The Color of Dust Read online

  “Postbellum. That means after the war, right?”

  “Right. Like antebellum means before the war. This house was built in the antebellum classical Greek revival style of the mid-eighteen hundreds. Your great-great-grandfather, Jebediah Covington, built the central portion in eighteen fifty-three from the money he made in cotton distribution. I’m not sure how he got the land. His father’s name was Ezekiel, but there’s no record of where he came from or what happened to him. Your great-grandfather, Beauregard, built the wings and then modernized a bit around nineteen or so. He added the indoor plumbing, an attached kitchen, a telephone and eventually electricity. He was a very progressive technologist for his time. Probably because his life was so full of tragedy.”

  “Tragedy? How was that?”

  Gillian twirled the stem of the glass between her fingers.

  “Beauregard was only twenty-two when the war broke out.”

  “The Civil War?”

  Gillian smiled. “Yes. Here in the south, when we say The War, we always mean the Civil War, much unlike you northerners who think The War means World War II.”

  Carrie shifted her feet on the railing. The War didn’t have any particular meaning to her at all, unless it was the threat of some future war, but she didn’t care to think too much about that. “Why was the Civil War tragic for Beauregard? He survived it, didn’t he?”

  Gillian looked at her and squeezed her hand as if acknowledging the thoughts Carrie left unsaid. “The war itself wasn’t particularly tragic for him. He survived it without serious wounds or capture and he served with distinction, but he never went back to finish his college education. I doubt it was an option while the north occupied Virginia. After that, I doubt he had time. His father, Jebediah, survived the war only to be killed in a duel a few years after. God only knows what it was over, probably some point of honor that we wouldn’t understand today. Beauregard took the remains of his father’s cotton distribution business and used the equity to build a cotton mill.”

  Gillian sipped from her glass as she stared out over the railing.

  “That was both good and bad. The mill helped to reindustrialize this area and gave people, black and white, much needed jobs. But he took full advantage of the hardness of the times. The workday was often ten hours or more and the conditions were difficult and dangerous. The pay was barely sufficient for a grown white man. He paid black men half of that and women got only a third. Children were paid a pittance even though they did some of the most dangerous work.

  “Beauregard made a great deal of money from the mill, but it didn’t buy him any happiness. He married in eighteen seventy-nine, a few years after his father’s death, and had two sons, but both his sons and his first wife died in a flu epidemic in eighteen eighty-seven.”

  Carrie nodded. “William and James. Their graves are in the cemetery out back.”

  “Right. Beauregard married again about a year later, but his second wife died in childbirth leaving only a daughter as his heir.”

  “That was my grandmother.”

  “Celia. Yes. He never married again, and Beauregard must have been painfully aware that the Covington line was going to die with him. I can’t imagine your grandmother’s childhood was all that ideal.” Gillian looked out at the river, her face was just a little sad. “I don’t know anything at all about her mother. Women weren’t considered very important back then, and so when things were written down, they weren’t included except in the most cursory way. I’ve never even found out what her first name was. She was just Mrs. Covington or Mrs. Beauregard Covington, as if her husband’s existence was the sole justification for her own.”

  “That makes you sad.” It wasn’t a question. Carrie could see it plainly.

  “Of course it does.” Gillian took a small sip of her wine. “It makes me angry, too, and it scares me because we’re not all that far away from it now. Farther than we were, but not nearly far enough. Women are still judged by the men they keep company with, and if they don’t keep company at all then that’s an even harsher judgment.” She took a large swallow, drinking about half of what was left in her glass. As Gillian stared out at the river, Carrie could see the blush of wine rise to her cheeks even in the failing light.

  “I wish I could be whatever I wanted to be,” Gillian said softly, “without worrying that I’m going to end up like Jo, ostracized and outcast with my family not speaking to me. I’m not asking anyone to change their beliefs to accommodate me. I just want to be allowed to hold my own beliefs without everyone in town telling me that what I believe is wrong.” Gillian shook her head slowly from side to side. “I honestly don’t understand why people care what other people do when the door is closed.”

  Carrie took her feet off the rail and set them on the floor. “I don’t think I ever thought it out like that. It never occurred to me to hide what I felt from my father or my friends. I was what I was and if some people didn’t like me for it, there were plenty of other people who didn’t care.”

  Gillian nodded. “Things are always different in a city. When you pack people in close together, you have to be more tolerant to survive. It’s better in some ways and worse in others.”

  Carrie looked into her glass, a deeper burgundy now that the light was fading. “You always think such deep thoughts?”

  Gillian looked at her, worry pulling at her mouth. “Yes. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “That depends. I doubt I’ll be able to match you thought for thought. Do you mind if I just sit back and say ‘wow’ every now and then?”

  Gillian smiled and squeezed her hand. “I love it when you say ‘wow.’”

  “Wow.”

  Gillian put her glass on the table and turned in her chair. “I’d like to ask you something, Carrie.”

  “Sure. You can ask me anything.”

  Gillian’s gaze dropped to Carrie’s mouth. “When are you going to kiss me again?”

  Carrie felt her cheeks grow warm. “I was trying not to move too fast for you.”

