"Just haunted the place. Great." Jessica replaced the portrait against the wall and covered it again. ' 'No wonder this dress has been packed away and lost all these years. It's unlucky. Well," she said, dusting her palms briskly, "shall we have lunch now?"

Afternoon brought heat with it, and the attic was left to be finished the next morning. By dusk, Amanda and Jessica had managed to clear out most of the second-floor bedrooms, itemizing the scanty contents quickly and efficiently.

"My back is aching," Jessica complained as they sat on the front porch sipping iced tea and watching evening shadows creep over the lawn. "All that junk-it's amazing what can be accumulated in so many years."

Amanda sipped her tea, thinking of those who had once lived in this house. Old memories had been sparked with every find, whether a crystal perfume bottle from the twenties or an 1890s' volume of poetry with spidery writing inscribed to a sweetheart on the front page. Bittersweet memories of forgotten times… Her chair creaked loudly as she rocked forward. Crickets hummed in the still, sultry air.

"I wonder," Jessica mused, "what would have happened to this house if not for that feud."

"I imagine it would remain in the family. I wish I knew the real reason for the feud."

"Well, you'll probably never find out. That information is lost to history." Jessica rose, pressing a hand to the small of her back and groaning. ' 'I'm going home to my husband. I'll be back in the morning to help you finish up the attic."

"I appreciate your help," Amanda said softly. "You're a good friend."

Jessica grinned. "Well, somebody has to be nice to you big-city girls who run off and leave us small-town hicks behind. Who would we have to envy if not for you?"

But once Jessica left and the house seemed to enfold her in its embrace again, Amanda felt as if she had come home. Losing this house was painful. But she had the next few days here, and she was determined to wrest all the comfort and memories she could from them. Tomorrow would come soon enough. It always did.

Chapter Three

It was a hot night. Stuffy. Amanda sighed irritably and tried once more to get comfortable. The second-story bedroom windows were open, the black wire fan was on the dresser, and she was wearing only a thin-strapped nightie of ivory silk that reached midthigh, but she was still uncomfortably warm. Maybe she should read. There was a stack of books in the attic, along with decades of old magazines that might prove boring enough to put her to sleep. And if nothing else, it would at least make her insomnia informative. Sighing, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and fumbled for a robe.

The wood floor was surprisingly cool on the bare soles of her feet as she went down the hallway to the back stairs leading to the attic. The bottom step creaked loudly beneath her weight. It was dark on the stairs, and Amanda muttered to herself as she felt her way along.

Perseverance got her up the dark stairs to the attic door. The door was ajar, propped open with a heavy flatiron she'd found in one of the wooden crates. The irons made great doorstops, and she'd wanted the attic to air out before the next morning. She opened the door wider and stepped inside.

Dim patches of moonlight dappled the floor, filtered by the heavy magnolia trees that shaded the house. Fumbling for the switch, she turned on the light. The single bare bulb swung back and forth in a breeze from the open window, casting patches of light and shadow. Amanda scanned the attic floor for the stacks of books she'd placed aside. One of them caught her eye, a leather-bound journal tied with faded ribbon.

Lifting it curiously, she untied the ribbon and flipped open the leather cover. Neatly scrawled on the fly page was the name Deborah Jordan Scott and the date January 1864. She mulled over the name for several minutes, then caught her breath with excitement.

Could this be the same Deborah in the portrait? If so, the unnamed husband was probably Michael Scott-her distant uncle and great-great-grandfather's half-brother. This journal might possibly hold the key to the family feud, she thought as she turned the pages. But to her intense disappointment, moths and rain had apparently destroyed all of the journal entries. Only scattered words were still legible, and those were blurred.

Regretfully, she closed the journal and retied the ribbon. No help there. When she glanced up, she saw the dress she was certain had belonged to Deborah Jordan Scott. It was still where she'd left it, draped gracefully over the open trunk.

Moving around a stack of books, Amanda reached for the dress. The fabric felt cool and satiny, the folds of material rustling slightly in the silence. She held it up to herself and stepped to the old cheval mirror propped against a wall. As a child playing dress-up, long skirts had trailed the floor and tripped her many times. But what would it be like to really wear the gowns of the antebellum period? Scarlett O'Hara had made it look so glamorous, when the reality was probably uncomfortable, inconvenient-and hopelessly romantic.

