Beautifully Dead
Chapter 02
The Fredericksburg countryside unfolded before Amelia like a faded sepia photograph slowly gaining color. Gentle hills rolled beneath a hazy April sky, their slopes carpeted with wildflowers that hadn't yet appeared in still-chilled Boston. She navigated her rental car past historical markers and Civil War commemorative signs, each one triggering the reflexive mental cataloging that came with years of academic study.
"Marye's Heights, December 1862," she murmured, passing another brown marker. "Over seven thousand Union casualties in a single day."
Her GPS chimed with robotic certainty, a bland female voice instructing her to turn onto a narrow gravel lane nearly hidden between towering oaks. The tires crunched over stone as the university-rented sedan bounced along what barely qualified as a road. After a half-mile of increasingly dense woods, the trees parted to reveal a clearing dominated by what had once been a stately farmhouse.
"Oh my," Amelia breathed, easing the car to a stop.
Time had not been kind to the Everett estate. The two-story clapboard structure tilting slightly to one side, its white paint long surrendered to weathering. The wraparound porch sagged in the middle like an exhausted sentry, and several windows on the upper floor were boarded over. Yet despite its dilapidation, the house retained an unmistakable dignity—something in the precise symmetry of its design, the decorative woodwork still visible beneath years of neglect.
A gleaming black SUV was already parked in the overgrown drive. Beside it stood a tall man in pressed khakis and a blue oxford shirt, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples. He raised a hand in greeting as Amelia stepped out of her car, the scent of warm grass and wisteria enveloping her.
"Dr. Everett, I presume?" His voice confirmed he was Harrison Taylor from their phone conversation, the Virginia drawl as smooth in person as it had been over the line.
"Mr. Taylor." She extended her hand, professional and crisp despite the twelve-hour drive that had left her back stiff and her mind buzzing with questions.
"Welcome to your inheritance." He gestured toward the house with a blend of ceremony and apology. "It needs work, as you can see, but the bones are good. Classic Virginia farmhouse, circa 1858."
Amelia reached for her notebook, already scribbling observations. "Pre-war construction, then. Would have been practically new when the conflict began."
"Indeed. Built by Charles Everett, Thomas's older brother," Taylor explained. "Construction finished just before Fort Sumter. Charles married a Southern woman—Sarah—and actually fought for the Confederacy."
She paused mid-note, pen hovering above paper. "So Thomas, a Union chaplain from Boston, inherited a home from his Confederate brother? That's... complicated."
"Charles and Sarah both died during or shortly after the war," Taylor continued. "Thomas eventually raised their young son—also named Charles. The property passed to Thomas then."
Taylor's smile revealed a practiced inscrutability. "That's just the outline. I had hoped the family history might provide more insights."
"My family history conveniently omits any mention of Southern connections or Confederate relatives." The breeze stirred her hair, carrying the sweet scent of nearby dogwoods. "Shall we?"
The porch steps creaked beneath their weight as Taylor unlocked the front door. The air inside hung heavy with dust and silence, disturbed only by their footfalls on the hardwood floor. Shafts of sunlight penetrated through grimy windows, illuminating dancing motes in the still air.
"The trust maintained minimal upkeep—enough to keep the roof from failing completely," Taylor explained, leading her through a central hallway. "Most of the original furnishings remain, though they've been covered for preservation."
Amelia ran a gloved finger along a sheet-draped sideboard, her historian's eye already cataloging the period details—the height of the ceilings, the width of the floorboards, the ornate moldings still intact despite decades of neglect.
"I've arranged for a structural engineer to assess the property next week," Taylor continued, "but before making any decisions, you might want to examine the study. It contains the items of greatest historical interest."
He led her to a room at the back of the house, where heavy drapes blocked most of the natural light. Taylor crossed to the windows and pulled them open, releasing a cloud of dust that danced in the sudden sunbeams. The room gradually revealed itself: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive oak desk, and several trunks stacked against one wall.
"This was Thomas' private study," Taylor said, his voice lowered as if they had entered a church. "According to the trust instructions, nothing was to be removed or rearranged until the rightful heir claimed the property."
