The Fragrance of Her Name

Also by Marcia Lynn McClure

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The Time of Aspen Falls

The Highwayman of Tanglewood

The Whispered Kiss

The Touch of Sage

The Fragrance of Her Name

The Visions of Ransom Lake

The Heavenly Surrender

Shackles of Honor

Daydreams

Divine Deception

An Old-Fashioned Romance

To Echo the Past

Desert Fire

Love Me

Born for Thorton’s Sake

Sudden Storms

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The Fragrance of Her Name
by Marcia Lynn McClure

www.marcialynnmcclure.com

Published by Distractions Ink

©Copyright 2004, 2009 by M. Meyers

Cover Art by M. L. M.

Cover Design by Tammie Ingram

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The contents of this e-book may not be reproduced or transferred in any part or by any means

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This is a work of fiction. All characters in this work are fictional.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This story was inspired in part by an angel that I know…

And for that I dedicate it to her…

To my beautiful Conne Mara.

For standing beautiful, strong…a beacon of hope…

For your perfect beauty of spirit and person…

And for the beauty of your friendship to me…

You are beauty!

I once lived and adventure with another beloved one…

And that experience became an indispensable part of this story.

For the memory of that adventure, and for her essential contributions…

I likewise dedicate this story to…

My beloved little sister, Luanna.

For the ground we trod in Franklin…

For that “regal” path in Memphis…

For our unforgettable adventures in history!

I love you!

Lauryn Dawn Kensington had been eight years old when first she'd met the Captain, eight years old only by mere hours. Nana later told her granddaughter that Lauryn had met the Captain long before…on the day of her birth in August of 1901. But it was when she was eight that Lauryn truly and officially met him…her eighth birthday.

It had been a hot, very humid day just like any other in the small, southern town of Franklin. The blossoms of the wisteria, and their beloved fragrance, had long departed with the summer breezes, not to be enjoyed until the next spring. It was the scent of roses that traveled in through the open windows of Connemara House now, and Lauryn’s eighth birthday celebration wasn't scheduled to begin until later in the evening when her father returned home from work at the office. And so, when little Lauryn Kensington found herself anxiously impatient, it had been her Nana that suggested an activity to pass the time.

"Why don't you run along up to the attic, darlin'. Your Daddy used to love rummagin' through those old trunks and such up there when he was just your age. Run along, Lauryn honey. I think it's time you found…what you need to," Nana encouraged, smiling as if she had cached some great secret knowledge.

Lauryn thought that it seemed an odd thing to send a granddaughter off to the dusty old attic in search of a means of battling boredom. But she did as she was told and wandered up the great main staircase of Connemara House, pausing rather nervously before the attic door. She'd been in the attic only twice before and remembered it both times as being dark, musty and stiflingly hot. But that day, as she pushed against the heavy oak door, Lauryn found it gave way far more easily than expected and that sunlight streamed into the dark place from the dusty windows, giving the room quite a feeling of comfort and safety. Still, as an anxious child, she looked about tentatively as she entered.

Almost immediately, Lauryn’s anxieties began to vanish. All around her was every manner of antique and sentimental treasure. The old, oval standing mirror that had been an anniversary gift from one of her great uncles to one of her great aunts stood in one corner. She’d heard tell of it. And there it was! Tangible testimony that it truly existed.

Nearby were the old dress forms used to make the Vicksman girls’ dresses, back when Lauryn’s mama was planning her coming out in the 90's…back when the ramifications of the war between the states were still all too fresh in everyone's minds. Yes, even at her tender age, Lauryn was familiar with that long ago war, and its results.

There were other things in the attic as well. An open crate with her mother's dolls lying in it, their small porcelain faces weathered from play and love. The old grandfather clock that was put to rest after Great Grandfather O’Halleran died during the war. Boxes and boxes littered the floor filled with letters. Her Nana kept every one she had ever received. Great Grandmother O’Halleran’s oak rocker and the grand old music box were there as well.

The music box had always intrigued Lauryn. It had belonged to one of her great aunts, the one so tragically lost during the war with the North. Lauryn went to this treasure in particular. Sitting down on the floor before it, she cautiously lifted the large lid to reveal the workings within. Carefully, she cranked the handle on the outer side of the box and watched as the small gears churned out the familiar tune. Lauryn suspected her fascination with the music box was why it now was hidden away protectively, and somewhat forgotten, in the attic. She had driven her mother nearly insane playing it the year she was five. It fascinated her to think of the young woman who had owned it and the tragedy which befell her! It had been mystical to sit quietly with the music box before her and imagine a young woman from long ago sitting with the very same box, working the crank and listening to the beautifully haunting tune.

