Sins of the Fathers (6 page)

The slabs held not only the names and dates of the deceased, but messages of love and grief:

LEAVING A WIFE AND CHILDREN TO MOURN HIS PASSING

HER FRIENDS WILL SORELY MISS HER

ONE OF PURE SPIRIT, BELOVED OF THE LORD

The stones and obelisks sat askew in the soft sand. Those made of concrete or tabby had been worn by years of sun, sand, wind, and subtropical storms until they were spotted, pitted, and difficult to read. All were half-hidden by knee-high grass and weeds dotted with wild flowers. They were the only spots of color in that forlorn place: red, white, orange, and yellow.

Who were these people who had lived and been laid to rest without anybody to tend their graves? The only surname she saw inside the fence was
BAYARD
. All had been buried before nineteen hundred.

Who were the Morrisons, then, who lay outside the fence? Outcasts? Distant relatives? A newer branch of the family who died after the fenced yard was full?

She bent and tugged a handful of grass away from the stone of a child who had lived less than a year, then stood erect to peer across the clearing again. “I wonder what this clearing was for. A house, do you reckon?”

Dr. Flo swatted another mosquito and glanced toward the ruin. “It’s small for a house. I don’t see anybody but Bayards here, do you?”

“And the four Morrisons, outside.”

Dr. Flo bent to peer down at another stone. “This one is so worn, I can’t read it. How could anybody identify the person to find the next of kin? But since they all seem to be one family, I guess that won’t matter. I can’t imagine why my people would be buried here, though. We never had Bayards in our family, that I ever heard of.”

Katharine paused at the stone commemorating Marianne Bayard, who had died at sixteen. “So many dead children.” A picture of Susan in high school—dark and glowing after a soccer game or before a prom—rose in her mind. “Dear God, protect her and Jon,” she whispered to the breeze.

Dr. Flo smacked another mosquito. “It’s a wonder any children survived, with all these bugs. I’ve finished my side, have you?”

Katharine joined her at the slab at the back. It was the largest of all and, because it was marble, its carving was still crisp. Foot-high letters at one end read, predictably,
BAYARD
. Below were carved two memorials:

TO THE MEMORY OF

FRANCIS HAMILTON BAYARD

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

BORN
1818

DIED
1870

REQUIESCAT IN PACE

IN MEMORY OF

ELIZABETH MALLERY BAYARD

MOTHER OF CLAUDE

AND WIFE OF FRANCIS

WHO DIED IN THIS PLACE

1892

Dr. Flo copied both inscriptions into her notebook. “Probably not important, but at least here’s a Claude mentioned. I haven’t seen Claude Bayard, have you?”

“I think so.” Katharine wandered back up her side of the cemetery. “Here. He’s buried beside his wife, who died years before he did.”

Dr. Flo shaded her eyes to peer across the entire plot. “But where could Claude Gilbert and his companions be?”

As Katharine joined her, she saw a smaller plot behind the first. “Maybe there?” Four graves lay inside a small square. One side was the iron fence. The other three were enclosed by a tabby wall two feet high.

“There he is!” Dr. Flo leaned over the railing and read the stone for Claude Gilbert, carved from fine marble:

CLAUDE GILBERT

JUNE
18, 1869–
JANUARY
15, 1903

DEAR HUSBAND AND FATHER

Beside it, a small marble marker sagged sideways. It read, simply,

MARIE GUILBERT

1825–1889

A second small marble stone lay on its back near the wrought iron fence. It read

FRANÇOISE GUILBERT

1871–1878

ANGELS, HOLD HER CLOSE

Katherine felt a catch in her throat as she subtracted. Seven years old and forgotten under all this sand. Yet someone had once cared enough to pay for a marble stone. She stretched one hand through the railings to stroke it. “Who do you reckon she was?”

Dr. Flo was busy flipping back a couple of pages in her notebook and comparing what was written there with the tombstone for Claude Gilbert. “This has to be Daddy’s father. The dates are exactly right. I wonder who the others were. Wouldn’t you think it was the same family, in spite of the difference in spelling?”

“Most likely. I wonder who lies under that.” Katharine pointed to the fourth grave, which was nearest the marsh and marked by a waist-high marble obelisk on a small square base. Either it had sunk or the sand had blown against it, for it sat so deep that only the tops of letters were visible on its base.

