She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the bright sun glinting off the gold-leafed oak tree which had flourished between the house and the James River for over three centuries. Wafting off the water this morning was the warm scent of smoky campfires. Was it her imagination, or did the river shed memories of its own?
She went down a couple of stairs, thinking of the other soldiers in the family who had marched down them. Her ancestor, Major Mallory, had been the second one. The major had mounted his horse and ridden off to fight in the War of Northern Aggression. He’d been one of the lucky ones, though, and had come home in the spring of 1865 in one piece. Afterward, he had spent a decade as a US senator working on reconstruction. The same Senate seat had been held by members of Charlotte’s family until her mother, who had picked up the mantle following her husband’s death, had died in office during Charlotte’s junior year in high school.
The day was starting out perfectly, blessed with mild temperatures, a cloudless sky, and fall colors abounding in brilliant leaf showers. The planners of the 150th Reenactment of the Civil War Battle of Cedar Creek couldn’t have wished for a more beautiful day.
This was Jack’s kind of morning, too. Her older brother, a New York Times and internationally best-selling mystery author and the full-time resident of Mallory Plantation, was in the mountains, out of cell phone range, finishing the edits on his Revolutionary War mystery. He was tossing around ideas with his agent for his next book, but hadn’t come up with anything specific. Inspiration would come. It always did, and then he’d rush off in a reckless dash, chasing his muse.
Charlotte reached her car, paused at the driver’s door of the SUV, and took another lingering look around the grounds of Virginia’s first plantation, settled in 1613. The current mansion, built in the early eighteen hundreds, replaced the original homeplace. Although the land was no longer an operating estate, its renowned beauty and history kept it at the top of the Commonwealth’s most touted historic sites. If her work didn’t require her to be closer to the hospital, she would live here. Her medical practice, though, was worth the sacrifice.
She climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled up, and went through her checklist one last time, nodding as she mentally checked off each item. Confident she had everything she needed for the two-day event, she headed down the plantation’s long driveway.
The oversized rural mailbox at the end of the drive was stuffed with magazines, bills, invitations, and announcements. She thumbed through the stack quickly. Most of her mail went to her house in Richmond, but occasionally acquaintances who didn’t have her city address sent letters to the plantation.
In the back of the mailbox was a package wrapped in brown paper and addressed to her. The return address label listed Mr. Digby, Solicitor, of Edinburgh, Scotland as the sender. She shook the box. Nothing rattled, but the timer on her iPhone beeped. She had set it as a drop-dead reminder. If she wasn’t turning out of the driveway onto the main road when it went off, she’d miss the start of the battle. She tossed the package onto the passenger seat and drove down the lane. Her curiosity would have to wait until she reached Middletown.
Before turning onto the highway, she shot a quick glance over her shoulder for a police car hiding in the shadows. No policemen with grumpy faces were waiting in their usual hiding place. Good. If she got another moving violation, she’d have to go to traffic school.
At least twice a week she stewed at intersections, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, waiting on lights regulating traffic on empty streets in the middle of the night. Nine times out of ten she ran the red, and frequently a policeman pulled her over. She would then explain to the officer the minutes she lost sitting at traffic lights—when there were no other cars on the road—put her patients’ health in jeopardy. Unless she discovered a better alternative, she’d continue to violate traffic laws in those situations and pray a traffic court judge didn’t yank her license permanently, as the last one had threatened to do.
Besides, every so often she needed a whiff of danger.
Although she was often late, this morning’s delay was unavoidable. After rounds, the chief resident had called her in for a consult. The patient had been shot in the abdomen during a liquor store robbery and was about to go to surgery. Over the course of her residency and practice in general surgery, she had operated on hundreds of gunshot victims and had become the go-to person for difficult cases. Most of her department and the nursing staff had known she was in a hurry to get out of town for the weekend to attend the reenactment, but medicine still came first.
During the two-hour trip to Middletown, she rehearsed the Civil War medical spiel she would give at the living history demonstration later in the day. She had given it many times but always added a new twist, some tidbit to entertain anyone in her audience who had heard her speak in prior years.
For today’s talk, she added information on Mary Edwards Walker, a surgeon in the Union Army and the only woman to receive the Medal of Honor. The doctor had also been a spy and was imprisoned in Castle Thunder in Richmond for four months until she was released in a prisoner exchange. Charlotte was inspired by Walker’s bravery and
