Beautifully Dead
Chapter 06
April 23-26 2025, From a Merriweather’s perspective
Eli arrived at the Everett property just as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen across the overgrown lawn. The old house stood against the horizon like a sentinel of forgotten time—a feeling that resonated with him in ways he couldn't explain to others. The weathered clapboards and sagging porch reminded him of how quickly human structures fade, a lesson he'd observed far more thoroughly than most.
Harrison Taylor's black SUV was already parked in the drive. He'd called Eli that morning, his voice carrying the barely contained excitement of a man who believed he was delivering momentous news.
"She's here, Eli. The Everett heir. Arrived from Boston yesterday."
Boston. The word itself stirred something deep within him. The Everetts of Boston. Images of Thomas flickered through his mind—an earnest face, letters yellowed with age, so many discussions about how someone from Boston could fall in love with a Southern Belle, and of course, his connection to Dr. James Merriweather.
Eli parked his truck and approached the house, carefully composing his features into the pleasant expression of a local historian. Years of practice had made him adept at appearing exactly what others expected to see—just another middle-aged preservationist with a passion for local history. His carefully maintained appearance revealed nothing of the depth of his knowledge or his particular interest in this property.
Taylor spotted him through the window and emerged onto the porch, his polished loafers incongruous against the weathered boards.
"Perfect timing," he said, extending his hand. "Dr. Everett is exploring the study."
The study. Eli felt a flutter of anxiety, knowing what might be hidden there—letters, journals, evidence that could connect certain dots he preferred to keep separate. He'd been monitoring the property for years, ensuring the trust remained intact, waiting for the right Everett descendant. He needed to see what she'd found, how much she understood.
"Has she uncovered anything of consequence?" Eli kept his tone casual, though something about Taylor's excited demeanour made him momentarily distracted. He blinked and refocused his attention.
"She's only been here a few hours," Taylor replied. "I'll introduce you."
He knocked at the study door, calling out, "Dr. Everett? There's someone here you might want to meet. Elijah Merriweather from the historical society just arrived. He's quite knowledgeable about the property."
Eli heard movement inside—papers being quickly put away, a drawer sliding closed. She was hiding something. Smart woman.
"Coming," she called out.
When she opened the door, Eli found himself momentarily stunned. Something in her features not only triggered a profound sense of familiarity, but it sparked something else. Something he thought long lost. He knew family resemblances could persist across remarkable spans of time. But was it that?
"Dr. Amelia Everett," Taylor performed the introduction, "may I present Elijah Merriweather, director of the Fredericksburg Historical Preservation Society."
"Mr. Merriweather." She extended her hand, her eyes quickly assessing him with the practiced observation of an academic.
"Eli, please." He kept his handshake firm but brief, careful with his strength as he always was. "Welcome to Fredericksburg. I'm sure you're beginning to realize this, but you've inherited quite a significant historical property."
He watched her reaction carefully, noting the slight narrowing of her eyes at his tone. Clever woman—she sensed something beneath his neighborly welcome. He recognized the researcher's instinct immediately.
"The historical significance is precisely what interests me," she replied, studying him intently. "Particularly any connection to Dr. James Merriweather's medical work during the war."
The name sent a jolt through him that he struggled to disguise. He hadn't expected her to make that particular connection so quickly. Eli composed his features into a pleasant smile, though he felt that momentary tension around his eyes that often betrayed him.
"Yes, my ancestor's work has been well-documented in certain circles," he acknowledged smoothly. "However, I believe there are portions of his research that have not received the academic attention it deserves."
He watched her eyes light with academic curiosity. The implicit challenge in his words was unmistakable.
"Perhaps you could show me the property grounds while we discuss your ancestor's more... obscure contributions," she suggested, already reaching for her notebook.
As they stepped onto the porch, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the overgrown lawn. Eli led her through the property, pointing out boundaries and significant features with a familiarity that went beyond what research alone could provide.
"The original property extended to that ridge," he explained, gesturing toward the distant tree line. "During the Civil War, Union troops moved across this very field."
She made notes, her pen moving swiftly across the page. "Was Thomas Everett here any point during the war?"
"Yes," he replied carefully, weighing each word. "There was a point, even though he served as a Union chaplain."
"And Dr. Merriweather? Where was he during this time?"
Eli smiled slightly, a peculiar expression crossing his face. "He operated a field hospital less than a mile from here. The tobacco warehouse on Cary Street."
Amelia just shook her head in response.
"Hmm..." Eli expected more. "Aren't you going to ask how this property is tied to Dr. James Merriweather?"
