Chapter 1
1
“He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age.”-- The Book of Ruth 4:15
***
Miss Ruthanne Dixon, never truly alone, sat up straight on the ornate sofa in the front parlor of the Haven Plantation house, patiently awaiting her guests.
Her posture was perfect– spine rigid, knees together, feet flat on the hardwood floor– which was a minor miracle for a woman of sixty-eight. She had not been afflicted by any of the common maladies of others her age. Her bones hadn’t settled or weakened, so she didn’t have the slumped-over look of a hunchback so many other elderly women suffered. She had yet to experience any arthritis or broken bones. Her eyes were still clear, though she did use half-glasses to read.
She credited clean living and the grace of God for her excellent health, even though she knew otherwise.
Spread out before her on the oaken coffee table was all of the material she’d collected on this year’s contestants for the Miss Belle o’ the Ball Pageant, which she’d served as sponsor for so many years. She’d studied it all in great detail for the past month, ever since the seven young ladies had been selected for the contest, but it didn’t hurt to have one last look before the festivities got underway. As the years passed, she did suffer the frustrating inability to remember names and then connect them with the proper faces.
And she had to be at her best, especially for this year’s affair– the Miss Belle o’ the Ball’s Centennial Pageant. It would be special, of course. Even more special than she could begin to imagine, in fact.
She leaned forward slightly and arranged the materials in seven neat stacks. Atop each was the glossy black-and-white photograph of the entrant, taken at Engel’s Emporium in Braxton. Their faces were all familiar to her, and she could even see traces of their genetic histories in their features. She hoped they were well known to nearly everyone in Eden County, too, since tasteful posters advertising the pageant (complete with those same photos of the contestants) had been placed in the front windows of every barber shop, grocery store, bank, five-and-dime, and post office in the area.
They were a fine group, Miss Dixon believed, lying to herself just a little. She realized it was nearly impossible to find seven girls in a small county who had the right combination of delicate features, nice figure, pleasing personality, and moral character. The selection was out of her hands, though, since each of the seven incorporated towns in Eden County chose a girl to be their own representative in the pageant. Miss Dixon reserved the right to turn down any contestant on the grounds of immoral behavior (or “harlotry”, in her words) or improper family scandal. Although she’d come close a few times, she had yet to reject an entrant. Certain sacrifices had to be made, after all.
She looked them over one last time, before the girls themselves arrived at the Plantation. She recalled details about each of them from their brief biographies, including the towns that had selected them to participate.
Mina Knight of Pleasant Hill, a small town in the northern part of the county. The largest building there was the Brotherhood Gospel Church, of which she was a faithful member. It was the church’s congregation, in fact, that had chosen her to represent the town. She was mousy-haired and fair-skinned, with a child’s face.
Sable Byrd of Rhodes, a residential suburb. The well-to-do town fathers there allowed a committee of teachers and clergy to choose their contestant, which meant she was always a good student from an upstanding family, with little regard for her physical appeal. And Sable was no exception.
Nora Winger of rural Arcadia, a simply awful place. The citizens were poor and backward, and so was she– tall and broad, with dull features– but her family were proud folks who owned a large farm.
Raven Dark of Chawasee, the mill town, where her father was a shift supervisor, and their representative was picked during a Friday coffee break at Meritco Manufacturing. She was a pretty girl, with bleached hair and a peachy complexion, but wore too much makeup for Miss Dixon’s tastes.
India Rook of Lake Dane, site of the local private school, where her father was the dean of boys. She was another true beauty with a deep tan, but never smiled; she was even scowling in her eight-by-ten.
Bridget Dawson of Haven, where much of the county’s real wealth resided. Her father was president of a Braxton bank, and two of her cousins had already won the pageant in the past decade. She was Miss Dixon’s favorite– tall and slender, with short dark hair, beautiful hazel eyes, and nearly olive skin.
And Peggy Prelkin from Braxton, the county seat. She was solidly built, verging on heavy, but made up for it with a pleasing personality and sharp sense of humor.
“A fine group,” Miss Ruthanne Dixon said aloud, though she was alone. She had her own preferences, of course, but she had absolutely no say in choosing the winner.
She gathered those materials together and placed them back in her leather portfolio. Then she stood with no effort whatsoever, with the grace of a cat. She crossed the room, listening to her own footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“I’m going out to greet the girls, Mr. Eden,” she called out, knowing that he was someplace closeby. She didn’t wait for his reply.
She started for the front door, prepared to begin the observance of the traditions that would make that event quite special.
