Summerflame Part I (a Jaemore County story)
Summerflame Manor had a reputation of being the home of several ghosts and even a lost chupacabra that immigrated to rural Georgia sixty years ago during the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Everyone in Jaemore County steered clear of the manor.
The house itself was a mishmash of period architecture—Queen Anne, Gothic, Craftsman. And while it was impressive, it also bespoke of being ignored for decades by its owners. All locals knew the DuPont family was cursed. Oh they had money clear back before the War of Northern Aggression when the DuPonts owned the finest peach orchards in the South but no amount of money or jewels could buy a long life. Each generation had its share of unfortunate accidents, poisonings and vendettas. Finally, the grand old southern family had dwindled to one elderly lady named Lucille DuPont.
Trixie Charles and her husband, Buster, had just parked their red 1971 Ford pickup on the grounds of Summerflame Manor near the mansion. The line to enter was only four people deep but then again, it was almost 5:00 a.m. on a Friday morning.
The lure of the “Estate Sale” sign on the side of Highway 78 in Athens had been too great. Their one-time hobby had exploded into a small business of antique picking for consignment and antique stores around the Athens, GA area.
“I cannot wait to get my greedy hands onto some of the DuPont stuff.” Trixie drummed her fingers nervously on the dashboard. “Buster. Buster. BUSTER!”
Buster shook himself awake and grunted. “Yes. Dirty hands. DuPont junk.”
“No. I said greedy hands. I don’t have dirty hands.” Sometimes her husband would drive her to drink whiskey if she was a drinking woman. “I’ve heard of a first edition of Gone with the Wind there and I want it. And there’s a stained glass lamp, the gravy boat in the discontinued Spode pattern and then…”
Trixie stopped when she spied her biggest competitor—Milo Hanks—parked two cars down. She hurriedly grabbed her bright orange tote and punched her sleeping hubby awake.
“Let’s go and grab your bag.” Trixie said as she sprinted to the porch. The bag swung beside her. It contained her tools—a bank money bag full of change and twenty one dollar bills as well as a blue light, a jeweler’s loupe and her trusty Swiss army knife.
When Buster reached his wife, Trixie pulled out her list. “Now, Buster, you’ll be lookin’ for red Bakelite brooch with the cherries on it. Then move to the Spode gravy boat and make sure you find that quilt with the Dresden Wheel pattern.”
Trixie stopped talking when she realized Buster had leaned up against a porch pillar and was fast asleep with his eyes open.
“Buster, wake up and wipe your mouth. You’re drooling.”
“I’m tired and I don’t want to be here.” He complained. “Anyway I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyeballs.”
“So.” The nasal voice of Milo Hanks interrupted the couple. “You’re after the quilts too?”
Trixie whirled around and faced her ugly opponent. Milo Hanks moved to the area a year ago from Chicago. He claimed he was a direct descendant of Colonel Joseph Tucker who was a notorious Union prison camp commander during the Civil War. Trixie just was sure Hanks had a reptilian ancestor in addition to being a dreaded Yankee. He had all the hallmarks of a rattler—slitted eyes, a forked tongue and he positively slithered around inflicting nasty insults on unsuspecting people.
“Oh, I don’t know if I want all of them.” Trixie replied airily and deliberately turned her back on the odious man. Sometimes she imagined she could beat the snot out of him.
“I have a lady from New Hampshire interested in those folksy Southern textiles. I told her they are not really art and not worth much but you know clients….they want what they want.”
“Well, bless your and your clients’ hearts.” If Milo had any sense, he’d realize Trixie just insulted him. ‘Bless your heart’ is a thinly veiled insult widely used by polite Southern women that translate to “you’re an idiot.”
The front door flew open to reveal a tall, cadaverous gentleman with a well-worn suit and bowtie for whimsy. Trixie shuddered involuntarily. He looked like Lurch from the Addams Family.