Amanda yielded to impulse and slipped out of her robe and unfastened the pearl buttons on the dress. She stepped into it rather awkwardly, slid her arms into the sleeves, and pulled it up. Her silk nightgown wadded up around her waist. It took her a moment to wriggle it down before she could adjust the satin folds of the wedding gown. Drat. It would be almost impossible to fasten all the buttons. Women back then must have been very agile. Or employed a maid to help them dress.

When she had most of them done, she turned to peer into the mottled glass of the old mirror. Even in the dim light, she could see that the gown had lost none of its beauty over the years. It fell in simple lines that draped elegantly over her hips down to her ankles. Masses of petticoats would have once swelled the long skirts into a swaying bell shape. Tiny pearls sewn into the material caught the light from the single bulb and shimmered in a misty glow. Intricate bead-work must have once adorned the gown, though now a lot of it was missing. Probably at the bottom of the trunk, along with other long-lost treasures.

Amanda stepped to the trunk and moved aside the tissue that had cradled the gown. Some of the pearls should surely be here, perhaps still nestled in the crinkly folds of tissue paper. She unfolded some of it and heard a faint rattle as if pearls were falling into the bottom of the trunk. Digging deeper, Amanda found several folded sheets of yellowed newsprint below the tissue paper. She pulled it out carefully, in case some of the pearls were caught in the folds. A pen-and-ink drawing of a man with a small beard and plumed hat caught her immediate attention as she unfolded an old copy of the Memphis Appeal. The date of the paper was June 19, 1864.

BATTLE AT BRICE'S CROSS ROADS RESULTS IN FORREST

victory, read the caption above the ink drawing. Intrigued, she read the long article relating the details of Confederate General N. B. Forrest's lengthy fight and ultimate victory over Federal forces at Brice's Cross Roads in northern Mississippi. Why had someone saved this particular article? she wondered.

Then she glanced toward the bottom of the page as bold print seemed to jump out at her: holly springs man killed six months after wedding, it read. Curious, she scanned the article beneath. "Tragedy strikes former Memphian in the wake of General Forrest's great victory over Union forces. After vanquishing the Federals on the Gun-town Road between Holly Springs and Ripley on June 10, the chase continued into the small hours of the next morning. On June 16, in the effort to roust the enemy from northern Mississippi, a former Memphian's husband of only six months was slain. To add insult to this grave injury, Yankee soldiers-who were cowering in the Cold-water swamps in their cowardly flight toward Memphis- then had the effrontery to claim the young man had been slain by his own half brother. Lieutenant James Brandon stoutly denies such grievous charges against him…"

Amanda took a deep breath. The name of the dead man was listed as Lieutenant Michael Scott-leaving behind his widow, Deborah Jordan Scott. So here it was-the real reason behind the feud that still dogged her family. It was enough to divide a family, the suspicion that one brother had killed another, like Cain and Abel. She read further, and learned that the two had been scouts for General Forrest. How tragic. What had really happened? Had her great-great-grandfather killed his own brother?

Carefully folding the paper, she laid it atop the crate and sighed. After all this time, knowing the reason would hardly make any difference now. Things would still be the same, and the family estrangement just as strong.

"Too bad," she murmured as she straightened up, "that I can't change history." The wedding gown rustled softly as she moved to stand in front of the mirror again. Her image was reflected in a rosy halo of light and shadows. The gown hung loosely. On a whim, she reached behind herself to fasten the last three buttons, then turned back to look into the mirror.

Her reflection shimmered, and it seemed that it grew brighter and brighter, the satin folds of the gown taking on a luminous sheen. A sudden gust of wind through the open attic window made the light bulb swing wildly. It dimmed, then burned out, leaving the room in darkness. Amanda suddenly felt weak and dizzy, and reached out blindly to catch herself. There was nothing but empty air, and she sank slowly to the floor, arms flung out in front of her as she dropped to her knees.

Panting, fighting nausea, Amanda's head began to whirl. All her senses grew so muddled she couldn't form a coherent thought. It seemed like forever before her head stopped whirling. Her senses slowly returned to normal, though there was a ringing in her ears that seemed loud enough to be heard fifty miles away in Memphis.