Dr. Flo went out of the fenced cemetery, circled it, stepped over the tabby wall, and bent to examine the obelisk. “I can’t read it, but I don’t think it’s either Guilbert”—Katharine noted with amusement that she had settled on the
Geel-bear
pronunciation—“or Bayard. The first letter is too spiky to be a
g or a b.
” She stepped around the obelisk to check the far side, then gave a little cry of surprise. “Oh, my! Come look!”

Her voice was so urgent, Katharine hurried to join her. With one slender forefinger, Dr. Flo traced a faint carving on the obelisk face that looked toward the marsh. As her finger moved around it, Katharine gasped.

Dr. Flo stood up and brushed off her fingers. “I think we’ve found daddy’s pirate. Doesn’t that look like a skull and crossed bones to you?”

Katharine turned toward the gate. “Let’s dig a little and see if we can read the name.”

She pulled the shovel from the back of the SUV with a quick “Thanks, Dad.”

A man spoke behind her. “May I help you with that?”

She jumped, feeling as guilty as if she’d been caught digging up endangered plants in a national park.

“Burch Bayard, ma’am.” He lifted a Panama hat with a red band. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” She didn’t believe that for a moment. His eyes were lit with amusement, and if he hadn’t wanted to startle her he would have called before he approached. Still, his voice was all courtesy.

She would have known without the introduction that he was the middle generation of Bayards. In him, the family’s good looks and breeding had reached their pinnacle. Everything from the logos on his white running shoes, yellow polo shirt, and khaki Bermuda shorts to his well-cut golden hair—falling casually from a side part to the tops of his ears—proclaimed him a wealthy man dressed for a casual day. Lines radiating from the corners of his blue eyes meant he either laughed a lot or was careless when he went out in the sun.

“I’m Burch Bayard,” he repeated when she didn’t speak. “We must be some kind of cousins.” His drawl was soft and sweet. Low Country aristocracy.

“I beg your pardon?” She was still befuddled by the suddenness of his arrival.

He rested an elbow on her car, cocked his other hand at his waist, and smiled lazily down at her. “I can’t think of any other reason for your kinfolks to be buried in our cemetery, can you? My lawyer, Hayden Curtis, said you were coming down to look at the graves before you give permission to move them.”

“Oh.” She glanced toward Dr. Flo, bent over the stones in the Gilbert plot. “They weren’t…” Before she could finish “…my kinfolks,” he was talking again.

“I’m delighted to meet you. Always glad to claim a beautiful woman as my cousin, no matter how many times removed.”

“I’m not—”

The man suffered from an inability to shut up and listen. “This is my son Chase.” He draped one arm casually around the boy’s shoulders, a comfortable fit since the boy was so short. “A chip off the old block.” He gave Chase a light punch on the arm with his other fist. “I’m mighty proud of this boy. Makes good grades, stays out of trouble, knows how to hunt and fish. Even draws and whittles a little, don’t you, boy?”

A soft, embarrassed flush that had risen with his father’s boasting deepened to an annoyed red. “Some,” he muttered sarcastically, watching his toe make patterns in the sand. His voice was an adolescent buzz saw, vibrating between high and low.

“Look people in the face when you’re talking to them, son.” Burch eyed Katharine’s shovel. “Were you planning to disinter your relatives yourself? I told Hayden to make it clear I’d take care of that.”

The image of her helping Dr. Flo dig up coffins and of the two of them trudging with the coffins through the sand, hoisting them into the SUV, and driving off into the sunset was so absurd that she laughed.

His grin widened. “That’s better. What were you planning to dig?”

“Sand, so we could read the name on an obelisk near Claude Gilbert’s grave.”

“Let us help you. Chase, carry that for her, will you?”

Chase hoisted the shovel to one shoulder and started toward the cemetery, his gun in the other hand. His hair flopped on his shoulders as he trudged.

“One night I’m gonna sneak in and cut that hair,” Burch said softly as he fell into step beside Katharine. Their feet made soft scrunching sounds in the sand.

A breeze had come with the Bayards that temporarily drove away the mosquitoes.

“Actually, it’s—” she began.

Again he gave her no chance to explain. “I had never realized there were folks buried here who weren’t Bayards. I’ve never read the markers, to tell you the truth. Cemeteries give me the heebie-jeebies. But the county said I had to make a census before I moved the graves, so I asked my wife to come out and make sure they were all ours. You could have knocked me over with a gull’s feather when she found your graves. Our family has owned Bayard Island since 1754, and I would have sworn I knew every twig on the family tree. I can’t see why anybody except family would have been buried here, though.”

“Maybe they came on a visit and died,” Chase called over his shoulder.