“Good morning.” The live corpse’s voice belied the sickly appearance. It fairly bellowed in the early morning air with Georgia elocution. “I am Jefferson Sawyer, the DuPont family’s attorney. The estate sale will commence shortly.”
Milo’s snort of derision made Trixie’s blood boil. She wondered how much prison time she’d get if hit him with rolls of quarters.
Sawyer went on as if he had not heard Hanks. “There are items in every room on every floor. The DuPonts have been collecting items since 1837. Also there will be no haggling. The instructions are very specific about haggling and quite frankly, I agree. It’s rude. Next it is a cash only sale and once you purchase your item, it is yours forever.”
Trixie frowned at that. Forever? What an odd way of saying there’s no take backs.
Sawyer cleared his throat. “It begins now.” He moved quickly out of the way as the first four people rushed in the door.
“Remember, Buster. Get the brooch and the Spode gravy boat. I’m heading upstairs.” She pushed past the first few and sprinted upstairs. Although the lights were on, the upstairs hallway was immaculate but dreary. Oil paintings of long dead DuPonts and landscapes long forgotten lined the judges’ paneling. An ancient runner completed the tableau.
Trixie took a second to inspect the first painting of a Southern plantation landscape. Pulling out her loupe, she barely contained a whoop of joy. It was signed by Thomas Addison Richards, a noted English artist from the 19th century. She lifted it and swung it carefully on the ground. Digging through her bag, she found an index card with ‘Charles’ written in big block letters and gently stuck it in the painting.
Another quick glance at the other paintings netted no more signatures.
The first door on the right was ajar but Trixie spied nothing of interest in the bedroom. Typical 1970’s décor.
The next few doors did nothing for her. The master bedroom was still unfound. Holding her breath, she opened the last door on the right and breathed a sigh of relief.
The master bedroom beckoned her in. The Empire style furniture was overshadowed by an enormous marble fireplace. Twin chairs faced each other with a small table and chess set. It literally looked as if she interrupted a game.
The bed was in itself a masterpiece with sage green and butter yellow comforter. A lady’s chaise lounge by the open balcony windows had a tattered copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice on it.
“Why, hello.” A lilting drawl with a note of kindness surprised Trixie.
When she twirled around, Trixie towered over an elderly woman dressed in vintage black Chanel with a lovely set of pink pearls. While Trixie was only 5’3, the smiling lady had stooped down, leaning an ebony cane.
“I’m Lucille Bellamy DuPont.” The newcomer introduced herself.
“I’m Trixie Charles.” Trixie started to hold out her hand for a shake but the little woman hobbled with surprising quickness to the chaise lounge. In her wake was the scent of Chanel Number 5.
“Have a seat, dear. I don’t bite.” Lucille motioned toward one of the chairs near the fireplace. “I do get so little company these days.”
Although the sale was in full swing, Trixie thought it was better to indulge the senior citizen.
“I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I thought Mr. Sawyer said all the rooms had items in them.”
Lucille flicked her wrist. “No, dear, the fault is mine. I just had to spend one more day here before I leave for good. This house is full of memories—both good and bad. Call me sentimental but I wanted to relive a bit of history.” She shifted and went on. “Do you have anything in particular that you’re after?”
“I wanted to look at the Dresden Wheel quilt. I heard that that pattern was used in the Underground Railroad before the Civil War as a secret code for escaped slaves.”
“There is a Dresden Wheel quilt and it is very lovely but if I remember correctly, that pattern was not made until the 1920’s so it couldn’t have been used for the Railroad.”
“Oh, stink.” Trixie jutted out her lip like a toddler. “My knowledge of quilts is not like it should be.”
Lucille flicked her wrist. “Much of quilt history is lost since it was considered women’s work so most history is handed down orally. The quilt pattern you need to be looking for is the Flying Geese pattern. Slaves could tell which direction to go for safety, food and water.”
Trixie’s interest was piqued so she moved her chair closer to Lucille. “Do you know anything else about the Underground Railroad codes?”
