The Color of Dust Page 8

  Gillian turned and started down the stairs. Carrie followed close behind thinking about the soft sadness in Gillian’s eyes.

  They were pretty eyes, almost the same shade of gray as the dust that had covered everything. So, there was one thing that Carrie could be sure of…Gillian had very pretty eyes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Carrie looked up at the sound of feet slapping hard against the ground. A boy was running full tilt down the stable path, his arms pumping wildly. Carrie lowered her clippers and pushed her hair back out of her eyes.

  “Miss Carrie!” The boy skidded to a stop, his sneaker scraping over the mossy brick. His eyes were wide and his face flushed with excitement. “Hey, Miss Carrie, you need to come take a look at what we found. It’s so wicked cool, but we’re not sure what to do about it. Come on! Come look.”

  The boy turned and ran off back down the path before she could ask him anything. Carrie looked at the brush she was trimming. She was already two-thirds of the way to the stables and had been looking forward to seeing what was there, but she supposed they could wait a while for something that was so wicked cool. The boy had run down the opposite branch of the path, the one that Gillian said led to one of the formal gardens.

  She tucked her clippers under her arm and followed at a more dignified pace. As she walked down the path she thought of what a nice job the boys had done trimming and weeding. They had cut the bushes back, pulled the weeds from between the bricks and cut the low-hanging branches off the trees. The few flower beds had long since died out, but it was clear that this path had been lovingly attended at one point in time. It must have been a wonderful place for an afternoon stroll. Carrie hoped it would be again.

  At the end of the path, she saw a small group of boys drifting around with their hands stuffed in their pockets, scuffing the toes of their sneakers around in the grass.

  “What is it, guys? What did you find?” The boys parted to let her see. There was a small patch of cleared brush. Framed by the weeds was a very old wrought iron fence. Inside the fence, overgrown and nearly unrecognizable, was a cemetery. “Wow,” she said.

  “Do you want us to clean it up?” one of the boys asked nervously.

  “We’re not scared of it,” another boy said. “We just thought that you should know it was here.”

  “I think it’s wicked cool,” the first boy said again. “There’s real dead people in there.”

  “Hmmm.” Carrie pretended to ponder. “This looks like at least a few days’ worth of work. Maybe you’d better let me clean it up.” The boys all looked relieved, except for the first boy who scowled and kicked at a rock. “Tell you what. Let’s trade. You guys finish trimming up by the stables and I’ll work on this. And let me know if you find a horse in there.”

  The boys looked at each other, then grabbed their trimmers and rakes and ran, racing each other to the stable path. Carrie grinned as she watched them go. She could still remember being that young once. It wasn’t really all that long ago. Or maybe it was. The boys disappeared around a bend and Carrie turned back to the fence.

  The iron rails were black and pitted with age. Inside the rails, headstones struggled to rise above tall grass and weeds. What little she could see was weathered and worn. There were real dead people in there, probably her ancestors, people she belonged to but knew nothing about. It made her feel strange that she had no sense of these people as family and yet, they were. Carrie gripped her shears and gave them a quick snip. Staring at it wasn’t going to get the fence cleared. She waded into the waist high weeds and began clipping.

  She worked steadily all afternoon until she had the whole fence cleared of overgrowth. Naturally, she found the gate three feet from where she started but in the opposite direction. She was tired and dirty, pricked and gouged, mosquito bit and itchy.

  The day felt old and worn and she guessed it was since the sun was starting to sink below the tops of the trees. She leaned a tired hip against the railing. The inside of the cemetery was still a mess, but it could wait until tomorrow. It wouldn’t be right, anyway, tripping over headstones in the dark, disturbing the peace, twisting her ankle. She tucked her shears under her arm and started back to the house with the light of day fading fast behind her.

