“I didn’t see anything.” Regan blew out a breath. Her son was too involved with his blocks to notice the subject of the conversation. And, in any case, he was a MacKade. “It was more a feeling…of not being alone. The house had been deserted and empty for years then. Rafe hadn’t even begun the renovations. But there were noises. Footsteps, a door closing. There’s a spot on the stairs, a cold spot.”
“You felt it?” Rebecca’s voice was flat now, that of a scientist assessing data.
“Right to the bone. It was so shocking. Rafe told me later that a young Confederate soldier had been killed there, on the day of the Battle of Antietam.”
“The two corporals.” Rebecca nodded at Regan’s surprised look. “I’ve been researching the area, the legends. Two soldiers, from opposite sides, met in the woods on September 17, 1862. It’s thought they were lost, or perhaps deserting. They were both very young. They fought there, wounded each other badly. One made his way to the home of Charles Barlow, now the MacKade Inn. The mistress of the house, Abigail, was a Southern woman, wed to a Yankee businessman. She had the wounded boy brought inside, and was having him carried upstairs to be tended. Instead, her husband came down and shot and killed him, there on the stairs.”
“That’s right,” Regan agreed. “You’ll often smell roses in the house. Abigail’s roses.”
“Really.” Rebecca mulled the information over. “Well, well… Isn’t that fascinating.” Her eyes went dreamy for a moment, then sharpened again. “I managed to contact a descendant of one of the Barlow servants who was there at the time. It seems Abigail did her best to take care of the boy, even after his death. She had the servants search his pockets and they found some letters. She wrote to his parents and arranged for his body to be taken back home for burial.”
“I never knew that,” Regan murmured.
“Abigail kept it as quiet as possible, likely to avoid her husband’s wrath. The boy’s name was Gray, Franklin Gray, corporal, CSA, and he never saw his nineteenth birthday.”
“Some people hear the shot, and weeping. Cassie—that’s Devin’s wife—runs the inn for us. She can tell you more.”
“I’d like to see the place tomorrow, if I can. And the woods. I need to see the farm, too. The other corporal, name unknown, was buried by the MacKades. I hope to find out more. My equipment should be here by late tomorrow, or the next day.”
“Equipment?” Rafe asked.
“Sensors, cameras, temperature gauges. Parapsychology is best approached as a science. Tell me, have there been any reports of telekinetic activities—the movement of inanimate objects? Poltergeists?”
“No.” Regan gave a quick shudder. “And I’m sure we’d have heard.”
“Well, I can always hope.”
Baffled, Regan stared at her. “You used to be so…”
“Serious-minded? I still am. Believe me, I’m very serious about this.”
“Okay.” With a quick shake of her head, Regan rose. “And I better get serious about dinner.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
Regan arched a brow as Rebecca stood. “Don’t tell me you learned to cook in Europe, too.”
“No, I can’t boil an egg.”
“You used to say it was genetic.”
“I remember. Now I think it’s just a phobia. Cooking’s a dangerous business. Sharp edges, heat, flame. But I remember how to set a table.”
“Good enough.”
Late that night, when Rebecca settled into her room, she snuggled up on the big padded window seat with a book and a cup of Regan’s tea. From down the hall she dimly heard the sound of a baby’s fretful crying, then footsteps padding down the hall. Within moments the quiet returned as, Rebecca imagined, Regan nursed the baby. She’d never imagined the Regan Bishop she’d known as a mother. In college, Regan had always been bright, energetic, interested in everyone and everything. Of course, she’d attracted male companionship, Rebecca remembered with a small smile. A woman who looked like Regan would always draw men. But it was not merely Regan’s beauty, but her way with people, that had made her so popular with both men and women.
And Rebecca, dowdy, serious-minded, out-of-place Rebecca, had been so shocked, and so dazzled, when Regan offered her friendship. She’d been so miserably shy, Rebecca thought now, staring dreamily out the window while the cup warmed her hands. Still was, she admitted, beneath the veneer she’d developed in recent months. She’d had no social skills whatsoever then, and no defense against the fast-moving college scene.
Except for Regan, who had found it natural to take a young, awkward, unattractive girl under her wing.
It was something Rebecca would never forget. And sitting there, in the lovely guest room, with its big four-poster and lovely globe lamps, she was deeply, warmly happy that Regan had found such a wonderful life.
A man who adored her, obviously, Rebecca thought. Anyone could see Rafe’s love for his wife every time he looked in her direction.
A strong, handsome, fascinating man, two delightful children, a successful business, a beautiful home. Yes, she was thrilled to find Regan so content.
As for herself, contentment had been eluding her of late. Academia, which had encompassed her all her life, had lately become more of a prison than a home. And, in truth, it was the only home she had ever known. Yet she’d fled from it. For a few months, at least, she felt compelled to explore facets of herself other than her intellect.