The Chronicles of Marr-nia (Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr) (13 page)

Rosabelle
was making progress.
 
“So she had been trying to obtain employ in the Patton household?
 
Where Mr. Witherspoon now resides?”

“Yes.”

“And does anyone know when the last murder occurred?”

“Oh!
 
I know that one!”
 
The recently married Sarah Pike shot her hand into the air like a schoolgirl bidding anxiously to answer a teacher’s question.
 
“My husband knew of this man.
 
They found him dead in his
Manassas
farmhouse . . . last Monday afternoon!”

Rosabelle
grabbed Flora’s arm and dragged her down the hall, leaving the group of befuddled women to whisper among themselves.
 
Rosabelle
heard Mrs. Franklin mumble something about “that odd girl.”

“I am so confused,
Rosa
,” Flora sputtered.
 
“Tell me, please.
 
What is happening?”

“Remember that newspaper story about Abigail Dawes, who was a spy for the South?”

“Yes!
 
We were just speaking to Mr. Witherspoon about her.”

“And her favorite disguise was . . .”

“A Negro woman!”
 
Flora stopped just short of the door that opened to the back alley behind the
Franklin
home.
 
A fresh chill around the area made
Rosabelle
suspect that someone had just exited through that door.

“Yes.
 
A Negro woman.
 
I think Lucy is Abigail Dawes in disguise.”

Flora’s eyes grew wide.
 
She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a scream.

“Flora, I need you to be strong and do something important for me.”

“What?”

“Leave the meeting now.
 
Say you are feeling ill.
 
Run to the police house around the corner and bring them here.
 
I will try to find Lucy and stall her.
 
Make haste!”

“But—”

“Don’t argue.
 
Go!”

After Flora scooted off, frazzled but determined,
Rosabelle
opened the door to the alleyway and poked her head out looking for any sign of Lucy.
 
Nothing.
 
The steps had long been cleared of snow, leaving no chance of tell-tale footprints.
 
She had not given much thought to what action she should take next.
 
Should she search the house, and perhaps find the woman in one of the rooms inside?
 
Or should she look more closely outside?
 
While she stood motionless with indecision, she heard a cracking sound from under the steps.
 
Her heart started beating furiously.
 
Possibly the woman was right below her, hiding.

Rosabelle’s
respiration grew fast along with her beating heart, and the air filled with her visible breath.

“Miss Raines!” Mrs. Franklin called from the parlor.
 
“Whatever are you doing?”

“Please do not mind me,”
Rosabelle
answered while her fingers turned white from the cold.
 
“I’m stepping outside for a bit of fresh air.
 
I will return in just a moment.
 
Do continue your meeting!”

Rosabelle
stepped out onto the landing and closed the door behind her, preempting any argument from Mrs. Franklin about the silly nature of her choice to stand outside in the frigid weather without a cloak.
 
Hoping that it would not be much longer before Flora arrived with the police,
Rosabelle
decided to venture down the four steep stairs to the muddy ground below.
 
Indeed, once there, she could see faint footprints leading around to the under portion of the staircase.
 
Taking a deep breath and making a silent prayer, she called out.

“I know you are there, Abigail Dawes.”

She heard a rustling beneath the stairs.

“Stay away from me if you want to live, Miss
Rosabelle
Raines.
 
I do not have time for the likes of you,” a woman’s voice growled.

Fear racing through her veins,
Rosabelle
took two steps back.
 
She was considering her next course of action when the door above flew open and Flora appeared.

“
Rosa
!
 
There you are!”

A round and rather squat uniformed policeman squeezed past Flora.
 
At the same time, the small but agile Abigail Dawes sprang out from under the stairs, visibly intent on making a quick getaway.
 
Stopping for just a moment and glaring at
Rosabelle
, she did not pretend now to avoid eye contact.
 
Her face had been scrubbed clean of whatever she had used to darken it, revealing alabaster skin.
 
Her angry, green eyes bore into
Rosabelle’s
, and
Rosabelle
shivered not from the cold, but from the chill of hatred that radiated from the woman.

When the policeman started barreling down the stairs,
Rosabelle
feared Abigail would get away.
 
With no forethought, she lunged toward the woman, hoping to grab some part of her dress and hold her back.
 
Abigail Dawes had other plans.
 
Before she knew it,
Rosabelle
was caught helpless with a knife blade tight against her throat.
 
Abigail Dawes was a master of battle as well as disguise.
 
She had whipped
Rosabelle’s
arm fiercely tight behind her back while positioning the deadly weapon.

The policeman stalled his approach while two more appeared in the doorway above.
 
They attempted some verbal negotiations, which had no effect at all on the determined Abigail.
 
The woman began pulling
Rosabelle
backward, moving ever closer to the busy street at the end of the row of townhouses.

“Stay where you are men, or I will kill her right here, right now.”

“It is me that you want, Miss Dawes,” said a calm, resolute voice behind them.
 
“Leave this woman
be
.”

Rosabelle
had only heard that man’s voice once, but she knew it to be the voice of Eli Witherspoon.