***
The Miss Belle o’ the Ball Pageant had been held at the Haven Plantation annually since the 1880s.
Each year, Eden County chose a beauty queen there. The Plantation itself was not a real plantation, though– not presently, at least. It had been a grand one before the Civil War; but after the rigors of Reconstruction, the former seven-hundred-acre farm and homestead and been divided and sold off, until only seventy acres remained in that location. It was 1881 before the main house and stables had been rebuilt and restored to most of their former glory. Gardens had been planted and cultivated, and the estate had become a place of gentility and respect once again, on a smaller scale.
Four years after that restoration, the first Debutante Ball (as it’d been known then) was held. The winner was christened “The Princess of Eden”, and the pageant became an annual event. Only seven girls of proper breeding and pedigree had been of age that first year, so every year afterwards only seven were allowed to participate. By 1906, those contestants (by referendum) had been chosen one each from the seven incorporated towns in the county.
The woman who’d organized that first pageant was Eunice Eden, an actual descendant of the county’s founder. She’d been twenty-one at the time, possessed by those images of the antebellum South, many of which still dominated the affair, including hoop skirts, corsets, and parasols, as well as a deference to tradition that bordered on obsession. She’d remained as the sole organizer of the festivities for fifty years, until the 1950s. Her successor had been handpicked, too– Ruthanne Dixon, the winner of the pageant that year. Miss Dixon had served as Miss Eden’s assistant for seven months, learning all there was to know about that job, until Miss Eden died suddenly at the age of seventy-two. Miss Dixon had followed faithfully in her predecessor’s footsteps then; she’d never married, devoted herself to the pageant completely, and would presently be celebrating her fiftieth year as the sole organizer of those festivities.
It was the Centennial of the Miss Belle o’ the Ball Pageant, the name Miss Dixon had given it after she’d taken over. And, like that pageant fifty years earlier at which Miss Dixon herself had been crowned, strange things were bound to happen, she knew.
***
Miss Dixon left the main house of the Haven Plantation and walked along the gravel driveway, past the flower beds which flourished on the property.
She moved slowly and gracefully, her beaded purse on one arm, enjoying the fresh air of the early evening. She walked to the open iron gate, where the drive met the paved private road running along the estate’s southern border.
She checked her dainty wristwatch. The girls would be arriving very soon. They had participated in the Fall Festival Parade that afternoon, along with both local marching bands, several volunteer fire departments, and many of the familiar county guilds and organizations. Every year, the seven contestants in the pageant rode one each in a convertible, sitting up on the backseat and waving to the crowds lining the streets of Braxton. Miss Dixon never went to the parade herself. She always waited there at the Haven Plantation, where the girls were to be delivered after the parade was over.
It was all according to tradition. That night, all of them– Miss Dixon, Mr. Eden, and the seven contestants– would stay in the main house. She would give them a brief tour of the grounds, perform a few time-honored rituals, then they would all go to bed. The next day at noon, after a nice morning meal, the new Miss Belle o’ the Ball would be crowned in the auditorium (converted from stables years ago) next door. All according to tradition, with only a few necessary changes for that special occasion.
They arrived in a slow-moving line of cars within five minutes of her appearance at the gate. The seven girls were no longer perched on the backseats waving, of course; they were each seated in the rear with the few belongings they would need for their night’s stay. The drivers of the cars– fathers, uncles, or brothers– deposited the contestants one at a time at the open gate where Miss Dixon stood waiting. They exchanged a few words in parting as each of them gathered up her overnight bag and makeup case from the backseat. The girls could carry those few things to the house themselves with no further assistance; from the point of their arrival at the estate until the pageant itself the next day, the contestants were to be under her care alone, away from any distractions their families might cause– a requirement of long standing.
One by one, the convertibles drove away, down the private road out onto the county highway. The girls, in their pastel dresses and high heels, stood with Miss Dixon and watched the cars disappear.
“Welcome, ladies,” she said, once they were alone. “This is a night in your lives you will always remember.”
Truer words were never spoken.
She led them back to the grand house then. She went up the front steps and opened the double doors, then stood on the small porch and let the girls pass through ahead of her. And she named them in her mind as they entered the house.
Mina. Sable. Nora. Raven. India. Bridget. And Peggy. One of whom would be much more than the next Miss Belle o’ the Ball.
She followed them into the front room. The seven girls stood in a loose cluster, each staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the ornate interior. They didn’t speak; they just stared, unable to comment on those exquisite furnishings. The Haven Plantation was like a church, after all, where there was no loud talking, lest that perfect setting be disturbed somehow.
