While her aunt did up the buttons in the back, Birdie studied her reflection in the mirror. No doubt the dress was a knockout, but she’d rather conduct business in a pants suit, better yet jeans and a T-shirt. The bodice was tight, hugging her breasts, and the neckline dipped to a V revealing a good amount of cleavage. She tugged, trying to pull it higher.
“Leave the bodice alone. You look lovely.”
“Isn’t it rather scanty to wear during the day?”
“The neckline may be a little low, but not vulgar, and the color is perfect for day wear.”
“I thought Victorians were conservative in their dress.”
“Though their behavior was conventional, their clothing was quite extravagant.”
“Where’d you find this dress, anyway?” No way had it come from Goodwill or a second hand shop.
“One of my Daughters of the American Revolution friends told me about a vintage clothing store downtown. The dress just jumped out at me from the rack. It’s perfect. I didn’t look at another thing, except for the shoes.” She pulled a pair of low-heeled kid leather shoes in the same shade as the dress from a box. “The dress and shoes must have come in together as they’re an exact match.”
Birdie shivered. This was just all a little too perfect to be coincidence—Victorian party, the perfect dress and shoes. Staring at her reflection, a sense of déjà vu washed over her. Creepy.
“Aunt, what if I ruin the costume? It needs to be saved, maybe even be in a museum.”
She huffed. “Sugar, I know you’re a tomboy at heart, but you’ve always been careful with clothes. I’m not worried.”
“Well, I am,” Birdie muttered.
“What’d you say, dear?”
“Nothing, just mumbling.”
“Well, stop. We don’t want folks to think you’re talking to yourself. You’ll never impress Mr. Samuelson that way. If you can’t convince him to build his hotel elsewhere, our home will be sitting in the middle of a resort complex.”
If they didn’t find the money to pay this year’s taxes, the city of Waco might auction her home off on the courthouse steps. Sometimes Birdie wondered if trying to save the old plantation home was worth all the hassle. Every year or so they went through the same upheaval, but when she thought of all the history within her home’s walls, she couldn’t back down. She’d fight urban sprawl until her dying day.
Losing their home would kill Aunt Patty. Birdie’s Nest was the only home she’d ever known. She’d been born here and would die here. The only surviving sibling of James Monroe Braxton, the maiden lady had raised Birdie after Birdie’s mother passed away when Birdie was ten years old. The home place had to be saved at all costs, and doing so was up to her.
“Sit down, Birdie, and let me put up your hair.”
Birdie angled her butt to perch on the vanity stool in spite of the bustle on the dress. She didn’t have a clue why the contraption had been popular. The style certainly didn’t make a woman’s silhouette more attractive.
She closed her eyes and relaxed as Aunt Patty pulled the brush through the long strands of her hair. She’d had highlights and lowlights added to her dark blonde tresses last week, and it crackled and shone with health at each stroke of the brush. She’d always loved to have her hair brushed. They’d spent hours in front of the antique Birdseye maple vanity over the years.
Her hair was pulled up in the back and formed curls on the top of her head, all held in place with hairpins. Then Aunt Patty placed a large hat, decorated with ribbons and feathers, tilted forward on her head and held in place with three hatpins, each at least twelve inches in length.
Birdie frowned. “Isn’t three a little overkill?”
“No dear. We want to make sure it stays in place.”
“Or, if Samuelson won’t back off, they’ll make perfect murder weapons.”
Patty giggled, reminding Birdie of a young girl. “Shame on you, young woman.” She lifted a brooch from her pocket. “Now, this pin has been passed down from your great-great-great grandmother and will be lovely on this dress.”
Birdie took the brooch, a stunning amethyst the size of her thumbnail, surrounded by seed pearls. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Yes, I know. I found it buried away in some old things I went through recently. I don’t know why it wasn’t with the other jewelry passed down over the years.” Aunt Patty took the brooch. “Here, let me pin it at the juncture of the V. I’ll catch some of the lace and give you a little more coverage.”
Feet tucked into the surprisingly comfortable shoes and twirling a frilly parasol, Birdie kissed Aunt Patty and sauntered down the multiple front steps of their home. She stopped beside her silver Ford Mustang convertible. How in the heck would she be able to get in wearing this get-up? Her hat was taller than the roof. She’d have to leave the top down and drive slow to preserve her hair-do.