  The path really did look nice especially in the twilight as shadows began to spread underneath the trees. Across the meadow, the wildflowers had folded their petals for the night. All except for the four o’clocks, whose small red faces had only just opened. Late as usual. Rounding the corner, where the garden path met the stable path, the house came into view and Carrie had to stop for a moment. The lawn was mowed, the bushes trimmed and the debris cleared. The windows were clean and lit, the shutters washed and straightened. The sun had set just enough that she couldn’t see the cracked and peeling paint. The house looked like something out of an old book. She would hardly be surprised to see a woman in a hoopskirt or a man in a top hat come sashaying out the door.

  Something rustled through the brush to her right. A fox streaked across the meadow in a blur of red and black and disappeared into the trees. From far off over the rolling hills, she heard the faint cry of a horn and the distant baying of hounds.

  Carrie shivered as goose bumps prickled up and down her arms.

  She was met at the kitchen door by a stern-faced Anna Beth who made Carrie take her shoes off, brush the dirt from her clothes with a whisk broom and wash her hands and face in the outside faucet before allowing her to come into the house. Inside the kitchen, a large pot of soup was bubbling on the stove. Plates of sandwiches, bags of chips, bowls of potato salad and pie tins of peach cobbler lay out on the kitchen table. Carrie grabbed a bottle of water and drank half of it down before taking a breath.

  Gillian, still looking annoyingly fresh and neat, smiled at Carrie’s wild mess of hair and handed her a mug of some beefy smelling vegetable soup. Carrie took a sip as she looked around her. The kitchen seemed so different, clean and bright, with the smell of good food cooking, the warmth of good people gathered all around her. Gillian didn’t let her enjoy it for very long.

  “Come look at the rest of the house,” she said pulling her by the arm through the kitchen door.

  Carrie put her mug on the table and let Gillian drag her into the dining room. She stopped still in the doorway. It took her breath away. The ladies had polished the dining room table to a high gloss and the silver service sparkled against dark rich wood.

  They had placed a large candelabrum in the center with two many-tiered dessert trays on either side. Gleaming sugar bowls and salt cellars, pepper grinders, and other pieces of tableware that Carrie didn’t recognize dotted the centerline. At the far end, there were place settings for three of beautiful white and blue china plates with filigreed braid around the rims. Cut crystal stemware sat above each place glinting under the bright lights.

  Carrie walked around to the place settings and touched a neatly folded napkin. “Why is the table set for three?”

  Gillian stood beside her and shrugged. “Anna Beth said that’s the way the table was always set when the household wasn’t entertaining. For as long as she was the cook, there was always an empty place set no matter how many people were dining. A guest plate, maybe, for unexpected visitors. That wouldn’t be unusual.” Gillian tugged on her arm. “Come on, you’ve got to see the rest of the house.”

  Gillian pulled her into the foyer. Carrie looked up as a grinning Zachary threw the switch for the chandelier. Light filled the foyer with a soft warmth that made her want to hug Gillian and Zachary, too, but she didn’t have time before Gillian grabbed her arm again and dragged her into the parlor, all dusted and polished, and down the west wing hallway through to the billiards room, a quick dash inside the smoking room, back through the library, the foyer and then outside and down the porch steps.

  Carrie took a moment to catch her breath as they stood in front of the fountain. It was cleaned and scrubbed. The smiling cherubs seemed unaware of their chipped and broken wings
as they tipped their urns and poured water into brimming basins, which overflowed into the main bowl. The water ran clear and clean as it gurgled and splashed with a soft pleasing sound. A group of children, wet and dripping, spotted with muck, stood around the fountain grinning at her. Carrie thanked each of the kids specifically, while studiously ignoring the few suspiciously wriggling pockets.

  Old Mr. Masters stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, looking pleased. Carrie shook his hand and thanked him.

  He blushed and muttered something about going in to get a sandwich. He turned and herded the kids around to the side of the house to hose them off before letting them into the kitchen.

  Carrie looked again at the fountain as the last few rays of the setting sun brushed the cherubs’ cheeks with a tinge of pink.