Lauryn’s great aunt, Lauralynn O’Halleran Masterson, had been a fantastic beauty, it was said. The painting of her downstairs in the front parlor was confirmation of the rumor. Her hair, and she had been well known for it, was her crowning glory. It was the color of spun honey and butter. Her voice was like a meadowlark's in the quiet of summer and her eyes as deep a green as the rolling hills of Ireland. It was also said that her young husband had given her this music box, which had been crafted solely for her, as his wedding present to his beautiful bride. It played a tune that was familiar to Lauryn only as being heard from the box itself. She’d never heard it anywhere else. Lauryn loved the box. She had forgotten how much she loved it until that moment. Reverently, she closed its lid and stood looking at her surroundings once more.

“
Oh, the trunks!” Lauryn gasped, excitedly. “The trunks!” Trunk upon trunk upon trunk was strewn hither and thither, dust-covered and holding so many secrets that Lauryn's young mind could not begin to imagine them all! Her mind immediately began to race about, enumerating the mystical items that might be cached away within the rectangular bellies of the wood and leather devises of intrigue. What magic there must be stored in them! What legends and histories!

The warm, southern sun streamed through the attic window and seemed to shine upon one specific trunk that stood in a nearby corner. As Lauryn approached it, it seemed singled out among the rest. First and foremost and odd in itself, was the fact that there lay upon its weathered self not one hint of dust. Furthermore, it looked as if it had been lovingly polished very recently. In fact, as Lauryn moved closer to the rather small, oval-topped trunk, she could smell the almond oil that her Nana sometimes used to buff her own furniture.

Then, as she stood before the trunk and put out her hand to lift the latch, Lauryn fancied she heard her name being called and with it the faint, yet familiar fragrance of wisteria. But the wisteria blossoms had been gone from the trees and vines of Connemara for months. Surely she only imagined both her name being called and the fragrance. The fragrance dissipated almost instantly and, since she did not further imagine her name being whispered on the air, Lauryn shrugged in a child’s manner and returned her attention to the trunk resting on the floor before her.

Carefully, her small hands lifted the latch and the young girl peered in excitedly as if it promised to reveal hidden treasures to her. Again Lauryn fancied the scent of wisteria filling her nostrils for a moment as she pushed the lid to the trunk back and lifted out the yellowing and brittle paper cover that lay within.
I must really be missing my beloved wisteria today
, she thought as she set the crumbly, ancient paper on the floor next to her. When she looked back to the trunk, something on the inside panel of the lid caught her attention. A name. Indeed! Her name! Great Aunt Lauralynn’s!

"
Lauralynn
," was printed in fading gold lettering in the lower right corner of the trunk lid. How exhilarating! An ancient case befitted with the name so similar to Lauryn’s own. It was obvious to her, even at her young age, that the woman who had owned the music box had owned this trunk as well.
Great Aunt’s Lauralynn’s very treasures
, she thought. Things to imagine being owned by the lovely face on the painting downstairs. Running her hand over the smooth texture of once-white lace that was the first treasure, she again inhaled deeply the faint scent of the wisteria blossom.

"It's a weddin' dress,” the child whispered to herself, even before she carefully removed the garment from its protector. Holding it up to admire the fine tatting of the lace, the tucks and the embroidered lavender wisteria blossoms that embellished the bodice of the gown, Lauryn knew what it was. As she struggled to completely deprive the trunk of its yards of yellowing fabric she muttered, "This one wore big hoops if ever I did see one that did!” Then gently placing the treasured dress on top of the previously-removed paper she looked to see what other romantically-nostalgic spoils were within.

A sampler came next, cross-stitched to perfection, on yellowing linen. The brilliant green and lavender colors of the threads, however, seemed as vibrant as the day it was finished. Holding it up in the sunlight Lauryn read aloud, "Brandon and Lauralynn Masterson wed August 16, 1863."

"Lauralynn," Lauryn whispered, reading the sweetly familiar name once more. "Lauralynn and Brandon.” Setting the sampler aside she reached again into the trunk withdrawing an aged doll with a china head and cloth body. The paint of the doll’s face was chipped and somehow made Lauryn sad. Setting it aside she withdrew a tintype. It was small and dark but at once all else that may or may not have been in the trunk seemed of no interest to Lauryn. As she gazed, mesmerized at the image before her, a great warmness began to wash over her being. An unusual melancholy nearly overwhelmed her youthful heart as she peered into the faces of complete strangers that seemed, somehow, as familiar as the people she lived with.

"Lauralynn and Brandon," Lauryn whispered to herself as her tiny fingers traced the figures in the likeness. "Your weddin' portrait.” For it was obvious that the woman in the type, the woman from the painting downstairs, wore the very dress, hooped as was the fashion of the time, that Lauryn first had removed from the trunk. The man wore the uniform of a soldier. "You were beautiful," Lauryn whispered, gazing intently at the young woman's face. "And such a handsome soldier. Yankee at that.” And it was true. Brandon, Lauralynn's husband, was tall, dark-haired and as handsome as any prince in the fairy tales Lauryn’s mother read to her at night. Even if his uniform was of Yankee origin. “What a scandal that must’ve caused!” she exclaimed to herself.