Burch laughed. “Don’t make the lady think we have a habit of killing and burying our guests, son.”

Chase stood his ground. “But if somebody died here in the olden days, they couldn’t move bodies far in this heat.”

“I suppose that’s possible. The family did use to entertain a lot when it was still a working plantation. Bayard Bluff. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Burch waited long enough for Katharine to shake her head, but not long enough for her to tell him she’d simply driven Dr. Flo down.

“It was as fine in its way as Pike’s Bluff, Kelvin Grove, or Harrington Hall. Not quite in the league with Retreat, of course…”

Katharine presumed those were other Low Country plantations, for she had heard of Retreat, over on St. Simons Island.

“Rice was the big money crop. These tidal marshes were perfect for rice. But we also grew Sea Island cotton, as well.”

She tried again to tell him about Dr. Flo before they reached the graves. “Listen—”

Burch didn’t hear. “Sea Island cotton is perfect for this climate. It was developed or discovered—I don’t know which—by planters who fled to the Bahamas after the Revolutionary War. They were loyal to the king, you know.” He laughed. “Folks down here seem predestined to take the losing side of local wars. But when they got to the Bahamas, somebody started growing this high-quality cotton that has a long staple and comes back every year. Somebody else brought it to these parts around the 1790s and it grew well along the coast. There was a lot of money to be made out of Sea Island cotton until the War.” He looked over the marshes and said with regret, “But you can’t farm this land without a whole lot of hands. Bayard Bluff ran over four hundred at its peak.”

Katharine didn’t ask which war, or point out that ‘hands’ was a euphemism for slaves. He still didn’t give her a chance.

“Now the land isn’t good for much, but the view’s spectacular, isn’t it? Can you beat that anywhere else in the country? So I figure I might as well develop some of the island so we can enjoy the rest.”

“You’re a builder?” Katharine spoke without thinking, then mentally kicked herself. She didn’t give a hoot who or what he was, and in that fraction of a second she could have told him about Dr. Flo. Now she had steered his conversational bulldozer in another direction.

“Not yet, but as soon as we get those graves moved, I’m going to be. I’d rather develop the island myself than have some outsider come in here and ruin the place. This way I can pick and choose my neighbors. You might want to think about buying in. I can give you a great price on one of the first couple of houses, and it’s going to be a community of good people, I promise. No riffraff. I’m even planning to put a gate at the bridge, once I take back the whole island. There’s a little seafood company down the slough right now, but they’ll sell out eventually.”

Katharine darted a look behind her at the boy to see his reaction. Miranda had sounded like they knew each other pretty well.

He didn’t seem to be listening. He was peering up at the flight of three gulls as if memorizing their lines.

Burch rattled on. “The slough is deep enough for boats and there’s a channel that’s open all the way to the ocean, so I plan to put in docks and maybe even a little marina. Do you like boats?”

“Sailing.” She thought wistfully of sun-soaked days on Biscayne Bay.

“The water’s too shallow for a keel, but a centerboard could work. You’d have to motor pretty far to get good sailing, though. You’d do better with a motor launch. They can be real sweet.” He grinned down at her. “I tell you, cuz, you really ought to buy in.”

They had come within ten feet of the cemetery fence.

“I am not your cousin,” Katharine said firmly. “If anybody is, it’s Dr. Flo.”

She pointed across the larger cemetery to the small plot where Dr. Flo knelt, trying to stand Françoise Guilbert’s stone erect. She could have been anybody until she stood and turned.

Burch, in the process of lifting his hat, froze. “What the—?”

Chase gave his dad a wary, anxious look.

Dr. Flo stepped over the low tabby wall and came around the iron railing to join them. “Hello. I’m Florence Gadney. It appears that at least one of my relatives shares this cemetery with yours.”

She extended her hand, but Burch’s hand was fanning his face with his hat. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake, ma’am.” He was still charming, but firm.

Dr. Flo inclined her head as graciously as if she were chairing a board. “I’m as puzzled as you, I assure you, but one of those graves does seem to be my grandfather’s. I don’t recognize the others, but now that I have their names, perhaps I can find out something about them. I see you’ve got the shovel. Good! Let’s see who that fourth person is.” She headed back toward the tabby-enclosed plot, walking briskly.

Burch grabbed Katharine’s elbow and spoke softly. “What is this? You said—”

“I didn’t say anything. You never gave me a chance.” She pulled away.

