Marcellus looked very sad, suddenly. “I felt sorry for him, used to give him money for a meal now and again. I tried to help him, but I knew all along there was no use. He lived only for his next pint of whiskey. One day I came by and found him all stretched out, his crown on his head, and an empty fifth of rotgut whiskey clutched to his chest. He was dead, but he was smiling, like he’d seen an angel, or something. I saw he got a decent burial. He didn’t have any family—none that claimed him, anyway. I figured it was the least I could do, since he’d entertained me for so long.”
Now the silence at the table had a different feel to it. The “terrible threesome” seemed to soften a bit toward Lynch.
“Didn’t know a Yankee had it in him to be so sentimental,” Sister said, with no malice in her voice. “I reckon you must have had a Southerner way back in your line somewhere.”
A slow smile crept over Lynch’s face. “Could be. They say I had a grandpa who was a riverboat gambler, until he settled down and married a dance hall girl from New Orleans.”
Elspeth laughed out loud. “Well, you sure didn’t inherit his card-sense.”
Pansy reached over and pressed Lynch’s hand, smiling radi-andy. “You’ve got a big heart, Marcellus. You’ll get a star in your crown in heaven for what you did for poor old King Ozzie.”
“Or at least a cooler spot in hell, eh, ladies?” He grinned back, obviously feeling much relieved now.
Just then, Hobson began serving dinner. The fried chicken smelled heavenly and was complemented by sweet potatoes swimming in butter, fresh creamed corn, sliced tomatoes, turnip greens, and golden squares of cornbread.
“The cornbread’s my great-granny’s recipe too,” Elspeth said, proudly. “She always used buttermilk to make it.”
Ginna sank her teeth into hers and made a humming sound of pleasure. It tasted better than angel cake.
Conversation ceased, as the six people at the table dug in. By the time Ginna had cleaned her plate, she felt she must have put on at least five pounds of her lost weight.
Sister, Pansy, and Elspeth began whispering among themselves, while Hobson cleared the table. Elspeth tugged the waiter’s sleeve, and he leaned down so she could have a word with him privately. Their secret moment over, he flashed her a grin and said,
“Yes, ma’am!
Coming right up!”
Once more, the trio were grinning like cats in the cream, or kids in a cookie jar.
“What?”
Ginna demanded.
“It’s a secret,” Elspeth answered.
“You three have too many secrets. You had better tell us right now or I’ll—”
Just then, Hobson came back through the door from the kitchen, wheeling a huge, five-tiered coconut cake with candles glowing.
“It’s got great-granny’s lemon-cheese filling,” Elspeth announced to one and all. “It was her specialty for family birthdays.”
“Whose birthday is it?”
“Yours, Ginna!”
the three women chorused, amidst a gale of giggles.
And so it was, or the day she was found on the hospital steps, anyway. Ginna had completely forgotten. No one ever made any big deal over her birthday. She often let it slip by without even taking note. The only time she really noticed was when she had to renew her driver’s license or fill out an insurance form.
“How did you know?”
Pansy grinned at Ginna and fluttered her eyelashes. “I’m not telling.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’ve never been more surprised in my life.
You three!
Why, you’re just the sweetest things!”
Ginna got up and went to kiss the cheeks of each of her friends, in turn.
“You should have told me,” Neal said, when she sat down again. “I’d have gotten you something—a card at least.”
He leaned over and kissed her cheek, now damp with tears, she was so touched.
“I really did forget,” she said.
The whole dining room sang “Happy Birthday” to Ginna. She cut the gorgeous cake and Hobson served. Her friends all had gifts for her. Sister had embroidered a delicate doily with two swans in the center. Pansy had made her a drawstring purse of old lace. Even Marcellus was in on this secret. He gave her a sachet filled with dried rose petals from the garden. Elspeth had the most fascinating surprise of all. She had painted a small watercolor of a man and a woman standing beside the swan pond. The woman wore a pink gown belled by a hoop skirt. The man was tall and dark, and you could tell by the way he leaned toward the woman that he adored her.
“Oh, Elspeth, it’s lovely!” Ginna exclaimed. “Who are they?”
The old woman frowned slightly. “I disremember right now. But I know them.” She turned and stared Ginna right in the eye. “You know them, too, child. Maybe better than you know your own self.”
Dr. Kirkwood interrupted just then. “Happy birthday, Ginna! We’re so glad you could be here with us so we could help celebrate.”
