"Excuse me, are you Dr. Margaret Garnett?" A slender, middle-aged man stood before her, delicate features behind round, horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a blue blazer, a button-down oxford shirt, and neatly pressed khaki slacks, the ensemble of favor, she surmised, judging from the other males on campus.
He was a few inches shorter than Margaret, and she noticed that he glanced involuntarily at her feet. It was a natural reaction, one she was used to. Men seemed to assume she was wearing either platform shoes or standing on a box when they first met her. She was, instead, wearing flats.
"Hello." She extended her hand.
"Welcome to Magnolia. I'm Chester Dick—we spoke on the telephone. I'm the head of the English department." They shook hands; his was a firm, dry grip. "I hope you had no trouble getting here. We're famous for our fog, which sometimes isolates us. You missed real peasouper by about twelve hours." He seemed pleased by the foul weather, similar to the way New Yorkers boast about fending off muggers.
"No trouble at all, Dr. Dick." She flushed when she said his name, like a gawky junior high student. Struggling to think of something to say, she turned to Willy, who was still standing next to her. "Oh, do you know Willy Thaw . . ."
"Of course," he said jovially, clapping Willy on the shoulder. "How was your fishing trip, Willy? Did you catch the big one?"
"Nope, Dr. Dick." Willy shrugged and held up his bag, and for the first time Margaret noticed a spreading wet stain seeping through the canvas. "But I gigged me a few frogs."
"Mmmm." Her new boss nodded sagely. "Good eating."
Willy grinned. "Especially with Mama's hot sauce. I tell you what—I'll fix up a plate for you, Dr. Dick, but don't tell no one. I don't have but two dozen legs, and you know how fast they go."
"I'd appreciate that, Willy," said Dr. Dick, genuinely pleased with the prospect of eating frog limbs. He then took Margaret's luggage. "I'll show you to Rebel's Retreat. And Willy, we sure missed you in the cafeteria."
Willy turned red with pleasure and winked at Margaret. "Good luck, ma'am." And he lugged off.
"Willy's a real character." Dr. Dick smiled. "There are a lot of them around here."
"I would imagine," she replied, as noncommittal as possible.
After a short walk they were at the quadrangle, an impressive square surrounded by more stone buildings. "The stone is all from a nearby quarry in the valley. We only used local materials in building the campus. That's why it's almost impossible to tell if any given building was erected last week or in the last century."
Margaret took in the sights with a mixture of surprise and irritation. There was no denying that the campus of Magnolia University was nothing short of magnificent. And it bothered her that a college with absolutely no academic reputation should be housed in such a glorious setting. The quadrangle was a stately fortress, no higher than three stories, anchored by a majestic bell tower. The solemn lines of the structures were tempered by lush bushes and brilliantly colored flower beds. The floral fragrance was clean and fresh as the warm breeze jostled the plants.
This was the ideal backdrop for a world-famous university. Oxford or Cambridge came to mind, yet this was a mountain in Tennessee. If there were any academic justice in this world, Magnolia's campus would be made of corrugated tin lean-tos and rusting mobile homes jacked up on cinder blocks.
Dr. Dick was watching Margaret, his eyes narrowing as he saw the play of emotions on her face. She was aware of his curiosity and offered him a completely artificial smile.
"How old are most of these buildings?" she asked, brightening into her best tourist impersonation.
"Most are from the late eighteen sixties or later. The university as well as the town of Magnolia were destroyed during the Civil War." Although Margaret knew this, she felt suddenly, and ridiculously, guilty. She stared straight ahead as he continued.
"Only a few of the buildings around here date from antebellum times. You're lucky, Dr. Garnett. Your new home is the oldest surviving structure on the campus."
"Rebel's Retreat?" Now Margaret was unintentionally fascinated.
"Yep. It was built by one of Magnolia's original professors. He later became one of the South's most prominent generals. Have you ever heard of Ashton Powell Johnson?"
Margaret thought for a few moments. In truth, her studies had centered on the North. She could rattle off the name of almost every general and high-ranking officer who served for Lincoln. By contrast, she spent little time and effort studying the Confederacy, only viewing the short-lived nation in terms of how it impacted the North. And she had been so focused on literature for the past few years, the names of famous battles and their heroes now seemed foreign and remote.
But everyone had heard of General Ashton Johnson, a commanding figure with the startling mixture of moderation and audacity. He had fought against Virginia's succession, but once the deed was done, he became one of the Confederacy's most daring leaders.
It was Johnson who came the closest to halting Sherman in Atlanta, and without Sherman's victory in Atlanta, there would have been no March to the Sea. And without Sherman's devastating march through Georgia, Margaret would have had to select another topic for her first dissertation. Another by-product would have been the prolonging of the Civil War by another few years and, perhaps, a cost of life so great on both sides, the Union may have never recovered. With a nation so weakened by internal strife, the United States could have become an easy harvest for more powerful nations such as France or England.
Had the admittedly brave Ashton Johnson been successful, there might not be a United States of America.