  “I think that you should think about moving a little faster.”

  “Are you sure? I want you to be sure because I don’t want to scare you.”

  Gillian leaned over the arm of her chair and unbuttoned the top two buttons of Carrie’s shirt. She slipped her hand inside. “Is this too fast for you, big city girl?”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m mean, it’s good.” Carrie caught her breath when Gillian’s hand slid over the cup of her bra. “I’m guessing that wine makes you frisky.”

  Gillian leaned over farther and bit Carrie’s earlobe. “It’s not the wine.”

  The words whispered in her ear made Carrie’s skin prickle into goose bumps. “What is it?”

  “It’s you,” Gillian said, sliding her hand inside Carrie’s bra, cupping her breast in the palm of her hand.

  “Really?” The word ended in a squeak as Gillian trapped her nipple between finger and thumb, but she still managed a shaky smile. “Is it my stunning good looks or my witty repartee?”

  Gillian squeezed gently, smiling at Carrie’s soft groan.

  “Neither.” She kissed lightly down her cheek. “You’re just so real. You don’t pretend to be anything but what you are.”

  Carrie turned her head and let Gillian kiss her lips. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I am.”

  “I know.” Gillian pulled away from her suddenly. She stood and tugged at Carrie’s hand. “That’s what makes me frisky.”

  Carrie stood with her. She put her glass on the table. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she let Gillian pull her inside through the glass doors.

  Carrie woke with a start. She turned her head to see moonlight staining the sky outside her window with a brilliant shimmery silver. Gillian stirred softly in her sleep and Carrie leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder. She froze with her lips hovering just over her skin.

  It was the music. Carrie cocked her head to listen. It was different this time, less tinny and more like real m
usic, and under it she could hear people talking. It sounded like a party going on in some distant place. She slipped quietly out of bed, moving carefully so as not to disturb Gillian, and followed the sound out into the hallway and then down the stairs. A bright patch of moonlight shone in through the foyer window staining the floor a silver gray. Carrie stopped to listen again. The music was not coming from the library this time but from the parlor, though she could hear voices in the library. People were talking, not in the hushed whispers of thieves but in a faint conversational tone.

  She leaned her head around the corner of the parlor. She could hear a piano and a fiddle and something with strings, but the sound was faint and far. The room, dimly gray where the moon shone in, was empty.

  Carrie went over to the library doors and opened them. It was dark inside and everything was still, but the voices were there, a little louder than the music in the parlor but still sounding faint and far away. She stepped into the library and slowly walked the circumference trying to find out where the voices were coming from, trying to hear the words they were saying, but it stayed just on the wrong side of decipherable. They were loudest by the fireplace. She stood still in front of it, straining to hear. There was a woman’s voice, she could tell, soft and lilting, but she couldn’t understand the words.

  Carrie caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned toward the old mirror. In it, she could see the fuzzy reflection of the library, but the room was different, not as dark as it should be, the furniture brighter than she remembered.

  A dim glimmer of sun seemed to shine through the reflected windows. Carrie stepped closer to the mirror. The desk was in a different place, there were more knickknacks lying around, the telephone was a tall thin stick. Her own face looked thinner, younger, more pinched. Behind her, a lady sat on the couch in a long plain dress, her hat tilted at a jaunty angle, her hands gloved up to the elbows. Her eyes were bright, her expression amused.

  Carrie remembered that face. It was familiar to her. She knew that expression. The lady’s name was on the tip of her tongue, in the back of her mind, scratching at her brain. Carrie wanted to turn around, but she couldn’t seem to move.

  The lady took off her hat and laid it on the couch next to her.

  Her hair was red. She smiled, and Carrie felt her heart stutter and skip. She knew this woman, had known her for ages and ages, forever maybe, if only she could remember. Carrie opened her mouth, to speak or to scream, she wasn’t sure which, but no sound came out. The lady rose from the couch with a graceful swish of skirts and walked toward her. The face was pale underneath the bright red hair with a splattering of freckles across her nose, or that might have been the spots from the mirror. The mirror’s images grew hazier and then sharper. It wavered, stilled and then wavered again in a way that made Carrie feel slightly nauseous.

  The lady stood peering over Carrie’s shoulder. A mischievous half-smile curled on her lip. Her eyes were laughing. A gloved hand reached out to touch her shoulder. Cold trickled down Carrie’s spine.

  The lights in the library came on, full and bright. Carrie squinted against the glare. She turned to see Gillian standing in the doorway, her hand on the switch. Carrie looked over her shoulder in the other direction, but there was nothing there. She looked back into the mirror. It was only her face and the brightly lit library, the furniture dull with time-faded colors. The phone on the desk was squat and square.

  She turned back to Gillian. “Did you hear the music?”

  Gillian frowned and shook her head. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.” Gillian looked very concerned and close to frightened. “Did you hear music?” Her eyes cut to the music box.

  The lid was closed and the key was still.

  “It was different this time. It was coming from the parlor. It sounded like real instruments.”

  Gillian’s eyes searched her face. Carrie didn’t know what she was looking for but, apparently, she was satisfied with what she saw in it. Her expression softened but her concern deepened.