Ginna almost laughed. “Thank you, Dr. Kirkwood. Turning twenty-eight was not really something I’d looked forward to celebrating, but I’ve certainly enjoyed this. You all made it special for me.”
“Your room is ready, if you’d like me to show you where it is.”
“That would be nice.” She glanced around the table, smiling at each person in turn. “If you all will excuse me?”
They all nodded, smiled back, and once more congratulated her. Neal whispered, “I’ll see you later?”
“As soon as I’ve rested for a while.”
“Yes. Rest, Ginna. Later this afternoon you can show me around.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Well, quit stalling,” Sister said impatiently. “Give her a birthday kiss, Neal.”
He did—a sweet, soft, emotionally charged kiss. Ginna blushed when everyone in the dining room applauded.
“Later,” Neal whispered. “Just you and me.”
Ginna nodded, then followed the doctor out of the dining room. She felt as if her feet barely touched the floor.
“I think you’ll like your room,” Leonard Kirkwood said. “We usually don’t open it up. But I have a feeling Melora Swan would approve of your staying there.”
Ginna looked at him quizzically. Whatever could Melora Swan have to do with this? The mistress of Swan’s Quarter had been dead for nearly a century.
Leonard Kirkwood had read and studied the strange old deed, signed by Melora Swan, in her delicate, spidery hand. When she had turned over her home to one “General Mallory J. Fitzhugh, CSA,” she had dictated a clause whereby one room at Swan’s Quarter would be held in perpetuity by her family “for my own use as long as I live and thereafter, should any member of my family return desiring lodging and sanctuary.”
Kirkwood had puzzled long over the odd clause. He knew from old records that Melora Swan had indeed stayed on at Swan’s Quarter until her death. But, since she was the last surviving member of the Swan family, who could she have expected to return to the old homeplace? The records of the sanatorium showed that no one had used the room since Mrs. Swan’s demise, in the early part of the twentieth century. In fact, that one bed chamber had been kept locked for decades.
Shortly after Kirkwood’s arrival to take charge of Swan’s Quarter, he had inspected the room and found it in perfect order, but clothed in the accumulated dust of years. He had sent one of the housekeepers there to give it a good cleaning. Every month since, he had had that chore repeated. Now, as it happened, Melora Swan’s old chamber was the only vacant room at Swan’s Quarter. Even if another had been available, he knew that he would have put Ginna in Melora’s private sanctum. It just seemed right, somehow.
“This way, Ginna. Your room is at the end of the hall. I think you’ll like it. There’s a view of the front lawn and the swan pond.”
Ginna felt winded after climbing the staircase to the second floor. Dr. Kirkwood had suggested they take the elevator, but her recent experience as the vigorous young Virginia Swan, tripping easily down several flights at Mathew Brady’s studio in New York City, had convinced Ginna that stairs no longer presented a problem. Halfway up, she had realized her mistake. By the time she reached the upper landing, her heart was pounding and she felt weak all over.
“Let me catch my breath a minute.” She leaned heavily on the hallway railing, waiting to regain her strength.
The doctor turned back to her, concern registering in his face. He took her hand, surreptitiously taking her pulse. “These stairs are pretty steep. I think you’d better use the elevator from now on, Ginna.”
“You bet I will! Right now, I’d really like to lie down for a few minutes.”
This had been an especially busy day. She felt as if it had been a week long already. Work, the flea market, the bus ride, then her trip back in time with Neal. Sunday dinner had been exhausting, too—all that tension at the table between Lynch and his three female tormentors. She had loved her surprise birthday party, but that, too, had taken its toll. She had been relieved when Dr. Kirkwood came in and rescued her, even though she hated to leave everyone, especially Neal.
“Rest is exactly what I was about to prescribe for you,” Kirkwood answered. “You might even want to take a nap. That’s what most everybody does around here on Sunday afternoons.”
She smiled at him and nodded. “Wake me up tomorrow, if I’m still sleeping.”
Kirkwood unlocked the door and handed her the key. “If you need anything, just phone down to my office. You rest now, Ginna.”
He turned and walked quickly back toward the stairs before she entered, leaving Ginna feeling very much alone. However, the moment she stepped inside the room, she was glad the doctor was gone. She might have had trouble explaining her shock to him.
