Flesh And Blood. Caroline Burnes
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“Maybe I should ask for a pay raise if I’m such a great actor. Or maybe, Emma Devlin, you’re ready to believe in something different in your life.”
The humor of the situation struck me hard. I smiled, and that was quickly followed by a chuckle. The man had truly unsettled me. He had every right to believe I was a half-wit. All it had taken was a uniform and a half dozen comments, and I’d been ready to believe I was talking with a Confederate soldier.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I brought Frisco over for a gallop around the grounds. He doesn’t get a lot of exercise during the day I’m afraid, and the gardens around the plantation are incredibly beautiful.”
“They are indeed.” He was waiting for my explanation. “I’m staying in the house while it’s closed. I’m…researching a project.”
“Then you’re a writer?”
His eager questions made me feel guilty of some deception. “In a way. I write for a card company, but I’m at Ravenwood on personal business.” That was as much as I would give him.
“I’ll see you back to the house and then be off.”
He seemed to sense my desire for privacy, and I walked silently beside him. Frisco followed behind like an obedient puppy. I’d learned to ride as a child at my Aunt Charlotte’s, and I liked the looks of the big chestnut gelding. The night sounds of Ravenwood closed gently around us. The chirr of crickets was a comforting noise, reminding me again of happy childhood moments.
But the silence between us had stretched too long. “How long will you be working with the reenactment?”
“On and off through the summer, I suppose. I have a teaching arrangement at Mississippi College. Then…”
I felt him shrug beside me, and without being able to see, I knew that he was smiling. He was confident of his future, whatever it might prove to be.
“You’re from the South, aren’t you?” My curiosity was piqued.
“I’ve never been able to completely curb my accent.”
“And I should hope you wouldn’t try. Why would you want to sound as if you came from Illinois or Idaho?”
“A good question,” he said, “and one for which I don’t have an answer. Are you staying at Ravenwood alone? I ask because I’ll stop and check on you if you’d like.”
There was no pushiness in his question, only concern. Walking through the dark with him and the horse, I felt an unaccustomed peace. “I’d like that. I am alone.”
“Ravenwood is a big house. Don’t let the little idiosyncrasies unsettle you.”
“I’m not easily unsettled.” Through the heavy green of magnolia and oak leaves I could see the night-light that had been put up near the apartment door.
“An independent woman. I like that.”
“And I’d like to point out that you are a gentleman, and I like that.”
We laughed together as we walked to the kitchen door and I drew the key from the pocket of my pants. “Thanks for seeing me home, Nathan Cates.”
“My pleasure, Miss Devlin. And I’ll be by to check on you during the next two weeks. If you hear a horse galloping about the property, you can bet it’s me and Frisco.”
“Did you rent him at a local stables? I thought I might like to ride while I’m here.”
“No, Frisco isn’t a rental, but I think I might be able to scare up a mount for you.”
“No Union horses.” I couldn’t resist a bit of teasing.
“Any horse I bring for you to ride will neigh with a drawl,” he said as he swung up into the saddle.
The light from the window caught him fully, and for the first time I realized what an attractive man he was. His legs were long and well-muscled, defined by the boots he wore. Wide shoulders supported a strong neck. His face was handsome in a rugged way, and there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. That disappeared when he smiled down at me.
“Not to alarm you, Miss Devlin, but be on the lookout for ghosts. There’s a rumor that Ravenwood is haunted.”
“What a charming idea, Mr. Cates, a haunted plantation house.”
“Most ghosts are harmless, Emma Devlin. Many of them are simply too sad to rest. But there are some that mean you harm.”
His words struck me like a cold blade along my spine. He was playing with me in a light, bantering way, and he had no idea how close to my heart he’d hit.
“I’ll be careful only to consort with the good-natured ones,” I answered, and unlocked my door. “Good night, Mr. Cates.”
Before I locked the door I watched the night swallow up horse and rider. I’d spent the day dreaming about Mary Quinn and met a strange history teacher who doubled as an actor. For a woman who’d done nothing all day, I was exhausted—and starved. Too hungry to wait for something to cook, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took it up the stairs to the bedroom. I was suffering from an odd aftershock of meeting Nathan Cates. I was bone weary and yet I felt as if a tiny electrical pulse was running through me.
Thinking back through the meeting, I was surprised to recall that once I spoke with him, I had absolutely no fear of him. I’d never been a person who made instant friends. My mother, who has a list of complaints a mile long about me, said it was because I was sarcastic and smart-mouthed. Before people got a chance to like me, I drove them away, she said.
Frank had defended me by saying that I weeded out the wimps. At the memory of those lively debates, I couldn’t help but smile. The smile faded as I thought about my reasons for being at Ravenwood. I’d spent a dreamless night my first night here. Would I see Frank tonight?
I finished the last bite of my sandwich and took the plate back downstairs. I made sure the doors and windows were locked before I abandoned the kitchen for the bedroom and a hot bath. A tiny rule I’d made for myself was that I would not think of Frank before I went to bed. If it was my subconscious acting up, I didn’t want to invite a visit from the man I loved accusing me of betrayal. I picked up my book, spun the coral mosquito netting about my bed and settled down for the night.
About eleven, my eyes grew heavy and I gave up my book. Outside the open window, the night was alive with small creatures. With a smile I surrendered to childhood images and sleep.
The brush of the mosquito netting across my face woke me. Waking up in an unfamiliar place can be unsettling, and I forced myself to remain calm. A gust of April wind must have blown through the open window with enough force to billow the netting over the bed. It was a strange sensation, like waking up in the folds of an elaborate gown. There was a coral glow around the bed. I was pushing my way clear to the surface of material when I saw Frank.
Standing at the foot of the bed, he watched me closely.
“Frank.” I wanted to reach out to him, to hold his hand, to touch his face. But I could not. The chill of the grave held me back. No matter how much I didn’t want it to be true, Frank Devlin was dead. Though he stood before me, handsome in the pink and coral light of dawn that had begun to chase the darkness from the room, I knew he was no longer of my world.
“The past is never dead, Emma.”
“I know that, Frank. I miss you terribly.”
“I have suffered at the hands of those I loved.”
His words were so sad, so horrible. Tears threatened to choke me, but I fought them back. “Not me, Frank. Never me. I could not have loved you more. You know that. I still love you.”
“I am betrayed, Emma. Betrayed.” His right hand came up and his finger pointed directly at me. “Emma…”
As in the past three times, he faded away. In a few seconds, the room was empty