  “I think you might be sleepwalking. Have you ever done that before?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I don’t think I was asleep. I woke up and then I heard noises. It was dark and I didn’t see anything in the parlor, but in the mirror…” Carrie looked at the mirror with its hazy distortions and black tarnish spots. She touched the frame. It was cold, but it was just a frame. The reflections were wavy and indistinct, but they were just reflections. “Maybe it was a dream.” Carrie rubbed at her eyes. They were sleepy and gritty. She looked over at Gillian and saw her clearly for the first time. “I must still be asleep. I’m dreaming right now that you’re standing naked in the doorway.”

  Gillian grinned. “What a wonderful dream that must be.”

  “Oh, yes.” Carrie’s grin never made it to her lips. “It most certainly is.”

  Gillian took a deep and deliberate breath. “What do think is going to happen next in this dream?”

  “I think I’m going to take you upstairs before you catch a cold and tuck you back into bed.”

  “What about you? You realize, I’m sure, that you’re naked, too.” Carrie hadn’t realized it, and the parquet suddenly felt cold against her feet. Gillian held out her hand. Carrie walked over to her and took it. Her hand was warm, and when Carrie pressed it to her cheek, she could feel her heart beating through her palm.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “I’m not.” Gillian pressed hard against her, warm and soft, her hips fitting flat against Carrie’s as she kissed her, deep and slow, pushing into her with hips and tongue.

  Carrie slid her hands down Gillian’s spine, fingers trailing.

  She cupped her butt in her palms and pulled her in tight. Gillian made a sound, both harsh and helpless. Carrie doubted they would make it all the way back upstairs.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Carrie took a swig from her mug. The coffee was cold while the late afternoon sun beating down on her head was hot. She and Gillian had slept the morning away, waking on the library floor tangled around each other with the sun slanting in on their faces, both of them feeling lazy and sore. A slow breakfast on the patio took them past lunch. Slow kisses in the old claw-footed bathtub took them past all remembering. Carrie savored her coffee as she remembered the feel of Gillian’s soapy skin, slick and slipping against her, Gillian’s hands sliding down, touching all her bumps and curves, her mouth, agile lips and inquisitive tongue, stroking and caressing as elegant fingers dipped inside her again and again until she was thick with wet and swollen to bursting. She thought of her own hands meeting the thrust of Gillian’s hips, her mouth sucking the beads of water off her breasts, licking down the line of her stomach, touching and tasting the warm wetness, the musky scent of her and then Gillian exploding all around her. Carrie shuddered as the echo of her cries tickled across her skin.

  “What’s wrong?” Gillian reached out and touched her thigh.

  Carrie wanted to get up, throw her down and pin her to the bricks. If only she had the strength. “I was just remembering.”

  Gillian grinned. “Oh. A nice memory, was it? Or were you shuddering with horror?”

  Carrie felt a slow smile spread across her face. “Nice. Very nice. Thank you.”

  Gillian’s fingers curled around to the inside of her thigh. “My pleasure.”

  “Really?” Carrie asked seriously.

  Gillian’s fingers tightened to a pinch and then relaxed. “Yes, really.”

  Carrie looked at the tanned hand resting against her pale leg.

  “I want to make love to you again right now, but I don’t think I can move.”

  “It’s too hot out here to move around much,” Gillian agreed patting her leg. “You want to go inside?”

  Gillian sat up and turned in her chair. “Do you know what I really want to do?”

  “No. What?”

  “I want to inventory the books in the library.”

  Carrie looked at her with a cocked ey
ebrow. “I have no clue why that strikes you as a really exciting thing to do, but if that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Gillian leaned over the arm of her chair and kissed Carrie on the cheek. “I’ll tell you why if you want to know.”

  “Tell away,” Carrie said with a loose wave of her hand.

  Gillian shifted her chair a quarter turn and propped her feet up on Carrie’s legs. She leaned back and steepled her fingers.

  Carrie tried hard not to smile as Gillian adopted a professorial expression. She was guessing that Gillian loved to lecture.

  “I’m sure you’ve realized that both your grandfather and your grandmother were voracious readers. What you may not realize is that all those books in the library were purchased as they came out. Each one is a first edition, the best sellers of their day, hot off the press and, I would guess, in more or less pristine condition.”

  “How do you figure that?” Carrie put her hand on Gillian’s leg and began circling an ankle with her thumb. Gillian paused.

  Her eyes got a distant, dreamy expression. Her mouth opened and then closed. Carrie tapped her on the big toe. “Best sellers of the day?”

  Gillian blinked. “Oh. Right. Well, when your grandfather died, your grandmother donated all his books to the library. They were mostly war books, memoirs and remembrances and such. Things, I guess, she wasn’t very interested in. I had the opportunity to go through them. There were eight hundred books, and they were all first editions ranging from eighteen eighty to nineteen forty. I nearly fell out when I saw them. Maria always said that books were the one thing that the Burgesses spent money on without a thought, and I guess that was true for the Covingtons too. I never thought much of it until I saw the books for myself and realized what they were.”

  “And why is that so exciting?” Carrie rubbed a finger back and forth across the top of her shin.