Lost Souls Recovered, page 3
Richmond had been good to Tyrone. The city was a bottomland along the James River, with fecund soil that produced crops such as tobacco, all kinds of leafy green vegetables, corn, and soybeans for the Billingslys. Although several fruit trees dotted the landscape, Billingsly’s prized trees were always peach and apple trees. Billingsly’s expansive farmland, which seemingly stretched to the horizon, fed his family, his horses, his farm animals, and workers and their families.
Like many businesses in the Confederacy following the War, Tredegar would later fall into financial trouble, which caused Billingsly’s fortunes to suffer. He had to shut down his major shop, which in turn caused him to cut back on household discretionary spending, which rang discordantly with Laura.
Laura never understood. Her rightful place was at the top of the Richmond bon ton. She had been lectured from birth on the stringent social graces of a privileged people. Although Billingsly told her that trade across the Atlantic had come to a halt as a result of the War and the defeat of the Confederacy, Laura searched for any business that could sell her things to which she had been accustomed. She didn’t find much, but whatever she found she’d purchase in Billingsly’s name, which was enough to cause Billingsly to curse her. He told her that they could lose Billingsly one day. Laura dismissed such an unthinkable notion, and blithely went about her life, assured that Tyrone would see that she’d never fall from atop her bon ton perch.
Billingsly would soon lose more money. A fire destroyed one of his smaller foundry shops, and the other shops suffered from poor management. He endeavored to stave off his hungry creditors by using one loan to satisfy another. But even as a man who had been chosen as Richmond’s businessman of the year, he had become unworthy of credit.
By 1887, Tyrone simply went through the motions of working; his mind was elsewhere, and he accomplished little. He made the trip home to Billingsly one evening and removed his white starched shirt as he stood in front of the oval mirror, attached to the mahogany dresser in the master bedroom. He stared in the mirror as though he didn’t recognize the person staring back; his mounting financial crisis had aged him, and his face was even craggier.
Without preamble, Tyrone said to Laura as he sat next to her on the bed, “They’re after me, the damn banks.”
She had known that something was wrong from the moment he walked into the room. She had already begun to cry. She was angry that her husband was failing her, failing to live up to the standards that she believed were predetermined for her at birth. “Why, why is this happening?” Laura said while crying on her husband’s chest, pounding it softly with her right hand.
John was in Billingsly’s second-floor private study, which was adjacent to the cavernous bedroom. The books that filled the shelves in the room included such topics as literature, botany, history, animal husbandry, and finance. In moments when he took a break from cleaning, he sometimes removed a book from the shelf. He’d stroke its spine, then he’d open it. He’d quickly write down a few words he didn’t know and look up the words at home in a dictionary Tyrone had given him.
John had just finished scrubbing the oak wood floor. As he prepared to retire for the evening, he overheard Tyrone say in a raised but sober voice, “Listen to me, Laura.”
Laura ignored him.
“I said listen to me,” he repeated in the same tone.
Laura screamed, “Why did you let this happen? You have ruined me! Tell me what reason do I have to live?”
John had heard them argue before, but this argument seemed different, an ominous-sounding one. He edged closer to the door in the study to listen.
Although Tyrone was used to Laura’s self-entitled attitude, her words rankled him this time more than usual. He was the one who’d made the money, who’d afforded Laura an extravagant lifestyle. All he wanted from her was a little understanding and appreciation of what he was going through. At the nadir of financial downfall, he could not even count on her for emotional support to get him through the mess that had befallen him.
It’s something we must face. He steadied himself for what he needed to say, something that would knock Laura off her deep foundational Richmond roots. “Laura, we may need to leave here soon ... for our safety. The banks will harass us, and we can’t count on the law to protect us.”
The house that had been paid for was in hock. The banks wanted their money, and Tyrone could no longer keep up with payments, even when he had borrowed from a loan shark, who had warned Tyrone he had missed a few payments.