"Genera! Ashton Powell Johnson." Margaret nodded. "He organized the Virginia cavalry, and only Sherman could stop him."
"Sherman and two dozen Yankee sharpshooters," corrected Dr. Dick, a thatch of his wispy brown hair ruffled by the wind.
"What was General Johnson of Virginia doing in Tennessee?" She tried to keep the tone light, noting the passion with which Dr. Dick had defended the general.
"He was trying to provide the South with a university based on his ideals of education. And it would have worked, too, had the war not pulled him back to Virginia. Who knows what Magnolia would have become if the general had survived the war?"
Margaret frowned, pondering the fate of a Confederate general. It was a compelling story, but common. The guy picked the wrong side to back, and that was his fault.
Now Union officers, that was a different matter. A topic she could warm to, those gallant men in blue.
Just the thought of how many northerners suffered misery and disease and death for the cause of justice was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
"Well, here we are." Dr. Dick's voice startled her for a moment, then she looked at where they were.
Before them was a good-size house, covered with vines and wisteria and a strange-looking, lovely climbing plant. The roof was gabled, and there was a long, wraparound porch, complete with a white gliding swing and dozens of potted plants, all in full bloom.!
"This is it?" she gasped, stunned by the size and | beauty of the so-called cottage. After sharing a two-bedroom flat with three other women for the past few years, Rebel's Retreat was positively palatial.
Dr. Dick climbed the four steps to the porch and smiled at Margaret's obvious pleasure. "I think you'll like it here, Dr. Garnett. Everyone who passes even a single night at Rebel's Retreat falls in love with it. Some say it's the ghost of General Johnson that makes the guests feel so welcome. He's the eternal host, you might say."
"I was expecting a cottage, Dr. Dick, not an estate."
He laughed and reached in his blazer pocket for the keys. "Well, it's your home now. And by the way, please call me Chet. I'm fully aware that the name Dr. Dick is hell to utter with a straight face."
Margaret beamed, comfortable for the first time since she accepted the job. "I'll be glad to call you Chet, but only if you promise to call me Margaret. Somehow Dr. Garnett sounds too prim and spinsterish."
> They shook hands, both grinning, and he opened the door. She stepped into the front hall cautiously, as if afraid that the inside of the house could not possibly live up to the promise of the outside. Her eyes, accustomed to the dazzling sunlight outside, slowly adjusted to the cool dark hallway, little spots dancing in front of her before she could finally see clearly. Chet crossed into a room to the left and threw open heavy velvet drapes, bathing the room in sunshine softened by the hedges outside.
The room, a large parlor, was filled with heavily carved Victorian furniture. It was a style she had always abhorred, preferring instead the simple, clean lines of earlier furniture. But this room was a revelation. Rather than emitting a feeling of self-conscious formality, every piece of furniture seemed to welcome, beckoning with soft chintz cushions and time-warmed wood.
There were two large sofas, both with darkly carved backs and brightened by fresh pillows scattered in the corners. A marble-topped table, slightly too high to be called a coffee table, stood between the sofas, offering an array of yellowing magazines and a selection of old beverage rings staining the marble, testimony that this was a table to be used, not just admired.
Bordering the room were a pair of wing chairs upholstered in a pale green brocade, both with footstools underneath, separated by a round, tilt-topped wine table. On the other side of the room was an enormous buffet with weirdly carved feet. Margaret noticed the legs of the buffet right away and moved closer to examine them.
They were cabriole legs with ball and claw feet. What made the feet so odd was that they were webbed like a duck's feet, so realistically carved that it seemed as if the buffet could waddle away.
"This is great!" she exclaimed, touching the wood, almost expecting the claw to pull away at her prodding.
"Glad you like it," said Chet. "It unnerves some people. There's a matching table in the dining room, but there wasn't enough room for both the buffet and the table together. There used to be a dozen or so chairs to complete the set, but they disappeared years ago."
"I've never seen anything like this." Margaret straightened, shaking her head. "How could anyone not like them? They're wonderful."
"I think so, too. They're from General Johnson's estate. Apparently he had a somewhat quirky sense of humor, along with a rather fanciful idea of what a home should be. You'll come across his stuff all over the campus. If it's strange and funny, it's bound to belong to the general."
Margaret smiled. "What did his wife have to say about animal feet on the furniture?"
"Oh, he never married. The one true love of his life died a few months before he was killed." He looked at the buffet with sympathy. Suddenly he brightened. "Anyway, I'll let you settle in. There are two small bedrooms upstairs, you can take your pick."
Chet walked toward the door, turning as he reached for the knob. "I almost forgot—there's a reception tonight for new faculty members. It's in Johnson Hall, the big building next to the bell tower on the quadrangle. It's scheduled to begin at eight o'clock, but we're pretty casual here. Drop by any time. And Margaret?"
"Yes?" She glanced up from the buffet table.
"We're delighted to have you here at Magnolia. I'll see you later." He gave a little half wave and left.
An odd feeling came over her, a sense of vague guilt. It was the way one feels after trashing another person behind their back, only to discover that same person has heaped your name with praise. Magnolia was delighted to have her, and she was a nasty guest.