Abigail whipped around, carrying
Rosabelle
along for the ride.
 
The forceful movement caused the blade to open her skin, and
Rosabelle
could feel warm blood trickle down her throat.

“Let her go,” Witherspoon pleaded.
 
“I offer myself as a replacement hostage, but please let this woman go.”
 
He was so close to them that
Rosabelle
could see the sweat beading his temple.

Rosabelle
knew Abigail was a rat in a trap, and she feared this added to her own danger.
 
She eyed the holstered pistol under Witherspoon’s morning coat.
 
Abigail was sharp, so certainly she saw it as well.

“Do you think me a fool, Eli Witherspoon?” Abigail hissed, still twisting
Rosabelle
to and fro as she looked from Witherspoon to the police and back again.

“I think you are wise enough not to bring harm to this innocent woman.”

The twisting stopped.
 
Time seemed to stand still.
 
Rosabelle
could barely breathe and felt her world going dark.

Without warning, Abigail loosened her grip on
Rosabelle
and shoved her into Witherspoon, causing them both to lose balance and fall to the ground.
 
Rosabelle
screamed in pain as her arm seemed to snap from the force.

Rosabelle
had only a peripheral view of Abigail Dawes fleeing into the street, but during her fall, she heard the loud clatter of hooves on brick, the shrill warning cry of a man, and the screams of onlookers.
 
It was a ghastly sound that
Rosabelle
imagined she might never forget as long as she lived.
 
On the ground, tangled in the arms of Eli Witherspoon, she was granted relief from witnessing the horses of a carriage trample the avenging woman.
 
Mr. Witherspoon, strong and kind, shielded
Rosabelle
, making every assurance that once she was able to stand and walk, she would not be forced to view the grisly scene.

Rosabelle
would later be told while recovering at home that Abigail did not survive the accident.
 
Over the next few days, Mr. Witherspoon made several visits to the Raines home to check on
Rosabelle
, whose arm was mending from a severe break acquired during the fall.

Rosabelle
worried that Flora would be jealous, but such was not the case.
 
In fact, Flora always smiled and then excused herself from their company in order to allow them the time to be alone.

“
Rosa
,” Flora confided to her sister one day, “Eli Witherspoon is not the man for me.
 
I think he suits you far better.”

On quiet walks, he revealed to her his own early suspicions that Abigail Dawes, the Southern Avenger, and the new servant, Lucy, were one and the same.
 
In fact, he told her, he had asked his cousin Amelia not to attend the gathering at the
Franklin
home for that very reason.

He told her as well, of his life before coming to
Alexandria
.
 
The stories had been true.
 
Mr. Witherspoon had felt great romantic love for a Negro girl named Bess.
 
They had worked together setting slaves free and transporting them to havens in the North.
 
He believed that all men were God’s men, regardless of color, and he would never owe allegiance to a people who would enslave another.
 
When Bess died, he went into hiding until after the war, continuing his work as he was safely able.

It was obvious to everyone that young Mr. Witherspoon had more than just a polite interest in Miss
Rosabelle
Raines, and that she gladly returned the interest.
 
Before her, she found a compassionate man of staunch integrity, who understood that being
different
was not a bad thing.

“How did you know?” Eli inquired on one of their walks.

“Know what?” she asked with reserve.

“That Abigail Dawes was hiding disguised in the
Franklin
home.”

“I didn’t really know anything.
 
She just . . . acted strangely.”

“Strangely?”

“Suspicious . . . I guess.
 
She was acting oddly and . . . I just became curious.
 
That’s it.
 
I was curious.”

He laughed lightly while sliding
Rosabelle
a sly glance.

“It seems to me,” he teased, “that you know more than you are telling me.”

“What in the world could a woman like me know?”

Rosabelle’s
attempt to act coy was ineffective.
 
“My guess is, Miss Raines, that you are no ordinary woman.”

She smiled and guided their conversation toward her companion’s new employ in the business of shipping.

One day,
Rosabelle
knew – one day she could share her own secret with Mr. Eli Witherspoon, and that he would not judge her, think her a witch, or jail her in an asylum.

One day, she could tell him all, and he would embrace her for who she was, and he would love her.
 
That was what
Rosabelle
knew in her heart.

And time would prove that
Rosabelle
Raines knew correctly.

BONUS SHORT STORY:

“
Sherman
’s Purpose”

By Karen Cantwell

This story is dedicated to my son, Patrick, because it is his favorite

“
Sherman
’s Purpose”

Coffee.
 
Sorry excuse for a beverage, thought Sherman Foster, staring into the empty can.
 
Stuff stank up the house, made his nose itch and his stomach turn.

Resealing the empty container with its plastic lid and shoving it to the back of the counter,
Sherman
snickered, pleased with himself that he had purposely let the coffee run out.
 
He’d show Horace.
 
Make him real mad, he would.
 
Predictably, Horace would soon yell from his room. “
Sherman
!
 
Hey,
Sherm
! Can
ya
bring me a cup a coffee?
 
My
rheumatiz
is
actin
’ up.”