“Why, yes. My husband's great, great, great—whatever three greats ago—grandma was involved. Her name was Glenda Wallis DuPont and she was the only white woman in this area of Georgia who ran a stop or as it was called a depot.” Lucille started to cackle. “Her husband, Lucas, never knew.
“What? I never would have thought…”
“The DuPonts were slave owners. While Lucas was working them, Glenda was freeing them. Do you want to hear whole story?”
Trixie found herself nodding and leaning forward more…
The Quilt (1851)
“I swear, Glenda, I find myself befuddled. Why would Lureen run away like she did?” Susannah Greenleaf fanned herself. “She was treated better than some of those white trash people like the Lyons.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Glenda replied and tried valiantly not to roll her eyes. Susannah Greenleaf didn’t have the sense God gave to a rock. “Maybe she wanted to be free.”
Susannah stopped mid ship. “What did you say?”
Dang it, Glenda thought to herself. She had said it out loud and the most notorious gossip and egghead in three counties heard her. “Maybe she wanted to be ornery. You know to stir up trouble?” Glenda crossed her fingers and caught her maid’s eye.
Cinnamon snapped to attention and rushed to the tea service. “Miss Susannah, would you like to try these new sandwiches? Mrs. Glenda told the cook to make cucumber butter and it’s ever so refreshing.”
“Why thank you Cinnamon. I do believe I will. And you sound so refined. Maybe you can teach my new maid some manners. Or even better, maybe Mr. DuPont will sell you to me.”
“No, Cinnamon is not for sale.” Glenda rushed to correct Susannah. In reality, Glenda had her father free Cinnamon when she became engaged to Lucas. Cinnamon rebuffed the idea of leaving Georgia and quite frankly, Glenda was glad. She and Cinnamon were tutored together and had been constant companions since they could walk.
In fact, it was Cinnamon who approached Glenda about helping escaped slaves. In time, Summerflame was the first stop in the area for fugitive Africans. It didn’t take long for the formidable team funnel the slaves out of central Georgia and into Savannah. No one suspected least of all her husband that Glenda was the infamous “Ruth” from the Underground Railroad. Most ran up north but Summerflame had entertained one of Lucas’ business associate and his wife from Savannah who ran a very dangerous depot on the Railroad. In fact, the fugitive, Lureen, was sent via the DuPont’s depot.
Elizabeth and Thomas Gaines built their shipping empire entirely on freed blacks which would have caused contention in Savannah but since Elizabeth kept the books, she had been able to pay the freed men a living wage and still keep up appearances that the Gaines family was upper crust society.
Somehow Glenda was able to finish meeting with the empty headed Susannah without too much eye rolling. She pretended to hear her three year old twins fussing in their nursery and shuffled out Susannah into her waiting carriage.
“You roll your eyes too much they’re going to stay that way.” Cinnamon commented. “And now you need to ask Jesus for forgiveness lying to that nitwit that you heard Lula and Caleb crying.
“Well, at least you got to leave the room occasionally. And you need to get down repent for the nitwit insult.” Glenda retorted back.
“Don’t forget that quilts need to be aired out tonight.” Cinnamon’s voice was steady but Glenda knew her friend was pensive.
“Yes and I thinking the Flying Geese needs a good one tonight. Over that way.” Glenda motioned her head toward the southeast toward a shed hidden by vines and eventually, Savannah. Since most slaves were illiterate and men really didn’t study quilts, the Railroad used certain patterns to illustrate messages. The Flying Geese pointed the way to a safe place and eventual freedom.
Later that evening, Glenda picked at her dinner. Every time fugitive slaves were coming, her stomach lurched. Glenda knew full well that she would never see her children again if she was exposed as the infamous Ruth. But her nausea would get worse if she sat back and did nothing.
When the crickets reached their zenith with little moonlight, Glenda tucked her crochet away and peered out the window. She was still waiting for the two men and three children who had run from a farm outside of Athens. Was that a lantern she saw? And she heard the distinct mumbling of men’s voices interspersed with yipping. The hunting dogs were out.
