Swan's Way (6 page)

By Sunday, Ginna was really dragging. She overslept, then hauled herself out of bed and managed to get to work only twenty minutes late. Lucille didn’t say a word about her tardiness. She only looked at Ginna with concern, when she came through the door.

“You feeling all right, hon? You look kind of peaked.”

“I’m fine. Just a restless night. Several, in fact. I’ve been having these weird dreams.”

Lucille gave her a wink. “Dreaming about that Neal Frazier fellow, I’ll bet.”

“No.” Ginna frowned. “I was dreaming about the Civil War again, but it was so real it didn’t seem like a dream at all. I swear to you, Lucille, I think my house must have been built on a battle site or something. I believe the place is haunted. Why else would I dream about the war all the time?”

“Could be,” Lucille answered. “There were plenty of battles fought around here. Why, according to the history books, Winchester changed hands seventy-two times during the war. Then, too, you’re right there next to that old cemetery.” Lucille gave an exaggerated shudder. “It would give me the willies to live that close to all those dead guys.”

Things got busy, and the women had little time to chat. Ginna felt more tired and distracted as the day progressed. Her legs got weak and her arms ached. She mixed up a couple of orders, something she had never done before. About mid-morning, during a big rush, she dumped a full tray, then started crying hysterically as she tried to clean up the mess.

Lucille took her aside. “Listen, Ginna, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but as of this minute you’re off duty. Go home and get some rest.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” She was still fighting tears.

“Oh, but you can and you will! Noreen and I can handle things. I don’t want to see you back here until Wednesday morning. You take all of tomorrow off and Tuesday, like I mentioned earlier. I’ve got a new girl coming in.”

Ginna’s heart pounded, and another rush of tears scalded her eyes. “You mean I’m
fired?”

Lucille put her arm around Ginna’s thin shoulders and gave her a firm hug. “No way! You just need a couple of days off. Now, go on. Get out of here!”

Gratefully, Ginna did as Lucille ordered. She couldn’t figure out what her problem was, but it certainly was messing her up. Try as she would, she couldn’t get her mind off Neal and the feeling that she knew him from somewhere. That thought preyed on her mind night and day, except when she was having those exhausting dreams about the Civil War. In them, she always seemed to be searching for someone, but she could never find him. She would wake up with her mouth dry and her throat sore from calling his name in vain.

As she was walking home—dead-tired from her restless night and her legs aching from having been on the job since just after six that morning—she passed a flea market. Ginna had no vices to speak of, but the one thing she could never resist was the attraction of other people’s old junk—“treasures from the past,” as she thought of it. As weary as she felt, she still could not pass up the urge to browse.

For nearly an hour, she wandered among the bright umbrellas and canopies, gazing raptly at expensive Victorian glass, lovely old dolls, battered kitchenware, and mountains of patchwork quilts and chenille bedspreads. At the far back corner of the lot, she spied a display that drew her like a magnet.

A white-bearded gentleman, with a derby cocked at a rakish angle, beckoned to her with his twinkling blue eyes. Before him on the tables lay the most fascinating display of old daguerreotypes in gutta percha cases, ambrotypes, tintypes,
cartes de visite
, and the early cameras and equipment that had been used to produce the haunting images from out of the past.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” the elderly vendor said. “If you’re interested in photography or history—either one—you’ve come to the right place.”

Almost immediately, Ginna’s gaze fastened on an intriguing view of a Civil War battlefield, taken while the fight was in progress. The sepia-toned print made the figures in uniform seem alive. The smoke from rifles and cannon actually appeared to drift before her eyes. And she could make out the distinct figures of soldiers, both Union and Confederate. She knew she had to have this old photo.

“Ah, you have excellent taste,” the man said. “That’s a Mathew Brady photograph taken near Petersburg in 1864. One of his best. Of course, he didn’t take it himself. See?” He pointed to a figure standing behind the line of fire with his hands plunged into the pockets of his canvas coat, obviously posing for the camera, as he observed the battle raging. “That’s Brady right there in the shot. Probably Timothy O’Sullivan or Alexander Gardner—one or the other of his top two assistants—was behind the camera. Most of the views marked ‘Photo by Brady’ were actually shot by some member of his staff. Brady had poor eyesight, you see.”

