining Ravenwood. It was her decision to open the house to public tours, and she laboriously documented the furnishings and repairs made to the original structure. Ravenwood had one of the most complete histories of any home in the state.
Although she was a spinster, there had been rumors that Corrine was not a saint. The house was her life, but she found spare time for pleasures and happy pursuits. She was reputed to have been a great beauty, and the only surviving photograph of her showed a slender woman with eyes that held the promise of mischief. She’d died at a young age in a riding accident. But her wishes had been followed in keeping Ravenwood open to the public—and closed on the anniversary of Mary’s death. Corrine had been bold enough to give an interview to the local newspaper saying that Mary deserved a couple of weeks alone in her own home.
The chifforobe was empty, so I made myself at home, unpacking my bags and arranging my belongings in the room I would occupy for the next two weeks. I was anxious to race past the gardens and down the riverside trail that led to the old oak tree where Mary’s ghost was said to visit frequently. Something held me back, though, some sense of propriety, as if I had to give Mary time to adjust to me, to sense that my intentions were sincere and that I honestly needed her help. I wanted to spend a few hours settling in to her home, learning a bit about her from the furnishings that had once made up her daily life.
So instead of rushing about the grounds, I made my way through the entire house, room by room.
The dimensions of the house dwarfed me. I’m average height, about five-six. During the days of the Civil War, I would have been a giantess of a woman. Miss Scarlett boasted of a seventeen-inch waist—and she was probably only four feet, eleven inches tall. The high ceilings of the plantation houses were designed for coolness, not the size of the inhabitants.
The