“Leave your things here, ladies,” Miss Dixon said, causing more than one of them to be startled out of a dreamlike state. “We have things to see and do now.”
Ever so slowly, as if the seven had just been awakened, they set their bags down on the hardwood floor at the foot of the great staircase. Miss Dixon crossed the room with her usual ease and grace, passing the stairs and moving quite fluidly through an arched doorway beyond. The girls followed, clumsily making their way after her, trying to keep up with a spry lady fifty years their senior.
That door led to a long hall connecting the front room to the east door of the house. At its far end, a set of double doors like those at the front entrance stood waiting. Miss Dixon opened them, then stood aside again, allowing the seven to pass through ahead of her, out into the side yard. There was something there she wanted them to see before sunset.
The yard was still lush for that time of year, well manicured and smooth as a golf course fairway. Far beyond it were some of the gardens, in rectangular beds up to the border of pine trees in the distance. Closer to the house was another plot, surrounded by a knee-high brick wall, where no flowers grew. Instead of roses and marigolds, marble headstones rose up from the neat grass– seven bright white graves, all identical except for the names and dates inscribed on each.
“This small cemetery is a sacred spot on the grounds of the Plantation,” Miss Dixon said, repeating the same words she’d used year after year. “It reminds us of our solemn past, and the events which shaped our traditions and culture.” She allowed the girls to ponder those words for a moment before she continued. “These gravestones mark the final resting places of a few of the founders of Eden County, all of whom passed away many years ago.
“The first,” she said, pointing at each headstone in turn as she went, “is that of Damon Knight, founder of the town of Pleasant Hill and leader of the religious community known as The Raisers, The Brotherhood of the Land. The second is Dr. Franklin Byrd, founder of Rhodes and the first hospital in the county. The third is Welsh Winger, founder of Arcadia and cultivator of the original agricultural estate there. The fourth is Drake Dark, founder of Chawasee and owner of the first mill along the banks of the river. The fifth is Wolfgang Rook, founder of Lake Dane and the first fishing camp along its shores. The sixth is Corvus Dawson, founder of the local town of Haven and longtime chairman of the Eden County Council. And the seventh is Pieter Prelkin, an outdoorsman, who helped settle and civilize much of this region.”
The sun was going down, and the light was failing in the yard. Miss Dixon paused before they went back inside, though, allowing the seven girls to stare at those headstones and think about the people she’d described from their shared distant past.
“Come now, let’s go back in,” she said at last, finished with that part of the tour. “We still have things to do before we retire.”
***
Back within the main house, Miss Dixon led the girls (who seemed quite subdued by their visit to that small cemetery) to the parlor.
The door there, a single slab of dark hardwood, was locked. She removed a key from her pocket, while the girls directed their attention to the wall above the door, where words were carved into a mounted beam in a fancy script:
Save Us From Our Unclean Thoughts, O Lord
The sound of the key in the lock caused more than one of them to be startled again. Miss Dixon opened the door and stood back, allowing them to enter ahead of her once more. Then she followed them in and closed the door firmly behind her.
The room was furnished in polished antiques. There were no electric lights, so the interior was dim, illuminated only by the failing sunlight from outside its three windows. In the center of the room was a round table with eight chairs around it. Leatherbound books lined the shelves along one wall. Paintings in decorative frames filled the spaces on the other three. An idle brick fireplace dominated the far corner.
Miss Dixon picked up an antique kerosene lamp from the low table nearest the door and lit it with a long match. “Find a candle, ladies,” she told the girls. “They are the only lights available in this fine old room.”
The seven of them did as they’d been told, spreading out through the parlor and searching for the candles, which were perched in glass holders on the different pieces of furniture there. The girls returned one at a time and touched the wicks of their candles to the flame of Miss Dixon’s lamp, slowly filling that room with soft light.
“Now find a seat at the table,” she said, in a hushed tone appropriate to the setting. “It’s time for us to play a little parlor game.”
The girls sat down at the round table, leaving one chair empty for their host. They set their candles on the tabletop and didn’t say a word. Miss Dixon moved around the room, gliding in silence. At the far wall, she drew the curtains on three windows, shutting out the sunset. The parlor took on a glow then, as candlelight penetrated the dimness and threw dancing shadows on the walls. She went to a tall cabinet in the corner to retrieve a few necessary items, then finally crossed to the empty chair and also sat down.
The only pieces to be used in that strange game, where there would be no identifiable winners or runners-up, were a crystal carafe filled with an amber liquid that seemed to shine and seven goblets, all on a round silver tray. She carefully poured out a serving of that drink for each of her guests, as she told them of its unusual qualities.