An image flashed through Ginna’s mind of a dark-haired man wearing rectangular, blue-tinted spectacles in wire frames. Along with that came a fleeting whiff of a scent, which to her knowledge was totally unfamiliar. Somehow she knew, though, that it was Atwood’s cologne.

“This is one of Brady’s cameras,” the man continued, not noticing the frown that had come over his customer’s face.

Blue glasses? Atwood’s cologne?
Ginna mused, thoroughly puzzled. How could she know any of this? She knew who Mathew Brady was, of course, but not much about him. Only that he was a Civil War photographer and had posed President Lincoln and many other famous people. He had done ordinary citizens as well—working men and women.
Engagement portraits
.

As she glanced over the array of old photos, her gaze fixed on one of a couple, the woman standing behind the seated man. On a marble-topped table beside his Gothic Revival chair sat a clock, the hands frozen in time at ten minutes to twelve. She picked up the photo and turned it over, looking for a name or date.

“It’s a shame, but the subjects in these old pictures are almost never identified. We can only guess at the date by the clothes they’re wearing.”

Ginna pointed to the clock. “At least we know what time it was.”

“Nope! ’Fraid not. That clock was just a prop. It was always set at eleven-fifty. I’ve seen dozens of photos with that same clock, showing the same time.”

Ginna continued studying the photo. The man and woman must have been husband and wife. They appeared to be in their forties, both with dark hair, both looking proper, serious, and stiff.

“Do try to relax, won’t you? You look as if you’re staring into a hangman’s noose.”

The voice out of nowhere made Ginna jump. She glanced about, but there was no one nearby other than the bearded vendor, and he was once more talking to her about Brady’s large camera obscura.

She listened for a moment or two before her mind began to wander again. Suddenly, all manner of unexpected and seemingly unrelated bits of information flitted through her mind.
Broadway and Tenth streets. 859 Broadway, to be exact, over Thompson’s Saloon. Chandeliers like stars. Gold-and-silver walls. Brady’s Famous National Portrait Gallery
.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, the man holding the camera said, “Mathew Brady had a large studio in New York City, back before the Civil War. It was something of a tourist attraction in its day. People used to come in to see his collection of portraits of famous people, then, more often than not, they’d decide to have their own pictures taken. He set up a studio in Washington so he’d be closer to the action during the war. When he went bankrupt in 1873, most of his photographic equipment was sold to cover his debts. Would you believe that his glass negatives were even auctioned off as plain old plate glass? One glass negative of Ulysses S. Grant was found in a barn in Upstate New York a few years ago, wrapped in newspaper and forgotten for over a century.”

Ginna eyed the man curiously. “Plate glass. You mean like windowpanes or the glass in greenhouses?”

The man chuckled and winked. “You know your history, sure enough, ma’am. Yep, the Victorians all went crazy building greenhouses. And though I’ve never seen one for myself, I’ve heard tell that some faces Mathew Brady captured over a hundred years ago on his glass plate negatives still shine down like silver ghosts from the walls of a few greenhouses hereabouts.”

The greenhouse!
Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She had to get to Swan’s Quarter right away.

“How much for this battle scene?” she asked quickly.

“Oh, let’s see.” The man stroked his beard and squinted his eyes, as if trying to measure its worth. “I could probably get more from a collector, but seeing as how you’re such a history buff and all, I reckon I could let you have it for six dollars.”

Normally, Ginna would have haggled with the man, even though she knew his price was fair. Instead, she fished into her pocket, then counted out the money from her morning’s tips. He handed over her picture with a broad smile.

“Thank you! Thank you very much!” Ginna said, excitedly. Then she whirled away and headed for the bus stop. She had her picture
and
her answer. The greenhouse behind Swan’s Quarter. That was where she had seen Neal Frazier before—his face shining down from high up on the glass wall.

Neal strolled aimlessly about the grounds of Swan’s Quarter. He had felt restless all week since Ginna’s visit, but especially so today. He had opted not to attend the Sunday morning church service, even though Elspeth, Pansy, and Sister had begged him to come along. He could hear the singing now—a dozen or more age-cracked voices wrestling valiantly with “Rock of Ages.” He thought how he used to love to sing in church when he was a kid. That seemed a lifetime ago—back before his parents split up. Then both died far too early, back before his older brother stepped on a land mine in Vietnam. Before Nancy. Before flight 1862.

