The Color of Dust Page 12

  Carrie shook her head. “Too brown. It’s not your color.

  Maybe something in gray or a pale pink.”

  Gillian frowned at the shirtwaist. “Some woman made this.

  Some woman sat with a needle and thread, or a simple foot-powered sewing machine if she were lucky, cut the cloth and stitched this together. The thing that gets me riled is that they didn’t have a choice. They had to live how society demanded that they live, within their expected roles, or they became an outcast.”

  Carrie gave her a sideways look. “A bit like your friend, Jo?”

  Gillian’s head tilted to one side as she thought about that.

  She started to nod, but it changed into a shake. “Jo has choices now that women back then never had. She has the freedom to cut her hair short and dress like a man if she wants to and, if no one will talk to her, at least no one’s burning her at the stake. She does work that she loves and is not bound to the work that society deems proper for a woman to do.”

  Carrie took the shirtwaist from Gillian’s hands, folded it and put it back in the trunk. “I guess things have changed quite a bit since then.”

  Gillian looked over her shoulder at the dress on the form, at its tiny waist and sweeping skirts brushing the floor. “Yes. Things have changed but not nearly enough.” She turned to Carrie with an embarrassed half smile. “Don’t let me get started, or I’ll rant and bore you to tears. Studying history can make you mad sometimes. So many things were so unfair.”

  Carrie smiled and shrugged. “You can rant if you want to, but you’ll be preaching to the choir.”

  Gillian laughed. She stood and slapped the dust off the knees of her pants. “What should we open next?”

  “I tripped over an interesting box yesterday when I was putting in the lightbulbs. I thought it was different because it had funny little flowers painted all over it. It looked like a child had painted them, and I wondered if it was a toy box, but I didn’t open it because I wanted to wait until you could see it, too.”

  “Where is it?”

  Carrie got up and pointed. “Over there in the back.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Carrie threaded her way between boxes and crates, broken chairs and sheet-draped shapes to the back of the attic. The light was not as bright there, but she knew what was she was looking for. She knelt and shifted a cardboard box out of her way. “Here it is.” Gillian knelt and looked at it. “This is strange.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a travel trunk, not a storage trunk.”

  Carrie knelt beside her. “It doesn’t look like much. It was only the flowers that caught my eye.”

  “It’s not much. This was the kind of thing a poor person would pack all their things in if they were moving.” Gillian pointed at the edges. “Look. You can tell it’s homemade. The dovetailing is a little off, and here are some chisel marks still on the corner. There’s no metal banding around it either.”

  “Open it.”

  The clasp was wooden with only a little dowel on a string to keep it closed. Gillian pulled it out gently and opened the trunk.

  An old newspaper was lying on top of folded bundles of clothes.

  She picked it up and tilted the sheets into the light. “This is a really old newspaper. The Richmond Dispatch from…good God.”

  “What?”

  “It’s from August 1920. Look at this little article right here.

  It says that the nineteenth amendment has been ratified. That’s the one that gave women the right to vote. I wonder why it’s not a banner headline?”

  “Maybe because it’s Richmond.”

  “Maybe so.” Gillian laid the newspaper aside carefully. “I’ll have to look at that more closely. Let’s see what else is in here.”

  Gillian dug through the trunk. She frowned into it. The further she dug the more her frown deepened. “I don’t understand this.” Carrie shifted closer as she peered into the little trunk. “What are those?”

  “Underwear.” Gillian pulled out a pair of light shin-length cotton drawers and a chemise. “This is what women of the time wore under their clothes. It’s pre-brassiere. Most bust support was built into the dress and not the underwear.” She put the underwear back into the trunk and pulled out a shirt and a skirt, both made of the same thin brown cloth. “This is strange.”

  “Why? It looks more comfortable than the things in the other trunks.”

  “Yes, it would be. These are things I would expect a servant to wear, a maid or a char woman. Someone who was expected to do hard physical labor.”