Amelia approached the desk with reverent steps, her academic detachment momentarily overwhelmed by the intimacy of standing in a space untouched for over a century. Her fingers traced the edge of the blotter, still positioned as if awaiting its owner's return.
"I'll leave you to explore," Taylor said, placing a heavy iron key on the desk. "This opens the main cabinet and the trunks. I have some calls to make, but I'll be outside if you need anything."
When the door closed behind him, Amelia exhaled slowly, suddenly aware she'd been holding her breath. The silence felt tangible, as if the room itself were holding its breath too, waiting.
She methodically documented the space with her camera before approaching the largest trunk. The iron key turned with surprising ease in the lock, suggesting someone had maintained it over the years. Inside, she found neatly organized folders and leather-bound journals, each labeled in a precise hand.
"Hospital Records, 1862," she read aloud, lifting the top folder. "Correspondence, March-June 1863. Financial Documents, 1860-1865."
Her pulse quickened as she recognized the research treasure trove before her. Undisturbed Civil War documents were increasingly rare, particularly those related to medical practices. She set aside several folders for later examination, working her way deeper into the trunk.
At the bottom, she found a smaller box made of polished cherry wood. Unlike the other items, this one bore no label. The key didn't fit its tiny brass lock, but the mechanism was simple enough that her archival toolkit's smallest probe soon had it open.
Inside lay a stack of letters bound with faded blue ribbon, their edges softened with age. The top envelope bore a name in elegant script: "Eleanor."
Amelia hesitated, the historian's eternal ethical dilemma surfacing—the tension between research necessity and respect for private correspondence. But these letters were over 160 years old, their writer and recipient long deceased. Historical value outweighed privacy concerns.
With careful fingers, she untied the ribbon and removed the first letter. The paper was surprisingly sturdy, suggesting high quality that had been well-preserved. She unfolded it gently, revealing a firm, educated hand:
………………..
Boston, Massachusetts
April 17, 1861
My dearest Eleanor,
Your letter came to me like a pure beam of light shining through these gloomy days. The moment I opened it, my heart was transported back to those blessed Sabbath afternoon walks we shared along the church gardens. That sweet aroma of lavender so filled the air, as if the Lord Himself had perfumed our path. You would often speak of how our Heavenly Father provided such gentle remedies as lavender to soothe His children's troubled spirits. I fear that with the terrible conflict now dividing our nation, even the most abundant harvest of God's healing herbs might prove insufficient for the trials we face. Yet I am reminded of Matthew 11:28, wherein Christ promises rest for the weary soul—something far more powerful than any earthly remedy.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
I confess, in all my heart I would have never imagined that our cherished nation would be at war with itself if our own beloved church had not already divided over slavery. If our church, built upon the foundation of faith and love, could splinter so grievously, what hope remains for the country at large?
The news weighs heavier upon my soul since learning of Virginia's secession. I am stricken with fear that my dear brother Charles may soon be compelled by duty to take up arms against his own family, leaving poor Sarah to face the burden of tending to little Charles alone. I have been in earnest prayer day and night, beseeching our Lord to shelter them under His mighty wings.
Now, with a heavy heart, I fear I may be away from you for an extended time. I have prayed deeply for guidance, and it is now clear that our Lord needs me to tend to his flock on the battlefield. After earnest counsel with my conference leaders, I have received their endorsement to serve as a chaplain in the Union Army, and I am to depart on the morrow.
Yet, my heart clings to the hope that our correspondence shall endure the trial of time, no matter the length of this conflict or the turmoil that burdens your dear father’s heart. By God's boundless grace, our paths shall converge once more, for I fervently pray that his heart may be softened and his vision opened to the divine truth that we are eternally meant to be united. Why should the confines of North and South dictate our love? We both revere the same Almighty and hold fast the same sacred beliefs—a mere geographical delineation shall not sever our union.
As you so poignantly noted in your previous letter, many have forgotten the true meaning of Wesley's sermon on "Catholic Spirit". It saddens me deeply that anyone, let alone a man of God, would demand that we view each other as enemies. Yet, we are commanded to love our enemies, and thus, regardless of the labels cast upon us, we are to love each other, and I fully intend to do just that.
