Timeswept Brides

Amanda stepped to the trunk and moved aside the tissue that had cradled the gown. Some of the pearls should surely be here, perhaps still nestled in the crinkly folds of tissue paper. She unfolded some of it and heard a faint rattle as if pearls were falling into the bottom of the trunk. Digging deeper, Amanda found several folded sheets of yellowed newsprint below the tissue paper. She pulled it out carefully, in case some of the pearls were caught in the folds. A pen-and-ink drawing of a man with a small beard and plumed hat caught her immediate attention as she unfolded an old copy of the Memphis Appeal. The date of the paper was June 19, 1864.

BATTLE AT BRICE'S CROSS ROADS RESULTS IN FORREST

victory, read the caption above the ink drawing. Intrigued, she read the long article relating the details of Confederate General N. B. Forrest's lengthy fight and ultimate victory over Federal forces at Brice's Cross Roads in northern Mississippi. Why had someone saved this particular article? she wondered.

Then she glanced toward the bottom of the page as bold print seemed to jump out at her: holly springs man killed six months after wedding, it read. Curious, she sca

Amanda took a deep breath. The name of the dead man was listed as Lieutenant Michael Scott-leaving behind his widow, Deborah Jordan Scott. So here it was-the real reason behind the feud that still dogged her family. It was enough to divide a family, the suspicion that one brother had killed another, like Cain and Abel. She read further, and learned that the two had been scouts for General Forrest. How tragic. What had really happened? Had her great-great-grandfather killed his own brother?

Carefully folding the paper, she laid it atop the crate and sighed. After all this time, knowing the reason would hardly make any difference now. Things would still be the same, and the family estrangement just as strong.

"Too bad," she murmured as she straightened up, "that I can't change history." The wedding gown rustled softly as she moved to stand in front of the mirror again. Her image was reflected in a rosy halo of light and shadows. The gown hung loosely. On a whim, she reached behind herself to fasten the last three buttons, then turned back to look into the mirror.

Her reflection shimmered, and it seemed that it grew brighter and brighter, the satin folds of the gown taking on a luminous sheen. A sudden gust of wind through the open attic window made the light bulb swing wildly. It dimmed, then burned out, leaving the room in darkness. Amanda suddenly felt weak and dizzy, and reached out blindly to catch herself. There was nothing but empty air, and she sank slowly to the floor, arms flung out in front of her as she dropped to her knees.

Panting, fighting nausea, Amanda's head began to whirl. All her senses grew so muddled she couldn't form a coherent thought. It seemed like forever before her head stopped whirling. Her senses slowly returned to normal, though there was a ringing in her ears that seemed loud enough to be heard fifty miles away in Memphis.

Amanda sat back, groping for support. This was vaguely frightening, for she had never fainted before in her life. It was probably the heat. After all, she was accustomed to air conditioning, not this humid stuffiness.

Getting slowly to her feet, Amanda stood still for a moment to regain her balance and bearings. As her eyes grew used to the dimness, she was able to perceive squares of silvery light coming through the open attic window. It was bright, brighter than she remembered it being earlier. Was there a full moon? She couldn't remember. Everything was still so fuzzy, her mind unable to properly focus. Nothing seemed right. She felt out of place, oddly unsettled. Stifled, as if there weren't enough air.

Still slightly dizzy, Amanda made her way toward the window for some fresh air. She curved her palms over the window sill and leaned out, breathing deeply. The smell of honeysuckle was strong, mixed with the sweet fragrance of clover. It wafted in on a breeze that blew the hair back from her face. The night was cool now, and very dark. No sign of distant lights marked the highway, which was blocked out, she supposed, by the tall trees.

She frowned. There was something different-out of place. Trees… the huge, gnarled magnolia trees in front of the house didn't seem as tall now. And there were so many of them-not just the three, but a half-dozen or more. Instead of soaring higher than the house, they barely reached the top of the porch roof below. She blinked and rubbed her eyes. How very odd. It must be her perception. It was off, askew somehow, and distorted by her fainting spell.

Amanda took a deep breath and briefly closed her eyes. Then she heard a strange rumbling noise that sounded vaguely familiar even while recognition eluded her. Opening her eyes, she leaned out the window again. Flickers of motion could be seen between the tall, slender trunks of the oaks lining the driveway. Odd, but the oak trees looked so much smaller in the moonlight, shorter and not as spreading. The indistinct rumbling evolved into the definite sound of hoof-beats. Horses? To her shock, a band of mounted men thundered up the driveway. What on earth-?

Her fingers dug into the wooden frame as she stared down. Details leaped out at her in the bright moonlight. The gravel driveway was now rutted and muddy. The horsemen wore gray uniforms spattered with mud, and carried rifles and swords. They looked like-soldiers. One of them wore a plumed hat, and he swept it off as he reined in his horse in front of the house. Another horseman dismounted and leaped up onto the steps, moving out of Amanda's view. She heard him pound on the door and call out.

Confused, and assaulted by so many alien images that her mind could not assimilate them all, Amanda froze. Had she locked the front door? She tried to remember. Locking doors was habit in Memphis, but this was a small town with little need for locked doors. When the pounding grew louder, Amanda moved toward the attic door.

Tripping over the dragging hem of the dress, she realized that she could hardly go downstairs wearing a hundred-and-thirty-year-old gown. Quickly, she unbuttoned it, accidentally tearing loose one of the tiny pearl buttons. It fell to the floor and rolled away as she hastily draped the gown over a trunk.

Where was her robe? Hadn't she worn a robe? Where was the open trunk? The attic looked strangely empty, though there were stacks of boxes against one wall, and an old cradle next to two trunks. Her robe must have fallen behind something, and she spent several moments searching for it before deciding to look in one of the trunks. More pounding from below made her hurry, and she grabbed up a white cotton robe from the trunk and threw it around herself, fumbling with the lacy ribbons that tied it together across the front.

This was ridiculous. Why couldn't she find her robe? And who in heaven's name were those uniformed men down there? The National Guard? Were there flash floods? Tornado warnings? Something must be wrong for them to arrive so late at night. And why on horseback?

Amanda found her way down the back stairs in the dark, feeling her way along the wall until she reached the bottom step. The borrowed robe flapped around her ankles as she crossed the dark hall between the stairs and the kitchen. A flickering light glowed in the front parlor and entrance hall. She frowned. Hadn't she turned out all the lights downstairs?