“This is the Haven Nectar, the traditional beverage of the Miss Belle o’ the Ball Pageant,” Miss Dixon explained. “It is not an intoxicating spirit, of course. But according to legend, if it’s brewed properly it will have a certain effect on whoever drinks it, and a flavor different for each individual, which changes based upon her disposition and mood. So, ladies, have a little if you dare, and discover what the Haven Nectar will do for you.”
She passed the tray around the table then, and the girls (with trembling reluctance) took the goblets in turn. On cue, each of them sipped the amber liquid, and Miss Dixon watched their faces closely for any obvious reactions. It would take some time for that elixir to begin affecting the contestants to any degree, but she still took note of their various expressions as each of them experienced a unique (and not necessarily pleasant) taste of the Nectar.
“Now join hands around the table,” she said. “The time has come for us to close our eyes and pray for the eternal souls of the honored dead.”
She took hold of Mina’s hand with her left and Peggy’s with her right, and all of the girls joined hands around the circle. More than one of them was just a bit too nervous to close her eyes and pray, though. Right on schedule then, the heavy door to the parlor was opened just a crack, and a sudden breeze blew all of the candles out. The room was left in near darkness, except for Miss Dixon’s kerosene lamp, which still glowed on the tabletop.
“Not to worry, ladies, just a draft,” she said, after more than one of the seven cried out at the loss of light in that potentially spooky setting. “That must’ve been Mr. Eden.” She stood up, a vague outline in the dim room, and picked up her lamp. “Not the original Mr. Eden, of course, but the one who lives here now. It’s time to go find your rooms now and get yourselves ready for bed. You have a busy day tomorrow.”
She opened the heavy door the rest of the way, allowing light from the hallway to stream into the room. The seven girls rose from their seats at the round table and left the parlor somewhat faster than they’d entered it. In the brighter hallway, their eyes looked wider and more intent on their surroundings– the predictable result of a scare like the one they’d experienced, after a dose of the Haven Nectar.
Miss Dixon closed the door behind them again, and then led the seven back down the hallway to the front room. Upon their arrival there, the first thing they noticed was that their belongings were no longer sitting near the foot of the grand staircase where they’d left them. They’d been taken elsewhere by unseen hands, it seemed.
Sitting in the overstuffed chair beside the sofa was a man. When he saw them enter the room, he stood. He was fairly tall, over six feet, and he was also fairly young, not even forty. In the past, girls had told Miss Dixon that they’d expected Mr. Eden to be an old man with white hair who spent all of his time in the gardens; they’d been surprised to meet a younger man, who was rarely seen outside. He was neither handsome nor homely; his short hair was combed back, and he had a full reddish beard.
“Mr. Eden,” Miss Dixon said, crossing quickly towards him, “allow me to introduce you to the contestants for this year’s pageant. Ladies.” She turned to the girls, who stood in a loose cluster near the staircase.
“Nice to see all of you,” Mr. Eden said, his voice neither high-pitched nor low, with no discernible accent. “Welcome to my home. And yours, for the night.”
The seven girls seemed to relax upon hearing his voice. They smiled and nodded, on their best behavior, Miss Dixon was pleased to see. “Mr. Eden has always been a gracious host,” she said to them. “Now ladies, come shake hands and introduce yourselves.”
“Not necessary,” he replied, with a polite grin. “In a small county like ours, everybody knows each other. I’ve met and done business with all of their families for years.” He looked at each of the seven in turn. “Miss Knight of Pleasant Hill. Miss Byrd of Rhodes. Miss Winger of Arcadia. Miss Dark of Chawasee. Miss Rook of Lake Dane. Miss Dawson of Haven. Miss Prelkin of Braxton. A fine group, I must say. One of the finest we’ve ever had.”
The girls seemed embarrassed, trading glances or staring at the hardwood floor as he spoke their names. Even Miss Dixon stepped back, a bit surprised, it appeared.
“Your bags have been delivered,” he said. “Miss Dixon will show you to your rooms. And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
He sounded sincere, but Miss Dixon hoped that none of the girls would be so impolite as to bother him during the night, even if they did need something. The way he’d phrased those words, though, it was inevitable that at least one of them would call on him before the morning.
“Let’s go upstairs now, ladies,” she said to them. “It’s time to get ready for bed, because tomorrow will be here sooner than you think.”
“Good night,” Mr. Eden said. “Pleasant dreams to all.”
And without another word, the seven contestants followed Miss Dixon up the steps to the second floor of the old house, to find their rooms and settle in for the long night ahead.
