Wild, Beautiful, and Free(90)

“Yes,” I told them. “The Confederates surrendered. Lieutenant Stone here can tell you about it.” I walked Calista over to him.

“Walter, this is my sister, Miss Calista Bébinn.” I held her hand and said, “Calista, this is Lieutenant Walter Stone. He hails from upstate New York, and he’s fought bravely this whole time.”

His eyes widened, and he blushed and offered Calista his hand. She wasn’t dressed well, and she didn’t have her hair done fancy like I’d known it when we were younger, but she was a good-looking woman. I’m certain Walter noticed.

“How do you do, ma’am?” He stammered slightly.

Calista took his hand, but instead of bowing or curtsying, she embraced him. “Sir, you are welcome here. I will be forever grateful to you for bringing my beloved sister safely home. She’s been gone for many years.”

He was surprised by the attention, but he was smiling. “Miss Bébinn has been kind to me. I’m glad I could return the favor.”

We walked up the steps to the gallery, and I turned to address the soldiers standing there. “Sirs, if you get Lieutenant Stone something to eat, he’d be glad to tell you about the siege. He was wounded in the action.”

The men slapped him on the back and took him into their circle. Calista squeezed me to her again and led me into the house. In the foyer I removed my bonnet and took it all in. There was Papa’s study on the left, where Madame had paid Amesbury to take me away. There was the parlor on the right, where Papa’s body had lain in its casket. But there were now desks in both rooms, similar to the rooms General Grant had organized in Shirley House, and soldiers. But nothing seemed missing or out of sorts—nothing ripped from the walls. The tall ceramic vases still flanked the entrance to the parlor. The brass sconces were still in place.

“What’s happened? Why didn’t they destroy anything? How is it the house is still standing? I’ve seen nothing but rubble for miles.” My legs suddenly felt weak, and I stumbled. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“Come sit.” She led me to the dining room and called into the kitchen. “Annie! Please bring some coffee and bacon and bread.”

A thin young woman with tawny skin and heavy-lidded eyes stuck her head out the door and said, “Yeah!”

I stared at Calista, and she took my hands. “Honey, Dorinda died last spring. The yellow jack came real bad and got a lot of our people.”

Oh God. Not Dorinda.

I broke down then. It was all too much. Every ounce of tired I had ever felt collapsed in on me all at once. I dropped my head onto the table and sobbed. “Where is she?”

“I buried her in the family plot. Jeannette, are you all right? Oh, let me look at you!”

I lifted my head, but I didn’t want to eat or drink. “I need to lay down,” I said. “Please.”

My feet seemed to have forgotten how to climb stairs. I leaned heavily on my sister as she helped me to a room. She unbuttoned my shoes and removed my stockings and dress. I fell back onto the bed, still in my petticoat, and fell fast asleep.

When I awoke, I couldn’t tell whether it was dawn or dusk. The light outside was full of in-betweens—not dark or light, some pinks, some blues, air thick with water, but I couldn’t tell if the dew belonged to the morning or the evening. Sitting up, I recognized the wardrobe at one end of the room and the purple brocade on the bed’s canopy over my head. I was in Calista’s room. My dress lay draped over the settee by the window.

I rose slowly and went to the window and opened it. The air that met me was warm—so it was evening, not morning. But was it the same day, or had I slept through to the next day? I didn’t know. My hand touched the fabric of my dress, and I remembered Calista’s words about Dorinda. I found the dress pocket that held the stone she had given me and pulled it out. I held it for a long time, turning it over and over in my hands.

Suddenly a spirit overtook me and I left the room, barefoot and wearing nothing but my petticoat. I ran down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the gathering darkness. The family plot wasn’t far, just down the drive and on the west side of the gates opening to our property. The grass felt warm and alive under my feet. It made me want to run faster, and by the time I reached the entrance to the cemetery, I was breathless. I stopped. A simple stone path split the two sides of the yard. I caught my breath while I searched for Dorinda’s grave. Papa’s grave was on the right side of the yard. I went to it and laid my hand on a wing of the small angel that sat atop his headstone. Its face, with the chin resting on its hand, looked thoughtful and quiet. I stood there and surveyed the area.

Her grave, the earth still rounded on top, was in the far corner of the plot. The stone, square and simple, bore only her name, DORINDA, and the years of her birth and death. I fell to my knees there and cried. I thought of her gentle care of me, of the moments we had laughed in the cart when I’d driven her away from Lower Knoll. She had been my mother. As best she could, that was exactly what she had been.

A light flashed behind me, and a shadow moved across the ground.

“Jeannette.” Calista held a lantern, and she knelt beside me. I placed the rock in her hand.

“Dorinda gave it to me on the night Madame had me taken away. It’s from her garden. She said it would help bring me back home someday.” My tears flowed harder. “And she was right! There were times when I was so scared, and I would hold it and think about what she said. I wanted her to know it worked.”