I rooted through the box, looking for something with Clarissa’s handwriting. I found a slim packet of letters tied with a blue ribbon and slid one out. Bolder and slantier handwriting than Clarissa’s.
30 October 1831
My darling Clarissa,
Your most recent letter convinces me you are overwrought, my dear. I’m afraid the tragedy of your father’s untimely death has upset the balance of your mind. Your suspicions do you no more credit than they do your family. Let us be married at once, my love, so I can carry you off to my plantation and you can immerse yourself in household tasks that will distract your mind. You are too much alone at Rothmere, with no serious responsibilities to occupy you. Let us not wait out the year of your mourning, but be married quietly at once. We can discuss it further when I arrive on Saturday next.
Everlastingly yours,
Quentin
I folded the letter thoughtfully. Quentin sounded like a nice guy who truly cared about Clarissa. I hoped they’d married and lived happily ever after. But what had he meant about her suspicions? Clearly she’d written to him about her father’s death. Had she implicated a family member? Who? One of her brothers? Her mother? Extracting the next letter from the pile, I carefully spread it open.
22 November 1831
Dear Clarissa,
I am sorry to hear that you are unwell. What has the physician said about your condition? Perhaps you can visit me in Savannah when you have recovered and we can add to your trousseau. It delights me greatly that you and Quentin are going to marry after the New Year. It will give me great pleasure to stand up for you at your wedding, as you stood up for me. Let me know when you are feeling more the thing and we will arrange your visit.
Your dear friend,
Felicity
I found myself worried about Clarissa’s illness and had to shake my head to remind myself that she’d been in her grave—from one cause or another—for well over a hundred years. Maybe she’d made herself ill by worrying about her father’s death. Suddenly overcome with tiredness, I tucked the letters into the box and crawled under my quilt. My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was not of Clarissa, but of Lindsay Tandy. I hoped Mark had found her at home.
Chapter Eleven
[Tuesday]
TUESDAY MORNING, PUFFY CLOUDS WERE CREEPING across the sky from the east, forerunners of Horatio, and a slight headache behind my eyes told me the barometer was falling. For the first time, I began to worry that Horatio really was going to hit St. Elizabeth. I needed to run by the Piggly Wiggly and scoop up some supplies before the shelves were barer than Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Midway through the morning, a woman I didn’t know came in looking for a haircut. Dark brown hair, too flat a shade to be natural, hung around a thin, tanned face that matched her thin, tan body clad in a long-sleeved blouse and Bermuda shorts that showed wiry, muscular legs. In her forties, I guessed, she had the nervous energy of a sparrow, her sun-speckled hands fluttering as she talked, her gaze darting about the salon, taking everything in. I was able to accommodate her without an appointment because we’d had many cancellations as people fled inland. Evacuations weren’t mandatory, but many people left anyway, dodging the inconvenience of no electricity as much as true danger.
As I led the woman back to the shampoo sink, she introduced herself as Joy Crenshaw. “My son mentioned what you were doing for the high school girls and since I needed a cut myself . . .”
“Mark’s your son? Did he ever catch up with Lindsay yesterday?”
She rolled her eyes but smiled. “That boy. He’s such a worry wart. Lindsay was fine. She hadn’t felt well, so she’d skipped practice and gone home to take a nap. I don’t know where he gets that worry gene. Certainly not from me, and not from his father, either. Mark Sr. was intrepid until the day his F-14 went into a flat spin and crashed into the Pacific.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, taken aback by the easy way she introduced her husband’s death into the conversation. “I had no idea.”
“It was a long time ago,” Joy said. “Mark was only eight. Eric’s been a good father to him.” She relapsed into silence as I massaged her scalp but began to chatter again when I wrapped her head in a towel and showed her to my station.
“What a shame about Braden, huh?” she said, using the towel to dab at some water in her ears. “Mark’s absolutely distraught about it. And even Eric and I—well, we’ve known the kid for years. It gets to you, you know?”
“It makes me sad, too.” I worked my fingers through her damp hair. “What are you looking for today?”