Once more, she felt as if she had stepped back in time. She remembered this room, with its tester bed, its marble-topped vanity, its faded pink-and-green, forget-me-not wallpaper. In a daze of memories, she walked about, touching the silver comb and brush set—a gift to Virginia from her parents on her sixteenth birthday—the antique china doll in its rough hewn cradle—its clothes made by old Polly, the cook—and on the bedside table, a miniature portrait done on ivory—a present from the subject himself, Channing McNeal. She picked up the framed picture and examined it closely. The artist had done a fine job; it was a perfect likeness. Miniscule dots of white paint made Channing’s eyes seem alive with the light of love she knew so well. At the time the portrait was done, his hair had been cut shorter than she remembered it. In a moment of shock, she realized that this likeness was the image of Neal Frazier.
Still holding the miniature, Ginna sat down on the candle-wicked counterpane that covered the bed. She stretched out and pulled up the bright Sunday House quilt that was folded neatly at the foot.
“Common side weekdays. Bright side Sundays,” she said, recalling the words, but not their origin.
Sometime, somewhere, someone had told her about the Sunday House quilt. She remembered that, unlike most quilts, this one had patterns on both sides, the more colorful and elaborate design to be turned up on weekends, when guests were most likely to be visiting. During the week, the less fancy side covered the bed, so that it received the dust and the sun’s fading rays.
Again, familiar words came to mind. “Remember, dear. You will have to gaze on your handiwork for the rest of your life. Make your stitches neat and small—ten to fourteen stitches per inch on the top. Very straight. Very even.”
Ginna stared down at the lovely pattern, with its green vine twining the border all the way around. “There’s a reason for that,” she murmured, trying to remember. This, too, came to her suddenly, out of nowhere. A quilt with a broken border brought bad luck—a broken marriage or a shortened life.
In a flash, the whole picture came back to Ginna. Virginia and Melora Swan had carefully pieced this quilt in the years before the war, using scraps from every gingham gown Virginia had worn as a child.
When Ginna closed her eyes, she could hear Virginia’s mother saying, “This quilt will go into your hope chest, dear. Years from now, when you’re an old married lady, you will be able to recall your whole life through these pieced scraps. See this yellow square sprigged in green? Mammy Fan made that dress for you to wear to your tenth birthday party. Remember?”
Ginna heard Virginia laugh in reply. “How could I forget, Mother? The twins climbed the tulip poplar and dared me to follow them. They said I was nothing but a sissy girl if I didn’t”
“Your brothers!
Hollis and Hampton always have been a pair of scamps, always will be, I’m afraid.” She uttered a mother’s long-suffering sigh and turned mildly amused eyes on her only daughter. “You weren’t much better, Virginia. A tomboy from the day you were born, always trying to keep up with Rodney, Jed, and the twins. As I recall, you climbed that tree, all the way to the top, and tore your pretty party dress to tatters, not to mention what you did to your stockings.
Imagine!
A young lady with skinned knees!”
Virginia covered a giggle with her hand. “And Channing had to climb up to get me down.”
“Such a sweet boy! Ah, well, what’s left of that poor, ruined party dress will make lovely scraps for your quilt.”
Not long after their men rode off to war, the actual quilting bad begun—a joint effort by all their women friends from neighboring plantations. A quilting bee at Swan’s Quarter. Melora Swan had thought to distract her grieving daughter with the social event. But those neighbors who failed to come had only served to remind Virginia of what she had lost. The ladies of Belle Grove, Channing’s mother and sisters, were missing from their circle. Channing was gone from his home, gone from her life, gone to join his regiment. But he had not ridden off to war with her father and brothers to fight for the Southern Cause.
“Virginia?”
Ginna had drifted off to sleep. She sat bolt upright in bed when she heard Melora Swan’s voice close at hand. She rubbed her eyes, trying to make herself believe that she was still only dreaming of the past. She was not! Standing by the vanity was Melora Swan, the same woman she had met in New York City earlier in the day—long ago in time.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, dear. I know you must be exhausted from the trip, but we do have guests coming tonight. Remember? Channing’s parents and sisters will be here before long. They want to hear all about our adventures at West Point and in New York City.” She smiled brightly. “And, of course, they will want a full description of the ring Channing chose for you at Mr. Tiffany’s.”
When Ginna rose from the bed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. She paused, stunned for an instant Virginia was back!
“Shall I send Mammy Fan up to help you dress, dear?”
“No, thank you, Mother. I can manage.” Ginna thought suddenly of the tattered old gown she had worn to Swan’s Quarter. That would never do. In fact glancing down at herself, she saw that it was gone. She was dressed only in her camisole and pantalettes. “What should I wear? Help me choose,” she begged of Melora Swan.
