We passed a display case filled with 3D art of some kind, featuring framed scenes and jewelry woven out of twisted fibers.
“What are those?”
“Funerary hair art,” Lucy said matter-of-factly. “It was fairly common to use hair from a deceased loved one to make these remembrances: rings, brooches, even bonnets.”
“Really?” I peered at the labeled pieces, not sure if the idea grossed me out or intrigued me. One ornate still life of flowers made with gray strands threaded through a rich brown was labeled “Cyril Rothmere.” Another, blonder piece that looked like a brooch read, “Reginald Rothmere.” I didn’t have time to study them all as Lucy unlocked the storeroom door.
A sink and microwave occupied one corner. Shelves crowded with books and boxes lined the walls, and a small worktable occupied the room’s center, with only a foot-wide alley between it and the shelves.
“Was Cyril really murdered?” I asked as Lucy clattered the cup and saucer into the sink.
“His death is one of the plantation’s great mysteries,” she said, pulling a VCR tape off a bookshelf and handing it to me. “A house slave found him dead at the foot of the stairs one morning. The official verdict was accidental death, partly, I suspect, because he was known to like his brandy and it makes sense that he imbibed too freely and fell. Or maybe . . .”
“How do you know all this?” I asked when she didn’t continue. “About the house slave finding him and the brandy?”
“I’m a PhD historian,” she said, puffing her chest out. “There are primary sources—letters, journals, household accounts, newspaper reports, personal artifacts, portraits—that allow the trained historian to put the pieces of the past together like a puzzle.”
I’d bet the whole day’s tips that she’d used that line before.
“In fact,” Lucy went on, “I just got a box of documents from Cyril’s time. Well, they were willed to the Rothmere Trust by a descendant who died in California. Can you believe she kept them in her attic all these years without proper environmental controls for temperature and humidity? Criminal!” She shook her head, freeing a wisp of hair to tickle her cheek. “I only wish I had time to catalog them now, but I’ve got to get my paper done.”
“Do you think I could look at them?” I asked, surprising myself and, from the look on her face, Lucy.
“You?” Lucy asked doubtfully. The way she studied me made me think she was going to demand fingerprints and a background check. “I don’t see why not,” she said finally. “I went through them quickly and there’s nothing of monetary value, like a letter from President Davis or one of the Confederate Army’s heroes. Maybe you’ll get interested enough in the family to want to become a docent.” Her eyes brightened at the thought.
“Maybe,” I agreed. Not. At the University of Georgia, I’d taken more business and music classes than history or sociology.
Bending, Lucy dragged a cardboard box a little larger than a case of wine from under the table. She hefted it with a grunt and handed it to me. “Don’t eat or drink anything while reading these,” she cautioned, “and wear gloves so the oils on your hands don’t damage anything, and—”
“I’ll take good care of them,” I promised, heading for the door before she could change her mind.
The carton cut into the flesh of my upper arms as I lugged it to the car, and I wondered what there was in this small box of history to make it so heavy.
Chapter Two
[Saturday]
October 12, 1831
My dear Felicity,
I write briefly but you will forgive me when I tell you I have sad news to impart: my papa died last night. I have written you over the past months, telling you of his dyspepsia, but that had seemed better in recent days, and it was not that which took him from us. One of our maids, young Matilda, found him at the foot of the stairs at dawn this morning, lifeless. She set up such a screech I thought the house must be afire. I know not what to think. Surely it must be an accident, and yet I have such a feeling of foreboding. I cannot confide in my mother or my brothers. I hesitate to relate my fears even to my beloved Quentin. I beg that you will come for the funeral and give me the benefit of your counsel.
In haste and with love,
Clarissa
“WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?” I ASKED MOM AND Althea as we prepped the salon for opening early Saturday morning. I looked at them over the letter, the first one I’d pulled from the box Lucy had loaned me the previous night. I couldn’t get the VCR tape to play—my machine was on the fritz—so I’d started on the box of documents. I slipped it back into the manila envelope I’d used to protect it. Although the paper was thicker than I thought it would be, it had yellowed and the brownish ink had faded.