  Gillian looped her arm through Carrie’s elbow. “Well, what do you think?”

  Carrie glanced at the house, at the newly mown lawn, back again at the fountain. She blinked the sting away from her eyes.

  “I think it’s amazing. I don’t know how I’m going to thank everyone.”

  Gillian squeezed her arm. “Yes, you do. Tux and tails, gown and gloves. Remember?”

  Carrie grinned. “I think you’re going to have to help me plan it.”

  “Naturally. If you give me your cell number, I’ll call you and we can get together to make the arrangements.”

  Carrie resisted the urge to pull her closer. “I think I still owe you a tour.”

  “I got to see pretty much everything while I was overseeing the cleaning, but I’d love to go over it all again. I’ll be happy to do an appraisal for you when you’re ready for one.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know how much all this stuff is worth.

  I’m still not convinced it’s actually mine. It still feels like I’m just taking care of this place until my grandmother gets back.”

  Gillian gave her arm another squeeze. “Speaking of, we found some interesting things while we were cleaning.”

  “Like what?”

  “There was a ladies’ watch stuck behind the music box in the library.”

  “What music box?”

  “The one beside the fireplace. It looks like a chest sitting on top of a table. You open the lid, and if it’s wound up, the gears start turning. It’s got a metal disk inside that plays a tune.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know what that was. What does it play?”

  “It’s supposed to play ‘The Girl I Left Behind’ according to the etching on the disk. That’s an old Revolutionary War tune that became popular again during the Civil War. You’d know it if you heard it, but I’m afraid we couldn’t get the music box to wind up properly. There’s probably something stuck inside that needs a little oil.”

  “Maybe it just needs a good whack,” Carrie said, trying not to grin.

  Gillian frowned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Of course, I am.” Carrie wanted to laugh. It was so easy to tease her. Much too easy.

  “You should never joke about antiques.” Gillian gave her a stern glare that still managed to look amused. “I can have someone come out and look at it, but music boxes are very expensive to repair since no one makes them anymore.”

  “We’ll see. What else did you find?” Carrie wasn’t sure she cared, but she liked the feeling of Gillian’s arm linked through hers. She shouldn’t let herself like it or Gillian as much as she thought she could. Gillian wasn’t “like that,” she said. Falling for her would be like hitting her head against a brick wall. No matter how gently she did it, eventually, it was going to hurt.

  “The most interesting thing we found was a letter that was in the trash can in the library. It seemed very old, but it wasn’t dated. I read it, I’m afraid. Curiosity always gets the best of me.”

  “What was in it?”

  “It was a poem about a love won and then lost. The usual…Roses are red, violets are blue, you’re not here, I’m missing you…That kind of thing. Very romantic.”

  Carrie made a sour face. “That doesn’t sound very romantic. If someone was going to write me a poem, I would hope they wouldn’t go with an old saw.”

  “It wasn’t really about roses but more about flowers in general.”

  “That sounds a little less awful.”

  “It wasn’t at all awful. It was sweet and sad, just the way a poem should be.”

  In spite of herself, Carrie shifted a little closer to Gillian.

  “Well then, if I ever write you a poem, I’ll make sure to say all kinds of sweetly depressing things.”

  Gillian gave her arm a squeeze and let it go. She stepped away from Carrie and turned around to face the house. Carrie turned too. The lights blazed in all the windows as darkness filled in the corners of the porch.

  Gillian sighed, deep and wistful. “Zachary’s boy said that they found all kinds of old harnesses and things in the stables. Maybe when you get settled you could get some horses.”

  Carrie shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know a thing about horses except that they’re big, they bite and they step on your feet.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you’re a city girl.” Gillian crossed the drive, climbed the porch steps and sat near the top. “I was just thinking that it would be good to see the Covington Hunt Club up and running again. The Tuesday morning hunt was a tradition going back nearly two hundred years until your grandmother put a stop to it the year your grandfather died. Since you’re restoring things, I thought it would be appropriate to restore that, too.”