A worried pucker appeared between his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but the slave cemetery was across the bridge, behind a little church.”

“We saw the church, but Dr. Flo’s daddy insisted his family were never slaves.”

“They sure as hell were never part of our family.” Burch glanced toward the woods as if hoping inspiration would fly out. “My dad knows more about this cemetery than I do. He’s never mentioned any strangers buried here.”

“What about—?” Chase began, then broke off as Burch turned toward him. “Morrisons,” he finished lamely, pointing in the direction of the graves outside the gate. Katharine had the impression that was not what he’d been about to say.

“A few Morrisons are buried here,” Burch conceded, “but they lived on the island.” He rubbed the back of his hair with one palm. “I’ve got to talk to Agnes about getting them moved, too.” He heaved the sigh of a man burdened with trivia in the pursuit of greatness. He raised his voice. “Ma’am, I cannot see how your relatives could be buried in this place.”

“The dates match,” Dr. Flo called back. “Come and see.”

He eyed the rows of tombstones with apprehension while he nibbled his upper lip. A small shudder passed over his shoulders. He took a step back. “I appreciate your coming all the way down here from Atlanta, and I’m sorry you had to make the trip, but—”

Seeing he wasn’t coming, Dr. Flo stood beside Claude Gilbert’s grave and held out her notebook. “These birth and death dates coincide exactly with those of my father’s father, who is not buried in Atlanta with the rest of our family. Barring a bizarre coincidence, I have to believe this is the right Claude Gilbert.”

Burch lifted his head like a bird dog that’s caught a scent. “Did you say Gilbert?”

“Yes. My maiden name was Gilbert.”

“That explains it. I noticed that Hayden misspelled the name of the man in the paper. These are Gwilberts.”

“Guil-bears,” Chase corrected him, so sloppy in pronouncing French that it came out more like
wheelbarrows
.

Dr. Flo fixed Burch with the look she must have given students who didn’t adequately research a paper. “Claude’s stone reads
Gilbert
.”

“That was probably a misspelling, too.”

She drew herself up to her full five-foot-two. “As a former professor, I know all there is to know about misspelling, sir, but a misspelled tombstone is rare. The spelling of names often changed from generation to generation, so it is far more likely that the family simplified it.” She swatted away a bee as if swatting Burch himself. “I’ll check on the two Guilberts to find out if they were related to me, and I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, we need to find out who the person is who is buried under the obelisk. The name is covered with sand. May I have the shovel?” She held out one hand.

Burch gave a curt nod. “Chase, go dig out sand for these ladies.”

Chase propped his gun against the railings, shouldered the shovel again, and joined Dr. Flo across the tabby wall. Burch made no move to investigate any of the stones. In fact, as the others gathered around the obelisk, he edged over to a sycamore and propped his back against it.

Dr. Flo showed Chase where to dig. As he bent to work, he slid her several speculative looks out of the side of his eyes. The way he heaved sand away from the obelisk base made Katharine suspect he was mentally shoveling all three adults out of his life.

Eventually a single word was revealed:
MALLERY
.

“Mallery?” Chase’s voice cracked on the word.

“That’s ours.” Burch made the claim like a contestant on a TV show where the fastest answer wins. “Elizabeth Mallery married Francis Bayard in eighteen-forty.”

Katharine doubted he’d had to spend hours in a library researching that. He rolled off the names and date as though he’d been fed family history and bloodlines with his baby formula.

Chase wiped sweat off his forehead and pointed to the large slab. “That’s Elizabeth and Francis over there. They lived here during the War.”

Burch circled the railing and peered over it at the slab. “Well, what do you know? That slab looks like it’s in pretty good shape, too. What do you think, Chase, should I move them close to the house and make a little Civil War cemetery, with a historical plaque and everything?” He turned to Katharine. “That could be real picturesque, don’t you think?”

She wasn’t about to approve setting up a cemetery as a landscape feature for his new subdivision. “It would be more picturesque to leave them right here.”

“I can’t do that. These are the best house sites I’ve got at the moment. They’re easy to get to and right on the marshes.” He added to Dr. Flo. “There’s no question about Mallery. He’s mine.”

She raised silver brows above her glasses. “You had pirates in your family, too?”

Chase lifted his head, but Burch laughed. “Pirates? No, ma’am, we never had pirates. We did have one naval commander.” He took off his hat and fanned himself again. The breeze had died down and mosquitoes were whining. “John McIntosh Kell, one of the most successful of all Confederate commanders, was our cousin. He was born down near Darien.”