“Before Ginna,” he said, noticing for the first time the greenhouse behind Swan’s Quarter.

He wandered over, curious suddenly. Hadn’t Ginna mentioned the greenhouse? Yes. She had promised to show it to him on her next visit. Tomorrow she would come again. He was counting the hours.

A dark face popped around the doorframe and grinned at Neal. “Come right on in, sir. I’d be obliged for the company. You’d be Mr. Frazier, I reckon.”

Neal stared at the grizzled old black man and nodded. “That’s right. And who might you be?”

“Folks calls me Zee, ’cause that’s the last of the alphabet and I’s the last of my line. I been gardener here at Swan’s Quarter these past fifty-odd years and my pappy before me. Come right on in and meet my chillun, sir.”

Old Zee ushered Neal inside with a sweeping bow and a wide, gape-toothed grin. The glass greenhouse felt close and humid, warm even on this cool autumn morning. The place was a veritable jungle of exotic greenery, dominated by a gnarled wisteria vine as thick as a man’s body. Amazingly, it was blooming out of season, its clusters of lavender and purple blossoms delicately scenting the air. Neal reached up and touched the silky green leaves.

“She a beauty, ain’t she?” Zee grinned and nodded. “Been here longer than any of us at Swan’s Quarter, longer than the greenhouse, even. Some say she was planted for love. If that be so, then I reckon love must last forever ’cause this old wisteria shore do.”

Neal wandered about, admiring Zee’s “chillun,” as the old man called the plants. There were ferns of every sort, miniature palms, orchids, and even a banana tree.

“This is amazing,” Neal said. “How long has the greenhouse been here?”

Zee scratched his nappy head. “My memory ain’t what it used to be, but seems like Miz Melora Swan had it built sometime after the war. She wanted things always alive around her, a tribute to her poor boys that died in the war.”

“A fine tribute,” Neal said, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. He felt suddenly as if someone were watching him, even though he and Zee were alone in the place. He gave a visible shudder.

Zee laughed. “Don’t let it bother you, sir. The greenhouse haints won’t do you no harm.”

Neal stared at the man.
“Haints?
You mean ghosts?”

“Yessir. But they’s friendly enough. Keeps to theyselves, most often. They only shows up now and again. Sunny days, ’bout noon.”

Neal glanced at his watch. It was quarter to twelve and the sun was shining brightly. “What kind of ghosts?”

Zee cackled, tickled by the question. “Why, dead ones, of course!”

The moment of the airplane crash flashed through Neal’s mind—the impact, the flames, the screams. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to block out the memory of that scene. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Ghosts don’t mind if you do or don’t believe in ’em.”

Unnerved by the crazy old man’s tales, Neal decided to leave. When he turned to go, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There, standing in the doorway was Ginna.

“Neal!” she cried. “Zee told you? I wanted it to be a surprise.”

The gardener nodded to Ginna, then slipped outside, leaving the two of them alone in the “haunted” greenhouse.

“That crazy old coot!” Neal blustered. “All he told me was that a ghost would be showing up soon. I have to admit, I’m glad you came, instead.” He went to her and took her hand. “I’ve missed you, Ginna.”

Seeming to ignore his greeting, she tugged him back toward the wisteria vine. “Come see for yourself,” she said.

“See what?”

“Zee’s ghosts. They’ll show themselves any minute now. Look up there, the third pane from the top, in the center over the door. What time do you have?”

“Eleven forty-eight.”

“I got here just in time.” She pointed up. “Look! You can see them coming.”

“Hey, I don’t want to see any ghosts!”

“Trust me,” Ginna whispered, clutching Neal’s arm. “You’ll want to see these, and they aren’t really ghosts.”

As the sun inched higher, it flashed on the paned glass wall of the greenhouse, blinding Neal for an instant. He shaded his eyes with the back of his hand.

“There! Look!” Ginna whispered.

Neal gazed up in the direction she was pointing. He wanted to say something, but his throat closed against any sound. All he could do was stare in disbelief at the silvery images above. Ginna had been right; they weren’t ghosts. He could see, though, how the superstitious old gardener might have thought so. Within the coppery blaze of sunlight, two figures appeared—a man seated with a woman standing behind him, her hand resting gently on the shoulder of his uniform.