  “Why is that strange?”

  Gillian looked at the frayed shirt cuffs. “Everything else up here is from your family. It’s all top-quality-machine-milled fabrics. This looks almost homespun. It didn’t belong to a Covington. This was from someone not of the same class. It’s strange that it’s up here along with all the family stuff. Why keep the maid’s things up here in the attic?”

  “Why keep them at all?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “What’s that at the bottom?” Carrie reached over Gillian’s arm to pick up something shiny from the bottom of the trunk.

  She held up a locket that glittered gold in the bare attic lights.

  It hung on a tarnished silver chain. A chill prickled at her arms.

  “There’s that flower again.”

  “What flower?” Gillian leaned in closer to look at the locket.

  “It looks like the same one that’s carved on the little headstone out back.” Carrie touched the flower with the tip of a finger and then looked at the crudely painted flowers decorating the trunk.

  “Do you think that the little grave could be for a person and not a pet?”

  Gillian tilted her head a little to one side. “Like a beloved nurse, maybe? One honored by being included in the family cemetery?”

  “Something like that. But, then, why no name?”

  Gillian thought and then shook her head. “I don’t know.

  Maybe there’s a picture inside.”

  She cradled Carrie’s hand in hers and pressed something on the side of the locket. The locket opened. There was no picture, only a small plait of hair wrapped into a loop with a thin ribbon tied around it. The chill crept all the way up Carrie’s arms and danced with icy feet across the back of her neck. She shivered and her ears started to ring with a crazy hum that made her feel a little sick. The attic lights dimmed. The floor began to waver and tilt.

  “Carrie, are you all right?”

  Gillian’s voice buzzed. It sounded thin and distant, echoing strangely inside her head. She felt herself starting to fall. The mouth of the trunk opened wide into a great yawning blackness eager to swallow her. The world jittered and swayed and swam out of focus.

  Carrie’s fist closed hard around the locket and it snapped shut. She squeezed it tight. Sharp edges dug into her palm, but the pain was good. It was real and present. She focused on it and her head began to clear. Gillian’s arms were around her, holding her up.

  “Carrie?”

  Carrie lifted her head. “I’m all right.” Her voice twanged oddly. The sound made her shudder, and Gillian held her tighter.

  Carrie looked into her concerned face. Her eyes were deep and dark. Her face was too close to hers. Carrie’s gaze fell to Gillian’s mouth and there were her lips, full and berry ripe, open slightly, the bottom one jutting out just a bit. Carrie stared at the little dent in her upper lip and thought of how she would love to trace it with the tip of her tongue.

  She needed to move away or she was going to kiss this woman.

  She desperately wanted to kiss this woman. Carrie tried to turn her head, but it wouldn’t respond. The eyes and the lips held her.

  She leaned, but it was the wrong way. She meant to lean away from Gillian, but she had leaned into her instead.

  Gillian’s gaze fluttered to Carrie’s mouth. Her arms tightened around her and then she dipped her head. Carrie felt the brush of her lips,
the warmth of her breath against her cheek, and she wanted her, all of her, in a fierce rush of need. She leaned in harder to feel the push of breast against her shoulder as Gillian nibbled at her mouth. Carrie’s hands trembled, wanting to rip her shirt away, to feel the touch of her skin, the weight of her breast resting in her palm. Gillian’s mouth opened over hers and Carrie forgot about the breast, forgot about the press of her arms, about the locket and the attic. She forgot everything but the soft caress of lip and tongue that warmed her mouth and set her body on fire.

  Gillian made a soft sound in the back of her throat and then lifted her head. Carrie had to fight not to follow. Gillian slid her arms from around her waist and leaned back. Carrie opened her hand and the locket dropped back into the trunk.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” Gillian said softly. She looked at her hands resting in her lap.

  Carrie’s breath seemed stuck in her throat. “I’m not sorry you did.” Her words came out in a harsh whisper.