Virginia’s mother went to the cedar-lined armoire and opened the doors. “Let’s see … what about your pale pink lawn with the tiny violets? It always brings out the color in your cheeks.”
“Yes, Mother. I’ve always loved that dress, and it’s one of Channing’s favorites. The next time I write to him, I’ll tell him that I wore it for his family.”
Melora Swan smiled. “That’s a lovely thought, dear. I’ll leave you now and see you downstairs within the hour.”
Virginia’s mother opened the door and exited to the hallway. Ginna heard the soft tap of her shoes fading in the distance. Her heart leaped suddenly, wondering what Dr. Kirkwood and the others would think when Melora Swan appeared downstairs. She rushed to the door to call the woman back. The hall was empty by the time she looked out. The whole house seemed inordinately quiet, but then it was Sunday afternoon naptime.
Wasn’t it?
Ginna turned back, expecting to see the room exactly as it had been when Dr. Kirkwood had shown her in. But it was not—not quite. The Sunday House quilt and her clothes were nowhere to be seen. Lying across the bed was the pink lawn gown she would wear to dinner with Channing’s family. With a shrug of bewilderment, Ginna reached for the old-fashioned dress, which looked brand new, and began getting ready, feeling more confused, as each moment passed.
What could she expect to find downstairs? Would she still be Virginia once she left this room? Would she find the Swan and McNeal families gathering for dinner, or would the residents of the sanatorium be there to greet her?
With a sigh and a shrug, she fastened her gown, then smoothed her palms down the tight-fitting bodice. “It doesn’t matter,” she told herself. “If I’m still in the past when I get downstairs, I’ll simply play along. If I find Neal and the others waiting for me, I’ll tell them I found this old dress in the room and decided to try it on.”
Confident that she was ready to handle either situation, Ginna opened the door and tiptoed along the empty hallway. At the head of the stairs, she paused. Such a mingling of sounds reached her from below that she had to stop and try to sort them out. She heard a piano playing softly over quiet conversation, the scrape of a chair, the neighing of horses, and finally Jedediah Swan’s booming laugh.
“So that’s it,” she whispered to herself. “I’m still in the past. The McNeals must just be arriving.”
Preparing herself to take up the role of Virginia, she started down the stairs. She had taken only two steps, when she heard Marcellus Lynch bellow, “What’s trump, Elspeth? I can’t remember.”
Ginna stopped dead in her tracks. How could Lynch
and
the Swans be downstairs? How could she be hearing voices from the past
and
the present?
She was still too far up the staircase to see anything below on the main floor. Holding her breath, she listened carefully. The tinkle of glassware, the sound of footsteps, the quiet murmur of voices—nothing to give her any further clues.
Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath, then headed down. All she could do was take her chances and hope she could muddle through.
Neal was in the library on the main floor, looking for a book to read. With everyone napping, except for the one table of dedicated bridge players, the house was so quiet it was creepy. He half-expected one of old Zee’s ghosts to come whooshing down the stairs any minute now. He had to do something to while away the time until Ginna came down. Without her around, he felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. His thoughts kept drifting back to the plane crash—not a good place to be.
He searched the spines of the old books on the shelves, hoping to find some escape fiction by Tom Clancy or Stephen King. No luck! The best he could do was Herman Melville or Joseph Conrad. He reached for a newer-looking book, without even checking the title. With the volume in his hands, he went to the door, his attention now tuned to soft voices that seemed to be coming from the hallway.
Neal peered out. The entrance way to Swan’s Quarter looked strange—all misty or smoky, as if someone had just passed through, puffing vigorously on a cigar. But there was no smell of smoke. He kept his eyes trained on the shifting cloud, as goosebumps crawled along his arms.
Faint sounds issued from the mist. Neither whole sentences nor even whole words, but definitely the murmur of voices. As he continued to listen and watch, he imagined he could pick out the faint outlines of several people gathered at the front door. Mesmerized, he leaned against the door and continued his vigil. He would almost see a face, only to have it disappear before it came fully into focus. He would catch half a word, but the rest would drift off before he could make out clearly what it was.
“What the hell is this?” he swore softly.
Suddenly, a phrase came back to him—something he had heard only once and thought he had forgotten years ago:
The fourth dimension
.
He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he breathed. “That must be it!”
As Ginna neared the bottom of the stairs, she realized that she was indeed back in time with the Swan family.
“Virginia, dear, there you are.” Melora Swan used the crystal-bright tone that—somehow Ginna knew—her husband always called her “company voice.” “Do come join us. The McNeals have only just arrived.”