Birdie sighed.
How on earth did I get myself into this mess?
I should have approached Samuelson at his office and turned down his invitation
.
She slid the seat as far back as possible. The width of the bustle allowed her to reach the accelerator and brake. Did she look as ridiculous as she felt? Probably. Thank goodness the boat dock was nearby.
Nineteenth century society folks, here I come!
* * *
The Brazos Belle stood at the dock decked out in party streamers of green and maroon to match Samuelson’s company logo. A costumed butler took Birdie’s invitation and escorted her across the gangplank. “Everyone’s aft on the upper deck, miss. Up those stairs. You won’t miss the crowd.”
“Thank you.”
Voices and laughter grew louder as she approached. What a sight. Men and women in period dress graced the deck, milling about in conversation, eating hors d’oeuvres, and drinking wine and cocktails. She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and made her way to the rail to observe as they cast off. Maybe she could hide out over here for a while.
Watching the ripples of the river glide by soothed her. Though plantation owners had built their homes near the Brazos for economic reasons, she didn’t doubt they’d enjoyed the calm breezes blowing in off the water and picnics on its banks. As a child, she’d often played along the grassy area, which no longer belonged to her family but to the public, as did the road that ran alongside the expanse of water.
The boat was almost abreast of Birdie’s Nest. Red brick, her home sat on the remaining five acres of family land a hundred yards from the road with a matching brick drive leading to the covered side entrance. Four white columns graced the two stories. A porch ran the entire length of each of the two floors. The carriage house, located at the rear of the estate, had been used for rental property since the nineteen forties. The house looked larger than it actually was. Thank goodness a past ancestor had provided funds for the property’s basic upkeep. Otherwise her home would’ve been sold years ago. What a shame they’d not made arrangements for the taxes and insurance as both ate away at their budget.
Now Samuelson wanted to tear down her family home and use the land for his financial gain. The county had given her sixty days to pay the back taxes. On the first of August the house would go on the auction block and be snatched up for a pittance by Samuelson. The man thought to do her a favor and pay the taxes, if she’d sell Birdie’s Nest to him. That wouldn’t happen. Somehow she’d raise the money before then, sell some antiques or family jewelry if she had to.
“Miss Braxton!” She turned to find Samuelson bearing down on her. He stopped at her side. His gaze traveled her body, spending too long at the cleavage above the brooch. His perusal turned her stomach. She wanted to deck him. “You are stunning. If I didn’t know better I’d think I’d stepped back in time, right into the late nineteenth century. Where did you find such a wonderful costume?”
“My Aunt Patty’s friends in the DAR helped her locate it.”
“I see.” He nodded toward Birdie’s Nest, an irritating smile plastered on his face. The man was a salesman through and through. “I couldn’t help but notice you admiring the property.”
“I’m admiring my home, Mr. Samuelson.”
“Yes, of course.” He took her elbow. “Come meet some of our investors.”
“Couldn’t we talk first? I have a few things I want to say.”
Like don’t count on buying my home.
“After I make the introductions, we’ll talk. They’re anxious to meet you,”
She allowed him to escort her to a group of three couples, the men dressed as impeccably as Samuelson in period gray frock coats and striped trousers. The women’s costumes must have been tailor-made, as they were more elaborate than Birdie’s and complemented their expensive jewelry.
“Miss Birdie Braxton, I’d like you to meet… ” Birdie listened with one ear, cataloguing the names away for future reference. She wasn’t interested in getting to know them, as she didn’t plan to see them again.
“What an unusual name,” said the young woman in the red dress. Victorian women wore scarlet during the day? “How’d you come by it?”
“Birdie is a family name.”
“How quaint.” She turned to her friend and exchanged an amused glance. Birdie wasn’t exactly crazy about her name, but she carried the moniker proudly. How dare these rich snobs belittle it?
Discussion turned to the building project. Birdie tuned out their chatter. She nodded and responded when appropriate and started to excuse herself, but froze at the older woman’s words.