Eli watched the subtle shift in her expression—the slight narrowing of her eyes, the momentary pause in her note-taking. A lifetime of observing human behavior had made him adept at reading these microexpressions. She was weighing something, deliberating on how much to reveal to a stranger who had appeared too conveniently, with too much knowledge. Her caution was palpable; he could almost sense the heightened alertness beneath her composed exterior, a reaction he had witnessed countless times when approaching guarded academics.
The hesitation in her eyes struck him with unexpected familiarity—that same careful calculation of trust versus caution. She glanced down at her notebook, then back at him, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around her pen.
"You're holding back," he said softly, not an accusation, simply observing. "You've found something that piqued your curiosity in the house."
The afternoon light caught the gold flecks in her eyes as they widened slightly—surprise that he had read her so easily. He recognized the academic's dilemma written across her features: the conflict between professional caution and the researcher's instinct to discuss discoveries, to test theories against another's knowledge.
Eli deliberately softened his posture, creating the impression of openness, of harmlessness—a skill he had refined over the years.
"I found some letters..." she paused.
He waited with patience before giving her an out.
"It's okay. You don't have to tell me what was in them." Eli smiled. "I know we just met. I'm not sure I'd want to share what amounts to family matters with a stranger."
"Thank you for understanding."
"I'll tell you what..." Eli handed her his business card. "My number is on here. Reach out if there is anything I can help you with. I'm quite knowledgeable with these parts—historical or not, and I have an extensive collection of books and records from the 1800s. You never know what you might need to research."
"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."
It took a few days for Amelia to finally reach out to see if he had a copy of an 1859 Southern Methodist hymnal.
Fortunately, he did possess one—a small victory in his long game of patience.
Patience, that was something that had not come naturally to him in his youth, but the older he got the more he learned that waiting often yielded the richest rewards.
Eli met her again at the property, the leather-bound hymnal tucked carefully under his arm, its gold embossing catching the afternoon light.
"The Methodist Church was the first major American institution to fracture," he said, running his finger along the spine of the hymnal. "Fifteen years before the first shot at Fort Sumter, the church divided along the same fault line that would eventually break the nation."
"Hymn 319," she said, consulting her notes. "And 418."
He nodded, opening to the pages without needing to check the index. "Hymn 319: 'Though sundered far, by faith we meet around one common mercy seat.' It was a favorite of the clandestine correspondents during the war. Seemingly innocent religious reference, yet conveying a deeper message of connection despite separation."
Her eyes showed that keen intelligence that seemed to stir something in him. "You seem to know a great deal about this period," she observed, her tone carefully neutral.
"Family stories," he replied with practiced ease. "The Merriweathers have been in this area since before the Revolution."
He could sense Amelia's eagerness to examine the text herself, so he handed her the hymnal.
She couldn't suppress admiring it before opening it. "This is remarkably well-preserved for its age," she murmured, her voice softening with respect.
Her fingers traced the embossed leather cover, momentarily surrendering to the tactile connection with history before she composed herself and returned to her scholarly purpose.
She became absorbed in the text, the outside world receding as she entered that familiar research trance. Eli observed her transformation with silent understanding; he recognized the single-minded focus that many often mistook for rudeness in him as well.
As she studied the hymns, he took the seat next to her. The scent of old paper and archival dust clung to her clothes, stirring memories that felt both distant and immediate—like pages from a journal he had penned in another century, preserved yet faded with the passage of time.
Something about her caught him off guard. A certain tilt of her head as she concentrated, the way afternoon light traced the contours of her face—echoes of someone long buried in the deepest chambers of his memory. Without intending it, he found himself leaning slightly closer, drawn by a gravitational pull he hadn't experienced in a long long time.
Catriona. The name floated unbidden through his mind, like a leaf carried on an ancient current. Not the sharp-edged grief of recent loss, but the worn-smooth remembrance of a face time had gradually softened without erasing. Strange, how after so many years, certain gestures could still resurrect her ghost.
Yet, Amelia existed in her own right—her intellect burning with a curiosity that seemed to illuminate the space between them. She turned a page, and he watched her fingers trace the hymnal's text with a reverence that mirrored his own relationship with the past.
What is this? The question formed in the quiet corners of his consciousness, in spaces he had long ago sealed off and abandoned. This unexpected warmth spreading through his chest was not part of his carefully constructed plan.
He straightened almost imperceptibly, drawing back from something he hadn't even realized he was approaching. Reason reasserting itself. He wasn't here for this—no matter how the possibility called to places within him he'd thought long dead.
He watched her carefully, noting the almost imperceptible changes to her skin, the subtle flinching when sunlight streamed directly through the window. Not unexpected, but the protective instinct it stirred in him—that was another matter entirely.
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.