She sighed deeply, and her body shook with spasms.
Tredegar had made a slight comeback after the War, but its fortunes didn’t last long. Tyrone blamed everything on the War. “Ever since we lost the War, our fortunes have suffered,” Tyrone continued. “Tredegar, one of my biggest customers, has not been the same since the economy went sour in seventy-three. The one thing I know well is the iron and metals business. It’s moving south now, where steel is being made. We need to follow it.”
Laura hated talk about the War. “That damn war. It’s ruined everything. Those Union bastards burned our beautiful city.”
Tyrone looked into Laura’s misty, cerulean eyes. He wanted to correct her, to tell her that the Confederate government authorized the burning of buildings, which resulted in considerable damage to Richmond’s business district. He dared not tell Laura that he’d actually thanked Union soldiers for extinguishing fires in the business district. He knew it wasn’t the time to be correct, and certainly not the time to tell her that he’d ever said a nice word about Union soldiers.
Laura had a positive thought. She managed a flicker of a smile. “But we can bring back Richmond, make it more glorious than ever, Tyrone. You’re savvy enough to make it happen.”
At Tyrone’s look of resignation, Laura ramped up her entreaty. “I can never leave this place, Tyrone. I’ve lived in Richmond all my life. My daddy, granddaddy, and great-granddaddy were born and raised in this city. I can breathe no other air but Richmond’s.”
Tyrone looked out of the large bedroom window and stared at a grove of elm trees in the back yard. He wished he had told her at once instead of letting things drip out. He just had to say it. “The Old Security Bank has called in a loan; they’re close to getting the deed to this house. They’ll be coming soon. We need to take our things and leave.”
Laura sobbed again. She longed to turn back the clock to rewrite the War’s end.
Tyrone’s relief at having told her something he had known for some time that was inevitable lifted a heavy weight from his heart and mind.
He walked to the five-foot-by-three-foot oil on canvas portrait of Papa Billingsly, Tyrone’s father, that hung on the wall opposite their massive four-poster mahogany, white cotton, canopy-framed bed. The portrait dominated the room. He had hung it there, so he could see the slender-nosed, portly, bearded white man with his hand in his waistcoat, like Napoleon, every time he walked out of the bedroom. He thought his father had been a wise man and still hoped to learn from him even though he was dead. He stroked the ornately carved oak frame for a few seconds, then gently removed the portrait from the wall, exposing the family safe. He opened the safe and retrieved a thick wad of money wrapped in a white band.
“We’ll use this money,” he said, showing it to Laura. “We’ll find a new life somewhere else. I’ll start another business. We have enough money to last a while.”
Laura went numb. She sat on a bergère and stared blankly out of the window.
Tyrone sat on the bed and leaned over and rubbed Laura’s right thigh, trying to console his grief-stricken wife. She turned her torso away from him, erecting a wall between them.
Unable to console her, he got up, closed the safe door, put the portrait of his father back in place. He moved a few steps back and peered into his father’s gray eyes. As if his father spoke to him, he suddenly remembered two whiskey flasks that Papa Billingsly had given him before he died.
When Tyrone and his six siblings were young, Papa Billingsly would hide treasure around his vast estate. He’d give the children clues to use to search for the coveted prize—whether it was gold and silver coins or just trinkets; the children were always ready for this sporting game. Tyrone recalled that Papa Billingsly read books about lost treasure and had gone on a few expeditions off the Barbary Coast to look for treasure.
So, it was not a surprise to Tyrone when Papa Billingsly told him years ago that he buried the gold and silver coins and bars on the grounds of Billingsly while Tyrone and the family vacationed in France.
“Can never go wrong with gold,” his father had said ever since Tyrone had been a young boy.
Tyrone had kept the flasks hidden in his study for years, seldom thinking about them, as he had always had more than enough money to take care of his business and to satisfy Laura.