“Young lady, what a fine thing you’re doing selling your property to our corporation so we can build the resort.”
All eyes regarded her. She waited for Samuelson to correct the woman. She’d made no commitment. He pretended he hadn’t heard and ignored her silent plea. Why, the man was trying to back her into a corner.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, ma’am. I’m not selling Birdie’s Nest and never will. If Mr. Samuelson led you to believe otherwise, he misled you.”
“Now, Miss Braxton, we’ve not had a chance to talk this evening. Don’t make a final decision yet. After all, you’ll lose your home to back taxes if you don’t take my offer. I think you’ll change your mind after I tell you how rich you’ll become.”
“I’m not interested in your money. This is my family home, my heritage you want to tear down. I’ll find a way to pay the taxes. You can buy all the land around our five acres and build your resort, but Birdie’s Nest will remain in the very center. And, I believe city ordinances are in place that will control what you place within a certain distance of our home. I’m sure you’re up on those. If not, I’ll have my office direct you to the appropriate agency that can fill you in on the details.
“In case Mr. Samuelson failed to inform you,” she added to the nearby investors, “I’m a Texas Ranger. Please don’t bother me or my aunt about this again.”
Six individuals gaped at her. Red faced, murderous expression on his face, Samuelson stood, hands fisted. He’d try to choke the life from her if they were alone.
She deposited her empty glass on a tray and started for the stairs. Her long skirt swished against her legs as she walked down the steps. She’d rather be below with the help than up there.
For a short while, she stood and observed the paddle wheel turn, lifting and spilling water to propel them through the current. The odor of fish reached her nostrils. Birds dove for bugs, the resulting ripples forming a slowly disintegrating circle. Heat from the sun blazed down, and she was grateful for the parasol.
The craft slowed as the captain turned the boat around to travel downstream. What had the river been like in the nineteenth century? Probably not as polluted as today. It would be exciting to visit other cities traveling by paddleboat. What a fascinating life that must have been in the old days.
The suspension bridge loomed ahead. People milled about peering over the metal sides and dropping bites of bread to the ducks floating below. A small thundercloud formed over the span, threatening rain, casting a shadow below. She hoped it didn’t rain, not until she got home, anyway.
Twirling the parasol, she walked to the middle of the boat, propped her elbows on the rail and stared out at the passing scenery. A warm sensation tingled against her chest. She glanced down and clasped the brooch. It was warm in her hand. Had it absorbed some of the sun’s heat? That was odd. The sun drifting down behind the trees in Cameron Park cast mottled rays of light across the rippling water. An eddy formed in the path of the setting sun, swirling deeper, seeming to absorb the shadow of the cloud, the closer it got to the boat. Creepy! Birdie shuddered and straightened.
Just as the boat reached the bridge, a bolt of lightening shot from the cloud hitting the whirlpool. An explosion of light hit Birdie, spraying her with water, just as a footstep sounded behind her. Before she could turn, pain exploded in her head and she sank into the deep.
* * *
June, 1, 1890 Waco, Texas
Thaddeus Lockhart stood under a big oak beside the Brazos and viewed a couple of boys fishing from the bank. As a boy, he’d caught his share of crappie. He’d cleaned them on the grass, and then fried them over his campfire. The hot grease had burned his fingers as he picked the meat from the bones. He sighed. Those carefree days were over. His life now revolved around running the family ranch, caring for his sister and mother.
Today he’d walked over from the Katy depot where he’d supervised the arrival of his new bull from Kansas. The animal hadn’t been amenable to being unloaded from the cattle car, and Tad ended up joining in the fracas and getting his suit filthy. Hopefully the bovine brute would use some of his attitude to impregnate a lot of his cows, and next spring the pasture would be loaded with calves.
The river was up from the recent rains, but the mud had settled enough to make the water blue. Always traveling south, the current carried small bits of wood and other debris. Though just a hundred yards wide, he’d hate to drive a herd of cattle across the expanse. Undercurrents could sweep away animals and humans alike. Then there was the occasional water moccasin. He shuddered. Darn snakes! The suspension bridge loomed tall to his right. It had been a godsend to commerce in the area, and the five cents a head to take a herd across was well worth the price.