  “I didn’t want to stop.” A delicate blush pinked the tips of Gillian’s ears.

  “I didn’t want you to stop either.” Carrie reached to touch Gillian’s knee. “I still don’t want you to stop.”

  Gillian slipped her hand into Carrie’s. Their fingers twined and the sharp bite of the locket faded against the soft press of palms. Gillian looked at her with a shy, worried expression. “I’m not sure what to do next.”

  “Stay the night. That’s what usually comes next.”

  Gillian smiled. “That’s a little too fast for me, big city girl.”

  She squeezed their fingers together. “I think we should talk some first. Find out a little more about each other.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “It’s more about what I want you to know.”

  Carrie shifted closer and leaned against her, pressing their shoulders together. “I’m listening.”

  “My father doesn’t know about me.” Gillian stroked the back of Carrie’s hand. “This town doesn’t know.”

  “Are you sure?” Carrie asked. “You’re thirty years old, not married and not dating.” She raised an eyebrow slightly. “That’s a bit of a clue, don’t you think?”

  “I’m thirty-three and no. It’s not much of a clue in this part of the world. If things move slower here sometimes, nobody really thinks it’s so strange. We have an ancient and venerable tradition of old maids and crazy Aunt Betsys. Nobody thinks much of it.”

  Carrie rubbed her thumb over the back of Gillian’s knuckles.

  “So, what are you saying? That if we decide to see each other, you’ll want to sneak around to do it?”

  “No. I’m not saying that. Not exactly. I would just like for us to be a little circumspect.”

  Carrie’s thumb stilled. “I’m not sure I know what that word means.”

  Gillian rolled her eyes as her shoulders slumped. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Gillian.” Carrie touched her chin and turned her eyes back to meet hers. “If we have to sneak, I’ll think you’re ashamed of me. If you are ashamed of me or of yourself, then that’s something we need to work out right now. I’m not ashamed of who I am, and I won’t live my life pretending to be something I’m not. I won’t deny myself and I won’t ever deny you.”

  Gillian shook her head. “Nobody said anything about denying. I just don’t want to jump all around waving a red flag or run a pink triangle up the flagpole.”

  Carrie grinned. “Would you consider getting a pink triangle tattooed on your butt?”

  Gillian laughed and then the laughter faded. She looked into Carrie’s lap. A quick flare of heat darkened her eyes. “Do you have a pink triangle on your butt?”

  “Would you like to find out?”

  Gillian’s grip tightened on Carrie’s hand. “Yes. I would.”

  Carrie squeezed their hands together. “How would you like to go about it?”

  Gillian looked at Carrie. Her eyes were still dark and deep.

  “I think we should go on a date, maybe drive into Richmond for the day. I can show you the historical sites and all the important antique shops. And then we’ll see what happens from there.”

  Carrie looked at the little travel trunk, at the old homespun skirts and the one pair of button-up shoes, at the glitter of the locket as it lay on top of a rumpled chemise. A faint buzz still hummed behind her ears. “Can we drive to Richmond on the interstate and then stop somewhere for pizza and beer?”

  “Of course we can. If that’s what you’d like.”

  “I would like that.” Carrie let go of Gillian’s hand. She reached up to touch her cheek. “What would you like?”

  Gillian’s arm circled back around her waist. “I’d like to kiss you again.”

  Carrie nodded her head slowly and let her finger brush lightly over the line of Gillian’s jaw. “I’d like that, too.”

  Gillian pulled her closer, dipped her head and kissed her.

  With the touch of her lips, the buzz in Carrie’s head faded and died.

  Carrie knew she was asleep. She was dreaming about the hounds, large spotted dogs with friendly faces and big floppy ears, bounding over the grass to come and sniff at her hands, leaning their weight against her legs with tails wagging. She knew these dogs, knew each of their names, the notes of their bay. Barley and Skipper, Jealous and Nellie, Warrior and Hobo, Sultan and Spot, and then there was Captain with his strong, deep voice. A horn blew a single note, loud and bright, and the dogs disappeared.