As the scant light from the window shone on the faces, Glenda gasped. The overseer from the plantation next to Summerflame and several others Glenda knew from church were armed to the teeth and looked ready to kill.
Without thinking of her safety, Glenda flew to the parlor to retrieve another quilt. This one had the Drunkard’s Path in red and yellow. This meant danger and to do your best in hiding your tracks. She had to get the first quilt down and throw this up without alerting the slave trackers.
As she pulled the Flying Geese quilt around her shoulders and replaced it with the warning quilt, one commanding voice yelled, “Stop!”
She flinched when felt the first shot enter her side through her quilt. Then another pierced her upper torso.
Lucas’ face swam above her, horrified. “Glenny, oh my God, what are you doing out? I thought you were a fugitive with that quilt wrapped around you.” He gathered her up and rocked her. “I killed my wife. I killed my wife.”
Glenda tried to form words to tell him she loved him but her soul left her body at the same time she breathed her last.
Present Time
Trixie’s eyes were filled with tears. “So Lucas accidentally shot his wife? That’s so sad.”
Lucille nodded. “DuPonts will always meet a tragic or violent end. It’s never easy. Lucas was not the same after that. He eventually died during the Civil War. The doctor said it was pneumonia but everyone knew he died that day in 1851.”
Lucille closed her eyes for a minute. “The Flying Geese quilt is in that chest at the foot of the bed. Cinnamon never tried to get the blood stains out or throw it away to remind herself that her best friend gave her life so others could be free. She stayed at Summerflame to take care of Glenda’s twins. She even took Glenda’s maiden name when the war was over. Cinnamon Wallis lived to be a force to be reckoned with for equality before Martin Luther King even drew his first breath.”
Cinnamon's Cucumber-Butter
Mix 4 tablespoons softened butter, 1/2 teaspoon grated lemon zest and 1 tablespoon chopped fresh herbs. Spread on white bread and sandwich with sliced cucumber. Trim the crusts and cut into pieces.
Summerflame Manor had a reputation of being the home of several ghosts and even a lost chupacabra that immigrated to rural Georgia sixty years ago during the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Everyone in Jaemore County steered clear of the manor.
The house itself was a mishmash of period architecture—Queen Anne, Gothic, Craftsman. And while it was impressive, it also bespoke of being ignored for decades by its owners. All locals knew the DuPont family was cursed. Oh they had money clear back before the War of Northern Aggression when the DuPonts owned the finest peach orchards in the South but no amount of money or jewels could buy a long life. Each generation had its share of unfortunate accidents, poisonings and vendettas. Finally, the grand old southern family had dwindled to one elderly lady named Lucille DuPont.
Trixie Charles and her husband, Buster, had just parked their red 1971 Ford pickup on the grounds of Summerflame Manor near the mansion. The line to enter was only four people deep but then again, it was almost 5:00 a.m. on a Friday morning.
The lure of the “Estate Sale” sign on the side of Highway 78 in Athens had been too great. Their one-time hobby had exploded into a small business of antique picking for consignment and antique stores around the Athens, GA area.
“I cannot wait to get my greedy hands onto some of the DuPont stuff.” Trixie drummed her fingers nervously on the dashboard. “Buster. Buster. BUSTER!”
Buster shook himself awake and grunted. “Yes. Dirty hands. DuPont junk.”
“No. I said greedy hands. I don’t have dirty hands.” Sometimes her husband would drive her to drink whiskey if she was a drinking woman. “I’ve heard of a first edition of Gone with the Wind there and I want it. And there’s a stained glass lamp, the gravy boat in the discontinued Spode pattern and then…”
Trixie stopped when she spied her biggest competitor—Milo Hanks—parked two cars down. She hurriedly grabbed her bright orange tote and punched her sleeping hubby awake.
“Let’s go and grab your bag.” Trixie said as she sprinted to the porch. The bag swung beside her. It contained her tools—a bank money bag full of change and twenty one dollar bills as well as a blue light, a jeweler’s loupe and her trusty Swiss army knife.
