The Splendour Falls (22 page)

I'd been nervous when he'd pulled the truck up by the cemetery fence. Whether the moment by the river was the suggestive environment working with my overwrought emotions, or something I didn't want to speculate, this was a
graveyard
.

But the morning was warm and the only shadows
were the ones from the spreading oaks. It felt more peaceful than lonely, despite the way the ageand weather-darkened monuments were left abandoned, broken and tumbled.

Gigi flopped onto a pillow of shaded grass, her tongue hanging out. I didn't blame her. My legs were tired and aching, and they were a lot longer than hers. But there was still something I was after, so I looped her leash around a branch and left her to nap while I followed Mr Young around the cemetery.

‘Where are the Davises?' I asked.

‘Oh, you won't find them here. The Davis family is buried in Saint Mary's churchyard.' He waved vaguely towards Bluestone Hill. ‘It's past your place, on down the river just a bit, before you get to Maddox Landing.'

Maybe I was cranky because my leg hurt – I hadn't walked so far since The Accident, and most of it on unpaved ground – but he could have mentioned that earlier.

Oblivious to my frown, he went on enthusiastically. ‘There are a couple of Maddox graves, though. You might be interested in those, since your families are so connected.'

I wondered what he meant by that. Addie had said something similar, if ‘connected' was Mr Young's tactful way of saying ‘inbred'.

He started across the grounds, waving for me to follow. I had to pick my way carefully over molehills and around fallen stones. I rejoined Mr Young at a sturdy but rusted fence. An ornamental pear tree shaded a plot containing three large monuments and
several smaller ones, all eroded and darkened by the elements, but pristine compared with some of the others in the cemetery.

‘The tree and the marble would have been brought here from elsewhere,' said Mr Young. ‘Someone wanted dear old dad to be comfortable.'

‘And had the money to make sure of it,' I mused, squinting at the inscription:
MATTHEW MADDOX, PATRIARCH AND STATESMAN.
1785–1860. ‘Wow, he was really old.'

Mr Young gave me a disapproving look. ‘That's the same age as me, little missy.'

I grimaced. ‘I meant for the time.'

‘Well, that's true enough.' He nodded to the ornate monument, the fanciest in the cemetery. ‘Mr Maddox was on the state legislature, the lone dissenting vote against moving the capital. His son went up to Tuscaloosa, though. The Maddoxes have always been politicians.' Mr Young smiled at some private joke. I sort of knew what he meant, though. Shawn had that good old boy charm and I'd seen hints of his leadership in the way he handled the Teen Town Council.

I noticed something else as I looked over the other stones in the plot. ‘There are some Davises here. They're just all married to Maddoxes.'

Mr Young nodded, starting towards the cemetery gate. ‘That's what dynasties do – secure alliances with marriages.'

‘What kind of alliances?' I caught up to him easily.

‘Business, of course. Your family grew the cotton; the Maddox family shipped it. The Davises owned the
ironworks across the river, which made the parts to build Maddox steamboats.'

‘Huh.' I collected Gigi from under her bush, and she grumbled until I picked her up and carried her. It sounded like the Davises and Maddoxes had been in bed together in a lot of ways.

The topic of business brought me back to the barbs that Rhys and Shawn had traded that morning. ‘What about this latest venture of the Maddoxes? Rhys seems to think it might threaten the park and the archaeological work you're doing.'

Dismissing that with a wave, Mr Young opened the gate and waited for me to pass through. ‘I'm just a history nut and a digger. I don't like talking about the modern stuff. The land is listed with the National Registry of Historic Places, which gives it some protection. If Mr Maddox wants to get his hands on it – which I'm sure he does – he'd have a hell of a time.'

‘After so many floods, why would anyone want to build on this site?'

‘Well, you could use it for hunting and recreation for all the people who are going to buy the overpriced homes in your little planned community upriver.'

‘Oh.' I felt an odd surge of protectiveness at the thought of ATVs tearing through the woods, pickups four-wheeling where the Union soldiers had been imprisoned. Not to mention innocent wildlife getting picked off.

Mr Young smiled at my expression, which must have been easy to read. ‘I think you're all right, Sylvie Davis. Now, you want to go see the dig? We've got half
of the old church excavated, and you might like to meet some of the college interns.'

‘I'd love to.' Rhys might see it as sticking my nose in his business again, though that didn't bother me much. But as I glanced at my watch, I discovered a different problem.

‘Oh, I can't. Paula will kill me if I'm not back for lunch.' I was surprised at how disappointed I was not to see a hole in the ground. ‘It's already noon and I still have to walk back.'

‘Well, don't despair. How ‘bout I give you a ride?' He looked at Gigi, lounging in my arms. ‘I didn't want to damage your pride by offering you a ride home, but your little dog is done for.'

He tactfully avoided mentioning that I was pretty obviously done for too. I knew it showed in my step and probably in my face. I didn't even bother to hide my relief. ‘Mr Young, you're a lifesaver. Gigi thanks you and so do I.'

Chuckling, he held the truck door for me, then climbed behind the wheel. ‘Just come back and see me sometime, and we're even.'

We headed down the dirt road that had brought me there. It led through a gate in the fence I'd climbed, then made a turn where I would have walked straight through the woods to the back of the house. ‘Gigi and I will have to work on our stamina before we trek out here again.'

‘Just keep an eye on her,' he said with a grin. ‘She wouldn't be more than a mouthful for the gators.'

‘Gators?' And I'd just been worried about bobcats.

‘Yep. You'd better stay on the roads and paths yourself. There are some old, open foundations here and there. And the drop to the river is steep in places. We had a man, upriver from here, doing some surveying. He fell and ended up in traction.'