“Laura, Papa left me—left us—something very valuable, which may help sustain us for a good while. It could help restore some of our wealth,” he said as a dig at his creditors. “We’ll need it after we leave here.”
John listened, pressed up against the doorjamb in the study.
“So where is this stuff, this valuable stuff?”
“Don’t know exactly where, but Papa said the clues to finding it are on the whiskey flasks Pa gave me.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about this, Tyrone?”
“I don’t rightly know, Laura, but I’m telling you now. I’ll get some men, and we’ll start digging after I return from a business trip in a few days’ time.”
“Where are these flasks?”
“In the oak cabinet in my study.”
“Jesus,” John whispered, looking at the cabinet.
Laura’s life was with Tyrone; without him, she’d cease to exist. She needed to cling to any hope that she’d see her wealth again someday. “Tyrone, you’ve got to promise me this is going to work out. I just need to hear you say it.”
Tyrone nodded. “We’ll be fine, dear. I’m going to take care of you, just like I have always done.”
Tyrone threw his arms around Laura and hugged her, hoping to offer her a small measure of comfort, but instead he felt her disdain with her cold embrace. The businessman who had always walked and acted with great confidence was faltering in his wife’s eyes. He needed to reassure her in some way. “Come with me.”
John heard Tyrone and Laura walk out of their bedroom. He looked through the door frame and saw them holding hands, walking to the other side of the house. As they stepped to the far side of the mansion, John stepped quietly in an open area and saw Billingsly open the French doors that led to the balcony. John stepped closer to the French doors to listen to their conversation.
Tyrone and Laura stood on the balcony, holding hands, just like they had done so many times before when they lorded over Billingsly watching their subjects come to them in supplication.
He looked into her sullen eyes. “I’ve been reduced in circumstance, but it’s just temporary.”
“What is it that is so valuable about the flasks?”
“Papa said he buried valuable items on our land.” Tyrone figured he knew that a lot of gold lay buried on his property somewhere but decided not to tell Laura. It would be a wonderful surprise for her soon. “Don’t know rightly what it is, but I’m thankful for his deed.” With a less than confident tone, he let the words blow out: “We’ll use the flasks to keep Billingsly, now and forever.”
John didn’t know what fortunes the flasks contained, but he knew he wanted them. It would be just a matter of time before he’d go after the flasks.
4 — Spring, 1887
Laura had not been the same since Tyrone told her about his financial difficulty a few days ago. The news had hit her hard in the one place where she could seek refuge: the knowledge that she would always have wealth and Billingsly.
She gasped for air as she reflexively woke up after her heart stopped beating for a few seconds. She sat up in bed and felt a gush of blood coursing through her arteries as if the racing blood were making up for lost time. Her entire body trembled. She covered her heart with her shaky right hand in an effort to stop the trembling.
As she continued to sit up in bed, her heart soon returned to its normal rhythm, assuring her that she was going to survive—at least for the moment, she thought. She scooted to the edge of the bed, allowing her legs to dangle about five inches from the floor, then slid off the bed and stood up and let her turquoise chemise fall to her ankles. She put on her white Egyptian-combed cotton housecoat that hung on the poster hook near the leather-framed headboard and took her first tentative steps to the window.
The late morning sun glistened in her somnolent eyes. She squinted a few times to adjust to the blast of sunlight. She knuckled dried rheum that had caked in the corners of her eyes, then moved slightly to the right, allowing a large Empress tree to filter out most of the penetrating sunbeams, giving her a clearer view of her grand botanical gardens, a place she sometimes relied upon to console her when needed.
Tyrone had left two days ago to meet with businessmen who were interested in purchasing his foundry business, and Laura had been in a daze since, sleeping late, eating little, crying a lot, and wondering whether the flasks would be the deus ex machina she prayed for.