When Buster reached his wife, Trixie pulled out her list. “Now, Buster, you’ll be lookin’ for red Bakelite brooch with the cherries on it. Then move to the Spode gravy boat and make sure you find that quilt with the Dresden Wheel pattern.”
Trixie stopped talking when she realized Buster had leaned up against a porch pillar and was fast asleep with his eyes open.
“Buster, wake up and wipe your mouth. You’re drooling.”
“I’m tired and I don’t want to be here.” He complained. “Anyway I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyeballs.”
“So.” The nasal voice of Milo Hanks interrupted the couple. “You’re after the quilts too?”
Trixie whirled around and faced her ugly opponent. Milo Hanks moved to the area a year ago from Chicago. He claimed he was a direct descendant of Colonel Joseph Tucker who was a notorious Union prison camp commander during the Civil War. Trixie just was sure Hanks had a reptilian ancestor in addition to being a dreaded Yankee. He had all the hallmarks of a rattler—slitted eyes, a forked tongue and he positively slithered around inflicting nasty insults on unsuspecting people.
“Oh, I don’t know if I want all of them.” Trixie replied airily and deliberately turned her back on the odious man. Sometimes she imagined she could beat the snot out of him.
“I have a lady from New Hampshire interested in those folksy Southern textiles. I told her they are not really art and not worth much but you know clients….they want what they want.”
“Well, bless your and your clients’ hearts.” If Milo had any sense, he’d realize Trixie just insulted him. ‘Bless your heart’ is a thinly veiled insult widely used by polite Southern women that translate to “you’re an idiot.”
The front door flew open to reveal a tall, cadaverous gentleman with a well-worn suit and bowtie for whimsy. Trixie shuddered involuntarily. He looked like Lurch from the Addams Family.
“Good morning.” The live corpse’s voice belied the sickly appearance. It fairly bellowed in the early morning air with Georgia elocution. “I am Jefferson Sawyer, the DuPont family’s attorney. The estate sale will commence shortly.”
Milo’s snort of derision made Trixie’s blood boil. She wondered how much prison time she’d get if hit him with rolls of quarters.
Sawyer went on as if he had not heard Hanks. “There are items in every room on every floor. The DuPonts have been collecting items since 1837. Also there will be no haggling. The instructions are very specific about haggling and quite frankly, I agree. It’s rude. Next it is a cash only sale and once you purchase your item, it is yours forever.”
Trixie frowned at that. Forever? What an odd way of saying there’s no take backs.
Sawyer cleared his throat. “It begins now.” He moved quickly out of the way as the first four people rushed in the door.
“Remember, Buster. Get the brooch and the Spode gravy boat. I’m heading upstairs.” She pushed past the first few and sprinted upstairs. Although the lights were on, the upstairs hallway was immaculate but dreary. Oil paintings of long dead DuPonts and landscapes long forgotten lined the judges’ paneling. An ancient runner completed the tableau.
Trixie took a second to inspect the first painting of a Southern plantation landscape. Pulling out her loupe, she barely contained a whoop of joy. It was signed by Thomas Addison Richards, a noted English artist from the 19th century. She lifted it and swung it carefully on the ground. Digging through her bag, she found an index card with ‘Charles’ written in big block letters and gently stuck it in the painting.
Another quick glance at the other paintings netted no more signatures.
The first door on the right was ajar but Trixie spied nothing of interest in the bedroom. Typical 1970’s décor.
The next few doors did nothing for her. The master bedroom was still unfound. Holding her breath, she opened the last door on the right and breathed a sigh of relief.
The master bedroom beckoned her in. The Empire style furniture was overshadowed by an enormous marble fireplace. Twin chairs faced each other with a small table and chess set. It literally looked as if she interrupted a game.
The bed was in itself a masterpiece with sage green and butter yellow comforter. A lady’s chaise lounge by the open balcony windows had a tattered copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice on it.