‘That's awful!' I knew about traction. Picturing the sheer bluff at the headland, I felt a rush of sympathetic vertigo. ‘Is he OK?'

‘Probably will be eventually. But you be careful. Wouldn't do for you to go breaking your other leg.'

As much as I whined and worried about my current situation, I did admit that things could be worse, and that would do it.

P
aula's comment when she saw that I'd hitched a ride home didn't actually contain the words ‘I told you so,' but it might as well have. I gritted my teeth on a retort, but fortunately Clara, chopping vegetables at the counter, laughed and broke the tension. ‘Paula, ease up. I'm sure Dr Young enjoyed having a captive audience.'

I grimaced at my mistake. ‘I've been calling him Mr Young all day.'

‘If you listened to his stories,' said Clara, ‘he'll forgive you.'

With a shrug, Paula unbent. ‘That's undoubtedly true. Now go upstairs and wash up, and don't even think about taking that dog with you while she's filthy from walking in the woods.'

Annoyance flared again, and it would have been satisfying to stomp to the porch, if I could. As I closed her crate, Gigi looked at me reproachfully, and I apologized with a treat.

I should have been grateful to Paula for her dislike of dogs. Irritation was – well, maybe
comfortable
wasn't the right word, but familiar. And it gave me the spur I needed to get my sore, exhausted butt up the stairs.

A typical day for me used to be four hours of dance before lunch and at least six hours of rehearsal after, often with a performance in the evening. Now a couple of hours of walking made me feel like I'd hopped all the way to Atlanta and back.

Plus, as I washed my hands and arms and splashed water over my face, I saw that I had a slight sunburn on my nose, so I was probably going to get skin cancer as well as freckles.

And wrinkles,
added my mother's voice in my head.

I went to my bedroom to grab Dad's garden book so I wouldn't have to come back upstairs for it. But I paused on the open threshold, one hand on the knob. It smelled as if someone had delivered an entire bouquet of lilacs while I was gone.

Maybe Clara or Paula had dusted with some kind of scented cleaner. But I knew the smell of fresh versus perfume, and this was definitely fresh. Even in the small space, I couldn't localize the source. Each way I turned, I caught an elusive whiff.

It wasn't unpleasant, but it was odd, and I'd had enough odd for the day. I resolutely leaned over the desk and opened the window a crack, then grabbed Dad's book and went downstairs for lunch.

Clara served an amazing tomato-and-spinach quiche for lunch – delicious, but my cholesterol was going to be sky-high if I didn't make her see the joy of tofu soon. After excusing myself from the table, I went to the porch and brushed the fragments of leaves and pine needles from Gigi's soft fringes of fur. When she was lovely again, we went out to the knot garden, where she promptly dived into one of the herb beds and started rolling around.

I sighed. At least it smelled like tansy, which, according to my dad, repelled insects. Funny how many things he told me had lodged in my brain, popping up when I needed them.

Spreading my old, faithful quilt on the ground, I sat and pulled off my shoes, then picked up
Notable Gardens of the South
and held it a moment, savouring the anticipation of deciphering Dad's handwritten notes. After suitable reverence, I flipped to the short chapter on Bluestone Hill.

There was a very grainy black-and-white photograph of the knot garden that showed the properly trimmed hedges, paths and planting beds. There was the stone, looming in the central circle, the path around that and the herb beds at each corner. Inside
each, I could just make out some vague Celtic knot design, but not with enough detail to satisfy my curiosity.

The author wrote that he included the garden in the book because of the contrast between its formal layout and the rustic simplicity of the standing stone, where a statue or topiary would have been more traditional.

Almost in answer to that, beside the photo, Dad had lightly pencilled in a diagram of the garden and written:
Stone. Circle? Stone circle? Stonehenge?

Had he realized the stone's origin? There was nothing about it in the text of the book, and the Internet hadn't existed then. I wasn't seeing the association. But then I realized I was looking at a column of green, and not what Dad had seen at all.

Setting the book aside, I struggled to my feet and waded into the central bed, past where Gigi was snoozing, belly up, in the unkempt greenery. The crush of leaves was cool under my bare feet and the woody stems prickled my soles. Reaching the stone, I grabbed two handfuls of the covering vine and pulled, trying to part the broad leaves like a curtain.

It didn't want to budge. The stuff was tough as rope, and clung to the rock like a lamprey on a shark. I changed my grip and tugged harder, tightening my teeth in determination.

Was the monolith at his family home why Dad found the standing stones in Britain so fascinating? And why hadn't he taken the opportunity to tell me about this one while we were there? Again I felt a guilty stab of anger at Dad for keeping so many secrets. I gave
a vicious yank at the vine, and the trailing stems slid through my fists, scoring my palms.

I yelped in surprise and pain, and stared at the red welts blossoming on my skin. Crap, that hurt.

It all hurt. Dad's secrets; the weight of worry over the weirdness in my head and my heart; the aimless, adrift life raft of my existence. Cradling my burning palms, I surveyed the garden in frustration, over-whelmed by the overgrowth and unable to make heads or tails of the internal pattern. Whatever had been here was lost.

Resignation heavy on my shoulders, I sank to the ground beside Gigi, digging my fingers and toes through the leaves and stems of the plants, down into the earth. It stung the welts on my hands and cleared my head. Damn it, I hadn't gotten to be the youngest soloist in the American Ballet Company by giving up when I felt overwhelmed. Hell, I wouldn't be alive if I gave up when things were hard. I just had to figure this out –
all
of it – the way I learned everything else: step-by-step.

With renewed resolve, I climbed to my feet and stepped out of the circle of plants to fetch the book, picking it up gingerly. It slipped through my fingers and hit the ground. My heart dropped with it when I saw some pages flutter out. If the Colonel didn't haunt me for ruining his book, Paula would kill me.