She toddled down the grand staircase, holding onto the balustrade to steady her shaky descent, still not fully awake. As she reached the bottom, the Russian grandfather clock in the corner of the foyer chimed loudly, announcing high noon. She touched her heart again with her right hand to make sure it was still beating. Satisfied that she could go on, she ambled to her favorite room, mindlessly touching the dining room table and adjusting some of the sterling silver on the tabletop. Dust-moted rays of light that shone through the slit of the heavy velvet drapes caught her attention.
Laura was proud of her opulent dining room, the showcase of the Billingslys’ home. The red oak wood floor held many pieces of the Billingslys’ prized European imported furniture, including the Victorian dining table, the centerpiece of the room. The table was made of the finest birch, and had dramatic arches and double pedestals, which featured carved leaf and rosette feet. The ten camelback chairs completed the ensemble. Laura’s sterling silver brought the table to life. She loved exhibiting many of her table wares for her society friends. The table couldn’t be too crowded for her. The more garish, the better. Her wealth had to stand out. The Tiffany pitcher, which her father had given her, dated back to the Revolutionary War, and had paneled sides and an embossed design with shells, scrolls, and flowers; it was the crown jewel of all her sterling silver.
“How you doing, Madame?” Sam asked as he walked in the dining room to set the table for Laura’s lunch. Sam was tall but reduced somewhat by age. He was balding, a seventy-year-old with a narrow nose, thin lips, sun-dried, leathery, tawny hands that were still quick enough to play the violin that he used to torment Laura.
She stared at him blankly.
“Can I get something for you?”
“Finish up and take the day off, Sam.”
“But, Madame, I got work to do here.”
“Do as I say! Finish up and leave.”
Sam nodded and bowed slightly. “Yes, Madame. As you wish.”
“Return tomorrow.”
Sam took Laura’s tart manner in stride. He had Tyrone on his side. Tyrone’s decision to keep Sam as part of the help had been an easy one. Sam was more than a cook; he was skilled at playing the violin, often entertaining the Billingslys’ guests in the garden and in the lavish dining room. He looked forward to playing the violin at a Billingsly ball; it was his way of sharpening his claws to exact revenge on the virago of Richmond; unlike Emmaline, her prized possession, Sam, like John and all the other servants, felt the vibrations of Laura’s excoriations countless times. As with John, Laura would on a whim curse Sam, pouring gasoline on his weakened heart.
As Sam well knew before the War, three small glasses of imported bourbon were all that was needed for Laura to fall under the spell of Sam’s violin. Once she hit her limit, Sam’s revenge meter jumped to full. Laura, a Presbyterian, loved to kick up her heels, and Sam was quick to oblige her. The degree to which Laura had scolded him over a period of time matched how much control he’d exercised over Laura’s dance movements. The harsher she scolded him, the more he’d torment her by playing the violin at a fast tempo.
Although she tried, it was always impossible for her to keep pace with Sam’s faster tempos. The knockout punch usually didn’t take long. After a few minutes of trying to keep pace with Sam’s beat, the effects of the alcohol were quick to show: She’d get dizzy and fall. One time, she hit her head on a table, which made Sam feel bad, and he second-guessed his puppetry game. But with the next scolding that came soon enough, Sam’s bad feelings were quick to evaporate. He’d figured he would just bide his time and would strike again at the next party, though celebrations slowed to a trickle once the War started.
Laura returned her attention to the sunlight and the dancing dust particles, trapped in the beams. She moseyed in front of the beams and stood there as if hoping they would take her to some ethereal place, a place far away from the maw of the hell she was afraid of living in. Billingsly was about to go under because of the traitors up north. Even Tyrone’s disclosure about the flasks and the wad of money did little to soothe her suffocating heart. Although the wad of money in the safe was real, she couldn’t bring herself to believe the flasks would reverse the impending financial doom.
“Madame, here some fresh cut flowers I put in a vase,” Sam said as she stood in front of the sunbeams.
She turned around, looking at the riot of fresh multicolored tulips. “Thank you, Sam. Put them on the table.”