“Why, hello.” A lilting drawl with a note of kindness surprised Trixie.
When she twirled around, Trixie towered over an elderly woman dressed in vintage black Chanel with a lovely set of pink pearls. While Trixie was only 5’3, the smiling lady had stooped down, leaning an ebony cane.
“I’m Lucille Bellamy DuPont.” The newcomer introduced herself.
“I’m Trixie Charles.” Trixie started to hold out her hand for a shake but the little woman hobbled with surprising quickness to the chaise lounge. In her wake was the scent of Chanel Number 5.
“Have a seat, dear. I don’t bite.” Lucille motioned toward one of the chairs near the fireplace. “I do get so little company these days.”
Although the sale was in full swing, Trixie thought it was better to indulge the senior citizen.
“I’m sorry if I interrupted you. I thought Mr. Sawyer said all the rooms had items in them.”
Lucille flicked her wrist. “No, dear, the fault is mine. I just had to spend one more day here before I leave for good. This house is full of memories—both good and bad. Call me sentimental but I wanted to relive a bit of history.” She shifted and went on. “Do you have anything in particular that you’re after?”
“I wanted to look at the Dresden Wheel quilt. I heard that that pattern was used in the Underground Railroad before the Civil War as a secret code for escaped slaves.”
“There is a Dresden Wheel quilt and it is very lovely but if I remember correctly, that pattern was not made until the 1920’s so it couldn’t have been used for the Railroad.”
“Oh, stink.” Trixie jutted out her lip like a toddler. “My knowledge of quilts is not like it should be.”
Lucille flicked her wrist. “Much of quilt history is lost since it was considered women’s work so most history is handed down orally. The quilt pattern you need to be looking for is the Flying Geese pattern. Slaves could tell which direction to go for safety, food and water.”
Trixie’s interest was piqued so she moved her chair closer to Lucille. “Do you know anything else about the Underground Railroad codes?”
“Why, yes. My husband's great, great, great—whatever three greats ago—grandma was involved. Her name was Glenda Wallis DuPont and she was the only white woman in this area of Georgia who ran a stop or as it was called a depot.” Lucille started to cackle. “Her husband, Lucas, never knew.
“What? I never would have thought…”
“The DuPonts were slave owners. While Lucas was working them, Glenda was freeing them. Do you want to hear whole story?”
Trixie found herself nodding and leaning forward more…
The Quilt (1851)
“I swear, Glenda, I find myself befuddled. Why would Lureen run away like she did?” Susannah Greenleaf fanned herself. “She was treated better than some of those white trash people like the Lyons.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Glenda replied and tried valiantly not to roll her eyes. Susannah Greenleaf didn’t have the sense God gave to a rock. “Maybe she wanted to be free.”
Susannah stopped mid ship. “What did you say?”
Dang it, Glenda thought to herself. She had said it out loud and the most notorious gossip and egghead in three counties heard her. “Maybe she wanted to be ornery. You know to stir up trouble?” Glenda crossed her fingers and caught her maid’s eye.
Cinnamon snapped to attention and rushed to the tea service. “Miss Susannah, would you like to try these new sandwiches? Mrs. Glenda told the cook to make cucumber butter and it’s ever so refreshing.”
“Why thank you Cinnamon. I do believe I will. And you sound so refined. Maybe you can teach my new maid some manners. Or even better, maybe Mr. DuPont will sell you to me.”
“No, Cinnamon is not for sale.” Glenda rushed to correct Susannah. In reality, Glenda had her father free Cinnamon when she became engaged to Lucas. Cinnamon rebuffed the idea of leaving Georgia and quite frankly, Glenda was glad. She and Cinnamon were tutored together and had been constant companions since they could walk.