  She was standing outside in a fog-drenched dawn at the top of a hill, straining her eyes trying to see through the mist to the top of the next hill. A man on horseback crested the ridge and stood silhouetted against the gray sky. The horse snorted, tossed its head and pawed at the ground. The rider raised the horn to his lips and blew. The hounds came running over the ridge, milled around the horse and rider and then, at a gesture, took off again, noses to the ground, tails held high, whipping back and forth. Captain cried out, his deep voice bounding off the hills, and the rest took it up. The rider blew again one sharp, short blast and took off at a gallop, up and over the top of the hill, and disappeared into the mist.

  Carrie turned at a soft rustling sound behind her. A woman stepped out of the woods. She had burning red hair and bright beautiful eyes that looked at Carrie with a hunger so raw it made her heart jitter and skip. Carrie saw herself reaching out to her, her hands sheathed in long white gloves, but the woman began to melt. She shrank down and twisted into red fur and a bottle brush tail, a sharp muzzle and big pointed ears. The fox turned its head and winked at her. It jumped and ran past her, close enough for its tail to brush her skirt.

  Carrie heard the hounds coming closer, the baying of so many voices, excited and eager. Eager for what? To nip at her heels, to bite her, shred muscle, crunch bones, taste blood. Suddenly, she was afraid. She turned and ran for the trees. She ran as fast as she could through brambles and bracken, around tall trees and over fallen logs, but the hounds drew closer with every step. Her breath came short and fast, rasping in her throat. She stumbled.

  Her skirts tangled between her legs and she fell to her knees.

  There was a howling right behind her, a snarling in her ears. Hot breath burned the back of her neck.

  Carrie woke with a start, the blankets twisted around her legs, her knees stiff and sore. Chilly air nipped at her cheeks as a brisk breeze billowed the curtains, stretched them out full and then let them fall back again. She touched the back of her neck. It was hot and damp with sweat. She threw the sheets back, crawled out of bed with a shiver and closed all the windows. The curtains fell and laid still. Carrie got back into bed and tucked the covers close around her ears.

  She heard a sound and lifted her head. There it was again.

  Music, tinny and distant. Underneath it, just at the edge of hearing, the woman was laughing. She didn’t want to hear it, not on the heels of that dream. Carrie put the pillow over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She listene
d hard to the sound of her own heart beating, to the rush of her breath underneath the pillow, in and then out again, a beat and a thud, a whistle and a rush, until her eyes grew heavy.

  Eventually, she fell into a restless sleep and dreamt of bloodied and bandaged soldiers standing in the middle of a ballroom, playing and drumming, while women in stiff formal dresses and men in dark tailed coats danced all around them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Carrie sat still in the bright noon sun. The neatly trimmed grass of the little cemetery was still tall enough to tickle the backs of her legs. The warmth of the sun pressed with a comforting hand against the tired sag of her shoulders. It had been more nights than she wanted to count since she’d slept all the way through. Her dreams were not nightmares, but they were gently disturbing, enough to make her not want to close her eyes. She scratched absently at her calf as she watched a ladybug crawl up the face of the little headstone. The ladybug stood still for a moment in the middle of the etched flower then it opened its wings and flew away.

  She touched the stone where the ladybug had been, traced the deeply etched lines with her outstretched pinky finger. The ring with the twining flowers, from the box that Mr. Dumfries had given her, was on that finger. The ring was very small. It would only fit on the pinky of her left hand and then only just barely. The locket from the small trunk was resting in the palm of her other hand. She looked at it glittering in the sunshine. It was heavy for its size, still bright and shiny underneath the scratches and scuffs. The flowers etched on the front looked almost the same as the flowers that twisted around the ring. The flowers on the locket looked exactly the same as the flower carved on the headstone. Exactly the same.