Timeswept Brides

"It looks like a wedding dress," she murmured as she held up the gown.

"Here it is," Jessica called, and Amanda draped the gown over the trunk and joined her. They angled a heavy gilded frame against the wall and stood back to gaze at the painting. "This portrait used to be up here in the attic when we were little girls," Jessica said after a moment. "Don't you remember?"

"Hey-I do remember. Only because Aunt Ha

"Who was she?"

Frowning, Amanda said, "Aunt Ha

A shaft of hazy light from the window fell across the portrait of a youthful woman garbed in the gown and seated on a bench in front of the house. A thick line of young magnolia trees provided the background; pale, creamy blossoms framed the woman's rather sad face.

"If this is a wedding portrait," Jessica said, "it must not have been a love match. She looks much too unhappy."

"Not according to family legend. Deborah went ahead with the sitting for this portrait even though her husband had just been killed in some war-Spanish-American, maybe? Anyway, she was pregnant, which made the tale more tragic. She said her husband had wanted the painting done, so now it would be a memorial to him and their love. According to Great-aunt Ha

"Just haunted the place. Great." Jessica replaced the portrait against the wall and covered it again. ' 'No wonder this dress has been packed away and lost all these years. It's unlucky. Well," she said, dusting her palms briskly, "shall we have lunch now?"

Afternoon brought heat with it, and the attic was left to be finished the next morning. By dusk, Amanda and Jessica had managed to clear out most of the second-floor bedrooms, itemizing the scanty contents quickly and efficiently.

"My back is aching," Jessica complained as they sat on the front porch sipping iced tea and watching evening shadows creep over the lawn. "All that junk-it's amazing what can be accumulated in so many years."

Amanda sipped her tea, thinking of those who had once lived in this house. Old memories had been sparked with every find, whether a crystal perfume bottle from the twenties or an 1890s' volume of poetry with spidery writing inscribed to a sweetheart on the front page. Bittersweet memories of forgotten times… Her chair creaked loudly as she rocked forward. Crickets hummed in the still, sultry air.

"I wonder," Jessica mused, "what would have happened to this house if not for that feud."

"I imagine it would remain in the family. I wish I knew the real reason for the feud."

"Well, you'll probably never find out. That information is lost to history." Jessica rose, pressing a hand to the small of her back and groaning. ' 'I'm going home to my husband. I'll be back in the morning to help you finish up the attic."

"I appreciate your help," Amanda said softly. "You're a good friend."

Jessica gri

But once Jessica left and the house seemed to enfold her in its embrace again, Amanda felt as if she had come home. Losing this house was painful. But she had the next few days here, and she was determined to wrest all the comfort and memories she could from them. Tomorrow would come soon enough. It always did.

Chapter Three

It was a hot night. Stuffy. Amanda sighed irritably and tried once more to get comfortable. The second-story bedroom windows were open, the black wire fan was on the dresser, and she was wearing only a thin-strapped nightie of ivory silk that reached midthigh, but she was still uncomfortably warm. Maybe she should read. There was a stack of books in the attic, along with decades of old magazines that might prove boring enough to put her to sleep. And if nothing else, it would at least make her insomnia informative. Sighing, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and fumbled for a robe.

The wood floor was surprisingly cool on the bare soles of her feet as she went down the hallway to the back stairs leading to the attic. The bottom step creaked loudly beneath her weight. It was dark on the stairs, and Amanda muttered to herself as she felt her way along.

Perseverance got her up the dark stairs to the attic door. The door was ajar, propped open with a heavy flatiron she'd found in one of the wooden crates. The irons made great doorstops, and she'd wanted the attic to air out before the next morning. She opened the door wider and stepped inside.

Dim patches of moonlight dappled the floor, filtered by the heavy magnolia trees that shaded the house. Fumbling for the switch, she turned on the light. The single bare bulb swung back and forth in a breeze from the open window, casting patches of light and shadow. Amanda sca

Lifting it curiously, she untied the ribbon and flipped open the leather cover. Neatly scrawled on the fly page was the name Deborah Jordan Scott and the date January 1864. She mulled over the name for several minutes, then caught her breath with excitement.

Could this be the same Deborah in the portrait? If so, the u

Regretfully, she closed the journal and retied the ribbon. No help there. When she glanced up, she saw the dress she was certain had belonged to Deborah Jordan Scott. It was still where she'd left it, draped gracefully over the open trunk.

Moving around a stack of books, Amanda reached for the dress. The fabric felt cool and satiny, the folds of material rustling slightly in the silence. She held it up to herself and stepped to the old cheval mirror propped against a wall. As a child playing dress-up, long skirts had trailed the floor and tripped her many times. But what would it be like to really wear the gowns of the antebellum period? Scarlett O'Hara had made it look so glamorous, when the reality was probably uncomfortable, inconvenient-and hopelessly romantic.

Amanda yielded to impulse and slipped out of her robe and unfastened the pearl buttons on the dress. She stepped into it rather awkwardly, slid her arms into the sleeves, and pulled it up. Her silk nightgown wadded up around her waist. It took her a moment to wriggle it down before she could adjust the satin folds of the wedding gown. Drat. It would be almost impossible to fasten all the buttons. Women back then must have been very agile. Or employed a maid to help them dress.

When she had most of them done, she turned to peer into the mottled glass of the old mirror. Even in the dim light, she could see that the gown had lost none of its beauty over the years. It fell in simple lines that draped elegantly over her hips down to her ankles. Masses of petticoats would have once swelled the long skirts into a swaying bell shape. Tiny pearls sewn into the material caught the light from the single bulb and shimmered in a misty glow. Intricate bead-work must have once adorned the gown, though now a lot of it was missing. Probably at the bottom of the trunk, along with other long-lost treasures.