In fact, it was Cinnamon who approached Glenda about helping escaped slaves. In time, Summerflame was the first stop in the area for fugitive Africans. It didn’t take long for the formidable team funnel the slaves out of central Georgia and into Savannah. No one suspected least of all her husband that Glenda was the infamous “Ruth” from the Underground Railroad. Most ran up north but Summerflame had entertained one of Lucas’ business associate and his wife from Savannah who ran a very dangerous depot on the Railroad. In fact, the fugitive, Lureen, was sent via the DuPont’s depot.
Elizabeth and Thomas Gaines built their shipping empire entirely on freed blacks which would have caused contention in Savannah but since Elizabeth kept the books, she had been able to pay the freed men a living wage and still keep up appearances that the Gaines family was upper crust society.
Somehow Glenda was able to finish meeting with the empty headed Susannah without too much eye rolling. She pretended to hear her three year old twins fussing in their nursery and shuffled out Susannah into her waiting carriage.
“You roll your eyes too much they’re going to stay that way.” Cinnamon commented. “And now you need to ask Jesus for forgiveness lying to that nitwit that you heard Lula and Caleb crying.
“Well, at least you got to leave the room occasionally. And you need to get down repent for the nitwit insult.” Glenda retorted back.
“Don’t forget that quilts need to be aired out tonight.” Cinnamon’s voice was steady but Glenda knew her friend was pensive.
“Yes and I thinking the Flying Geese needs a good one tonight. Over that way.” Glenda motioned her head toward the southeast toward a shed hidden by vines and eventually, Savannah. Since most slaves were illiterate and men really didn’t study quilts, the Railroad used certain patterns to illustrate messages. The Flying Geese pointed the way to a safe place and eventual freedom.
Later that evening, Glenda picked at her dinner. Every time fugitive slaves were coming, her stomach lurched. Glenda knew full well that she would never see her children again if she was exposed as the infamous Ruth. But her nausea would get worse if she sat back and did nothing.
When the crickets reached their zenith with little moonlight, Glenda tucked her crochet away and peered out the window. She was still waiting for the two men and three children who had run from a farm outside of Athens. Was that a lantern she saw? And she heard the distinct mumbling of men’s voices interspersed with yipping. The hunting dogs were out.
As the scant light from the window shone on the faces, Glenda gasped. The overseer from the plantation next to Summerflame and several others Glenda knew from church were armed to the teeth and looked ready to kill.
Without thinking of her safety, Glenda flew to the parlor to retrieve another quilt. This one had the Drunkard’s Path in red and yellow. This meant danger and to do your best in hiding your tracks. She had to get the first quilt down and throw this up without alerting the slave trackers.
As she pulled the Flying Geese quilt around her shoulders and replaced it with the warning quilt, one commanding voice yelled, “Stop!”
She flinched when felt the first shot enter her side through her quilt. Then another pierced her upper torso.
Lucas’ face swam above her, horrified. “Glenny, oh my God, what are you doing out? I thought you were a fugitive with that quilt wrapped around you.” He gathered her up and rocked her. “I killed my wife. I killed my wife.”
Glenda tried to form words to tell him she loved him but her soul left her body at the same time she breathed her last.
Present Time
Trixie’s eyes were filled with tears. “So Lucas accidentally shot his wife? That’s so sad.”
Lucille nodded. “DuPonts will always meet a tragic or violent end. It’s never easy. Lucas was not the same after that. He eventually died during the Civil War. The doctor said it was pneumonia but everyone knew he died that day in 1851.”
Lucille closed her eyes for a minute. “The Flying Geese quilt is in that chest at the foot of the bed. Cinnamon never tried to get the blood stains out or throw it away to remind herself that her best friend gave her life so others could be free. She stayed at Summerflame to take care of Glenda’s twins. She even took Glenda’s maiden name when the war was over. Cinnamon Wallis lived to be a force to be reckoned with for equality before Martin Luther King even drew his first breath.”
Cinnamon's Cucumber-Butter
Mix 4 tablespoons softened butter, 1/2 teaspoon grated lemon zest and 1 tablespoon chopped fresh herbs. Spread on white bread and sandwich with sliced cucumber. Trim the crusts and cut into pieces.