  Carrie followed her over to the porch and stood on the bottom step. She was almost eye to eye with Gillian. “A hunt club is where people on horses with big beagle dogs chase little foxes all around the countryside?”

  Gillian laughed. “More or less.”

  “Who’s doing that now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This evening on my way back to the house, I heard a hunting horn and a pack of dogs barking.”

  “That’s hounds, not dogs and they bay, not bark. Some people say they give tongue, but I think that sounds a little crude.”

  Carrie grinned. “It does sound a bit suggestive.”

  Gillian looked like she might grin back, but she turned her face away before Carrie could tell. “I can’t imagine what you heard. People don’t hunt on horses at dusk. There’s too much of a chance that a horse would break a leg or the rider’s neck.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.”

  “Well, it wasn’t anybody I know of, but I’ll ask around if you’re curious.”

  “It’s not important. It’s just that there’s this fox that I’ve seen twice now. I think it lives around here somewhere.”

  Gillian turned back around. She definitely wasn’t grinning.

  “They don’t hurt the fox, Carrie. They just chase it a little.”

  “I’m not saying they shouldn’t. All I’m saying is that I’d like the fox to have somewhere safe to run to, especially if it lives around here.”

  Gillian smiled at her then, in a very peculiar way. The tilt of her head, the quirky upturn of her mouth seemed so intimate that it made Carrie’s toes tingle. She dropped her eyes before she did something foolish or said something worse.

  “I’ll ask around for you,” Gillian said again. She stood. “In the meantime, we should probably go inside and warm your soup again. I bet you’re just famished.”

  Carrie realized that she was.

  Carrie strolled around the house once more with her re-warmed mug of soup in her hands, taking her time in each room, looking at all the things she hadn’t had the time to see before on Gillian’s whirlwind tour. The parlor was a large room with couches and chairs strewn all around it in small conversational groups. The furniture was faded and worn but, newly dusted and polished, it still looked elegant. In the billiards room, the kids were playing a game that involved the random knocking of balls around the table. It was a strange looking table with a red felt top
and dark leather bumpers, pockets made of netted baskets. The balls clunked together with a dull heavy thud. The kids gave a delighted shout as one dropped into the corner basket.

  Carrie wandered back out into the hallway and further into the west wing. She opened the door to the smoking room. The cleaning crew had done wonders with their rags and polishes.

  The dark wood paneling gleamed and the wavy grains of the oak shone through. The heavy red velvet curtains were clean and the cracked leather chairs patched and polished. Carrie thought she could still smell the faint remnants of cigar and pipe tobacco underneath the lemon-scented furniture oil. Her father had smoked cigars but only on Sundays when he tried not to drink.

  The room made her think of him. She could picture her father sitting in his overstuffed chair, wreathed in smoke, a cup of coffee at his elbow, his fourth or fifth, the Tribune open in his hands, the paper trembling slightly.

  Carrie stepped back out into the hallway and closed the door softly. She wasn’t going to like that room very much. But she didn’t have to. There were plenty of other rooms for her to discover. For example, she hadn’t seen the guest rooms in the east wing yet. Carrie headed for the stairs.

  The rooms looked like guest rooms, all three of them, with generic wallpaper patterns, neutral shaded throw rugs, plain, solid-colored bedspreads, furniture with straight, simple lines.

  The bedrooms were made up neatly, the sheets and curtains no doubt hand-washed and air-dried under Gillian’s supervision, the pillows fluffed, the floors swept and the rugs vacuumed. The rooms looked ready for guests to arrive.

  Carrie walked down the hall to the mistress suite. The bedroom and sitting room were a little smaller than in the master suite. The bed had a faded yellow crocheted bedcover that Carrie overhead Gillian talking about. She said it must have taken someone years to make something that intricate and large.

  In the sitting room, Carrie sat at the small writing desk, empty of pens and paper, and stared at the boldly flowered wallpaper.