I have unwavering faith in God’s divine plan for each of us. I know deep down that if we continue to walk down His righteous path, our reunion is but a matter of time. Whenever I falter, I turn to the blessed words of James 1:2-4, which remind me to find joy amid trials and allow patience to perfect our souls. Though the road is fraught with hardship, I trust that our endurance will someday yield blessings beyond measure. I have faith that we will be stronger for it. And even though our love has suffered a separation for two years now, I believe our patience will be rewarded with all the blessings we desire.
A whisper grows to thunder where gossips gather. I am saddened that Mrs. Pettigrew—or anyone else in your congregation—should contaminate the purity of our communication. Remember Psalm 31:20: "Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues."
My heart rejoices at the news of the good work you perform at the hospital. The Lord's hand is surely guiding your charitable works among the afflicted. I pray you might continue to share word of your discoveries regarding this mysterious contagion that has visited such suffering upon God's children. Though my spirit is troubled knowing you stand in proximity to such fearsome illness, I recognize the Divine Purpose that has called you to this holy work.
Though Dr. Merriweather does not take precautions, I implore you to heed your intuition—I firmly believe it is none other than the Holy Spirit's gentle whisper. As we have been taught, the evidence of God's grace is often found in those quiet moments of clarity. Remember to take care of yourself. One cannot serve thy fellow man if they do not serve themselves first. I will admit that this is partially a selfish request, for I cannot endure the thought of life without you. From the moment I rise until I lay down to sleep, you dwell in my every thought; next only to God, you are my everything.
Ever faithfully and with deepest love yours,
Thomas
………………..
Amelia lowered the letter, her academic detachment momentarily overcome. The measured formality couldn't disguise the deep affection flowing beneath the carefully chosen words. A Union chaplain and a Southern belle, separated by the nation's bloodiest conflict, yet maintaining correspondence across battle lines.
She carefully refolded the letter and turned her attention to the desk. If Thomas had kept Eleanor's replies, they would likely be stored nearby. After a systematic examination of the drawers, she noticed something unusual about the desk's dimensions—the exterior measurements didn't match the interior storage space.
"A hidden compartment," she murmured, running her fingers along the wood grain.
Her trained touch soon found a nearly invisible seam along the right side panel. When pressed, a small section of the wood slid away, revealing a narrow cavity. Inside lay another bundle of letters, these tied with a faded pink ribbon and bearing more signs of frequent handling—worn creases, slight smudges where fingers had repeatedly touched the paper.
Before she could examine them, a knock at the study door interrupted her concentration.
"Dr. Everett?" Taylor's voice called. "There's someone here you might want to meet. Elijah Merriweather from the historical society just arrived. He's quite knowledgeable about the property."
Amelia quickly slid the compartment closed, leaving the second bundle of letters undisturbed. She placed Thomas's letter to Eleanor back in its box, tucking it into her research bag. Whatever secrets the house contained, they would require methodical investigation.
"Coming," she called, composing her features into professional neutrality.
She opened the door to find Taylor standing beside a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, with broad shoulders and intelligent eyes that immediately assessed her with undisguised curiosity. His casual attire—worn jeans and a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves—contrasted with Taylor's polished appearance, but there was nothing casual about the intensity of his gaze.
"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, noting the calluses that suggested his work involved more than desk research.
"Eli, please." His handshake was firm but brief. "Welcome to Fredericksburg. I’m sure you’re beginning to realize this, but you've inherited quite a significant historical property."
There was something in his tone—a careful modulation that piqued her researcher's instinct. He wasn't merely being neighborly.
"The historical significance is precisely what interests me," she replied, studying his reaction. "Particularly any connection to Dr. James Merriweather's medical work during the war."
A flicker of something—surprise? wariness?—crossed his features before he composed them into a polite smile.
"Yes, my ancestor's work has been well-documented in certain circles," he acknowledged. "However, I believe there are portions of his research that have not received the academic attention it deserves."
The implicit challenge in his words was unmistakable. Amelia felt her academic curiosity awakening, the way it always did when approaching a promising research thread.
"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. In her bag, Thomas's letter seemed to carry a tangible weight, the first piece of a historical puzzle whose dimensions she was only beginning to comprehend.
Behind her, the old house waited, its secrets still largely intact after more than a century and a half of silence.
