She nodded. “And you mustn’t worry, Reverend Donegal. It’s true that some of the bones will be boxed and sent for analysis, but the people at the Smithsonian are very careful and reverent. They’ll be returned, and we’ll see to it that all the dead are reinterred with prayers and all the respect that’s due them. And I believe that once the significance of what we’ve found here has been verified, the Park Service will have its way. A lovely memorial and a facsimile of the church will be built, and generations of visitors will be able to enjoy the beautiful countryside and learn about everything that happened here during both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars.” Her smile turned slightly rueful. “I know you did a great deal to help refugees during the Revolutionary War, but this very house was a stop for escaping slaves during the days of the Underground Railroad. There was also a Civil War skirmish in the front yard here. It’s amazing the place is still standing.”
“Solid construction,” Reverend Donegal said sternly. “Folks to care for her. Why, I remember, years and years ago, of course, when I came many a Sunday to this house for my tea following services…ah, lovely then, it was. So much excitement and fear. A new country.” His eyes darkened, and he seemed troubled for a minute. “Pity…one war always leads to the next. It hurt me to be here…to see so many fine men die, North and South, believing in the same God…. Ah, well, never mind. There’s always hope that man will learn from his mistakes.” He paused, his old eyes clouding, and she knew he was looking back to his own time, firmly fixed in his mind.
Of course, she knew his story. He had worshipped the hostess of his very house from afar, always entirely circumspect, but enjoying every opportunity to be in her company. He had faithfully served his flock of parishioners; a good man. His one pleasure had been his Sunday tea. And so, one day, he had come here, had his tea…and then died of a heart attack in the arms of the woman he had secretly adored for so many years. Leslie had thought at first that he must have been a very sad ghost, seeking the love he hadn’t allowed himself in life. But that hadn’t been the case at all. She had discovered that he had been at peace with himself; that his distant and unrequited love for Mrs. Adella Baxter had in actuality been a pleasant fantasy but not one he had truly hoped to fulfill. He had enjoyed his life as a bachelor, administering to his flock. He had stayed all these years because he felt so many of his flock needed to be remembered. In short, he had wanted the graveyard found.
At first, he hadn’t trusted her. He’d tried a dozen tricks, moving her brush around, locking her suitcase, hiding her keys. He hadn’t expected her to see him, and he certainly hadn’t expected her to get angry, yell at him and demand that they talk. Once they had, he’d become an absolute charmer. Through his eyes, she’d seen the house as it had been in his day. She’d experienced his passion as he’d spoken of what he and so many others had gone through to establish a new country; his fear that he might be hanged as a traitor—something that had been a distinct possibility many times during the brutal years of the Revolution. He was deeply disturbed that so few of the people who passed through the old house were aware of just how precarious the struggle for freedom had been. “You can’t understand,” he had told her. “We almost lost the war. In fact, it’s a miracle that we won. And all those men who signed the Declaration of Independence? They would have been hanged! So many risked so much. Ah, well, God does show his will, against all odds.”
Right now he seemed lost in thought.
“Thank you for your help,” she said very softly to him.
He nodded, then wagged a finger at her. “I expect you to play fair, young lady. You see that the right thing is done by my people. Especially little Peg. You did find her grave, didn’t you, right where I sent you?”
Leslie nodded, then stared at the fire for a moment, as lost in the past as he had been. It was strange. Before the blast, she’d had intuitions, like the one that had helped her find the homeless man. As if she could close her eyes and imagine something of a life now gone, then home in on it. Logic? Instinct? Something more? She couldn’t have said. But now…
Now ghosts came into her life.
“I will see that Peg’s story is told,” she assured Reverend Donegal. She repeated what he had told her before about the girl. “Peg, aged ten, walked the ten miles from town through a pouring, freezing rain to bring the men from the county together when she knew an attack was coming. She rallied the local troops, and they successfully defended the river and the plantation here, all because of her bravery. She died of the fever that came on her that night, after her journey through the rain and cold and enemy lines. And after the war…well, people were poor. She was given the best burial they could manage.”
He nodded in satisfaction. “A statue would be very nice. You will get someone to pay for a statue?”
“I’ll pay for a statue of her myself, if need be,” she assured him.
He looked at her indignantly. “A statue of me!” he declared. “Oh, well, of course, Peg must be honored, too, I suppose.”
“You’ll have a place when they rebuild the church, and Peg will be honored in the graveyard. How’s that?” she said, glad she could smile.
He nodded, staring at the fire. “There’s a chill in here,” he said. “Ah, these old bones…”