Page 23 of Moonshine and Magnolias
“Whew.” The older woman settled gracefully onto the brown sofa and tucked her green flowered dress under her knees. She fanned herself with one hand. “I definitely don’t mind a handsome young man doing manual labor for me.”
Rob put the box on the cushion next to her. “Happy to do it, ma’am.”
“Draw down the curtains, honey, will you? It’s better for the books. Just halfway,” she told Hal. “This will be quite an undertaking. Are you sure you want to do it?”
Digging through yellowed, crumbling newspapers and reading dust-covered journals had become a burdensome rite of passage in his family, but it also appealed to the historian in him. He just wished the pursuit was solely academic. At least this time he and Hal were in the air-conditioned insides a centuries-oldhome and not in a humid swamp running from wildlife with blades for teeth.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rob answered. “When the tour outline mentioned some sites and information were based on old journals, I knew we had to study them.” Even if he’d rather take Wendy’s hand and find out what had upset her so much this morning.
She waved to the glass-protected shelves behind them. “We keep cloth gloves over there.”
Hal retrieved the box. Eulalee slipped on the gloves and pulled them tight against her fingers, taking everything slow in her, sweet, Southern manner.
The container Hal brought in contained the registries from years past. “Wendy said you wanted to look at the guest books.”
Rob leaned forward to see the row of identical white books. “Yes, thank you.”
“They’re stored chronologically, so hopefully what you’re looking for will be easy to find.” Eulalee put the cover back on and shifted it away, then patted the lid of the other box. “And these are the journals.”
“Do you know who wrote them?” Hal’s voice tinged with impatience. Rob shot him a warning look.
“Well, let’s see.” She handed Rob a pair of gloves, then removed the cover and something that resembled a pale yellow pillow with a flat surface in the middle. Inside were many smaller boxes, designed to keep the humidity at bay, labeled with names and dates. It made the history geek in him glow, that someone had stored the Clayton family history correctly instead of haphazardly throwing it into a dank attic.
Eulalee placed the pillow on the table in front of her, then read the side of a smaller box. “This one belonged to Caroline Clayton, my grandfather’s sister. Never married, and lived at Fountenoy Hall her whole life.” The woman rubbed the front of the container with her glove-covered fingers. “She was famous for everything pink. Pink parasols, pink hats. Pink ribbons for her hair. Oh, and the pink lipstick. Always the pink lipstick. She has the same eye colors as Brandi. In fact, Brandi looks a lot like her.”
She lifted the lid. Inside was a diary bound in faded pale-pink leather, which she placed on the padded surface.
Rob sat down and gave a grunt of curiosity when she shifted the cushion toward him. As a woman who knew the Hall as intimately as Caroline must have, she would have been privy to the more subtle nuances of their guests. Maybe she had met his uncle. He opened the book cover, but his attention shifted when Eulalee opened another box to reveal a dark brown journal. Compared to the delicate look of Caroline’s diary, that one had probably had been owned by a male, though it didn’t match his uncle’s. Behind him, Hal leaned in for a closer look.
“This one belonged to my grandfather, Isaac Clayton.” She pointed to the large portrait over the fireplace. “That’s him. This was his favorite room after his father renovated Fountenoy Hall from a boarding house to an inn, and he was the one who did most of the modernizations. Did you know the ballroom used to be on the second floor instead of on the first?”
Rob had, in fact, known that from the tour information, but he was more interested in what Ms. Eulalee held than an architectural lesson. “He must have been a smart man.”
“Very smart.” She held the journal carefully in her palm. “He wrote mostly accounts of construction improvements and ideas on what to do next, like converting the kitchen and adding more rooms.”
The musty odor of old pages reached Rob. The scent brought him a moment of serenity, like he was back in college and working on his thesis, hiding in the library stacks. In a less complicated time of his life.
“You’ve read them, then,” Hal said.
“Of course. When I was much younger, and then again when researching my ancestry. Some of these books are over two hundred years old.” She thumbed through the diary in her hand. “Some household accounts are in here, too. The ones from the 1800s and earlier are hard to read. They talk about slave traders and how much a fully-grown man costs versus a fertile woman. It’s vile. But I went through them all. I couldn’t ignore the living history in my house.”
“Ever discover anything juicy in there?” Hal rubbed his hands together at the thought of salacious details.
It was a great question, even if Rob didn’t dare acknowledge it. A research assistant would know what to ask.
“Do you mean if someone was sleeping with the maid or gambling away what remained of the family fortune? Caroline Clayton, who was a renowned beauty in her day, became an old maid because of a broken heart.” Eulalee lightly tapped the pink journal. “I don’t know if the scoundrel who left her miserable and alone is ever named. I never found it, and I was always shooed out of the room when the subject came up. It wasn’t proper conversation for a child.”
Rob mumbled something in agreement and nodded as if the topic required his concentration, but soap opera drama wasn’t the treasure he’d been hoping for.
“Well.” Eulalee rose from the brown sofa and Rob stood with her. “You boys have fun on your quest for information. Let me know if you find anything remarkable. I’m fixin’ to be in either the kitchen or the parlor.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Hal walked her to the door and slid it closed behind her.
First things first. Rob took out his tablet and brought up his notes on the tour. Isaac’s journal was mentioned, as was one of Caroline’s, but not the ones Eulalee had uncovered.
Hal glanced at Rob’s screen. “Are you serious?” he asked. “First you find out the Claytons were bootleggers and Uncle Louis had a reason to be here. Then you finagle a way to see these stupid old books. And instead of seeing if any of them belonged to him, you’re doing work?” He reached for the box.
Rob swatted his hand away. “They’re delicate. You’re not. Put on some gloves.” He scanned the neat row of labeled journals and selected one of Caroline’s that fell within the date range he needed. “Since I used the tour as an excuse, I need to actually produce something related before we go digging for our own gain.”