Margaret went back into the hall to retrieve her bags, noting the lush Oriental carpeting as she walked through the parlor. It was slightly worn in spots, but still lovely and obviously very valuable.
Pausing in the hallway, something caught her eye-------a glittering light. She turned and saw a mirror, her own face reflected through the age-spotted glass.
The mirror was utterly fantastic. At first it seemed to be a normal, if intricately carved mirror, the frame large and glossy with sweet-smelling wood polish. Upon closer examination the real design was revealed, and Margaret couldn't help but laugh aloud.
The frame was one continuous bar scene, with comical figures leaning over the straight-edged wood in various states of intoxication. It reminded her of one of those riotous Hogarth paintings of peasants, every cluster of revelers was a self-contained vignette. Some were tipping drinks, others had their mouths wide open—and from the expression of the people beside them, they were singing loudly and off-key. A few men were slumped with tilted hats, and one woman, clearly of dubious virtue, had a shapely leg thrown over the bar.
"General Johnson—I love your taste in furniture!" she said. At once she stopped smiling and gazed at herself, a sadness creeping over her.
Odd. Of course she had not been thrilled with the idea of coming to Magnolia, but since meeting Chet and seeing her new home, her mind had been free of the depressing black thoughts that had been plaguing her for the past few weeks. Now she felt something more than self-pity. It was a sense of crushing sorrow, brief but almost unbearable.
In a moment the feeling was gone, evaporated as quickly as the morning dew. She looked more closely at her own face, surprised—in a detached way—at how good she looked. In spite of her exhausting, emotionally draining journey, her blue eyes looked bright, her usually lank hair hung not in clumps but in gentle waves.
And strangely enough for Margaret, the thought of attending a reception that evening was not at all unappealing.
CHAPTER 2
Johnson Hall was easy to find. Not only was it exactly where Chet said it would be, but it was lit up like a Las Vegas casino; the sounds of laughter wafted over the quadrangle in stark contrast to the somber bearing of the bell tower.
Margaret paused for a moment before opening the heavy oak door, giving her loose hair a reassuring pat before entering the party. She hadn't been sure what to wear, especially since the few people she had seen around the campus seemed to be dressed more formally than most weddings she had attended in Manhattan. What, she wondered, would they wear to a party if their everyday clothes were so stodgy? Tuxedos and ball gowns?
Playing it safe, she opted for a calf-length embroidered skirt she'd picked up in a Greenwich Village secondhand store and a jade-colored silk T-shirt. She sincerely hoped there wouldn't be any more receptions for a while, for this was her one and only evening
outfit, and only one of two skirts. The rest of her wardrobe consisted of jeans and sneakers and rugby shirts. No one had ever accused Margaret of being a clotheshorse.
She even applied a touch of makeup for the occasion, something she rarely bothered with. It usually didn't matter how her face looked once she stood up, but tonight, for some reason, she wanted to look her very best. Standing in front of the strange mirror at Rebel's Retreat, fumbling with her ragtag assortment of drugstore cosmetics—all zippered into the same quilted makeup case she'd toted since high school, she felt an unfamiliar sense of excitement. This was going to be her real introduction to life at Magnolia University.
So why was she anxious? Earlier that day, on the creaking bus, she wanted nothing more than a one-way ticket back to New York City. Now she felt a weird, fluttery sensation in her stomach, as if she was about to meet someone very special.
Once she denned the feeling, she could almost laugh out bud. Imagine, six-foot-tall Margaret Garnett, Yankee through and through, finding romance in the hills of Tennessee. It was absolutely comical.
Still, she hadn't been able to shake the notion. And as she clasped the oversize brass doorknob to enter Johnson Hail, her hand was shaking and her throat was suddenly very dry. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she entered the building.
Bourbon. The moment she opened the door, the brackish scent of bourbon blew over her, tangy and brisk. The smell reminded her of a freshman dorm party or a bar at happy hour. She hated bourbon.
Breathing through her mouth, she scanned the room and was stunned by its size. The entire building was one single gallery, large and open, with a hig
h ceiling that arched in the center, held up by solid beams that made the ceiling look like an inverted ship's bow. Lining the walls were elegant bookshelves packed with leather-bound volumes, hundreds, if not thousands, of them. There were a few oil paintings of stern-looking gentlemen, all in dark clothes and serious-looking poses. They looked damn proud to be hanging on the walls of Johnson Hall.
The crowd was conspicuously well-dressed, just as she had imagined they would be. The men wore blazers or suits, the women were clad in cocktail dresses of silk and pale chiffon. The crowd was older, most seemed to be about forty or fifty, although there was one man seated under a painting who appeared to be in his early hundreds.
A few people glanced at Margaret with fleeting smiles and a young man in a white apron raised his eyebrows and pointed to a gallon of Jim Beam. He was behind a card table, the makeshift bar, and was manfully plopping chunks of ice into plastic cups, adding a few splashes of water and generous glugs of Jim Beam, and placing them on the edge of the table. The moment they were deposited, a hand would pluck them away.