The Darling Dahlias and the Confederate Rose

“I do,” Charlie Dickens said. “And I have an idea about who your friend’s grandmother might be. I was hoping to see the pillow. It might give me something more to go on.”


“Oh, really?” Bessie exclaimed with mounting excitement. “Then why don’t you come in and meet my friend. I’m sure the rest of us won’t mind delaying our game while you and Miss Rogers sort things out.”

“Miss Rogers?” Charlie Dickens asked, surprised. “You don’t mean . . . It’s Miss Rogers’ grandmother who made the pillow?”

Bessie sniffed, thinking that she smelled a whiff of whiskey on Charlie’s breath. But she only said, “Indeed. And I’m sure that she will be delighted to let you see the pillow. She has it upstairs in her room.” She hesitated, adding apologetically, “But I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave your cigar outside. I hope you don’t mind. The Magnolia Ladies are not very fond of cigars.”

“Sure thing,” Charlie Dickens said. He laid his unlit cigar on the porch railing and followed Bessie inside.

And Bessie had been right. Miss Rogers (who turned petal pink when Mr. Dickens came in and Bessie explained why he was there) was thrilled to acknowledge that she was the owner of the pillow and then to scurry upstairs to her bedroom and bring it down. She also brought the twisted, gnarled hank of red wool yarn that Lucky Lindy had unraveled with his sharp claws and put it on the card table where everyone could see it.

“A cat did that?” Fannie Champaign exclaimed incredulously. When Mr. Dickens came in, Fannie had slid him a glance that Bessie couldn’t read, which had made her even more curious about the two of them—although why it mattered to her, she could not have said. Charlie Dickens was only the brother of an old friend. She had no interest in him at all.

Bessie cleared her throat. “Lucky Lindy was a cat of many talents,” she put in. “One of our Magnolia Ladies was quite fond of him—until he unraveled one too many of her knitting projects.”

“He was a dreadful nuisance,” Miss Rogers said emphatically, “but I must confess that I am grateful to him for pulling that knitted cover apart. I had no idea that my pillow was embroidered with all these signs and symbols.” She held it up for everyone to see. “On both sides, too.”

She handed the pillow to Charlie Dickens, who took it over to the bridge lamp for a careful examination.

“But where did the pillow come from?” Beulah wanted to know, so of course Miss Rogers had to tell everyone the whole story, while Charlie Dickens continued to turn the pillow in his hand, studying it minutely as he listened to the tale.

“Such a lovely story, Miss Rogers!” Fannie exclaimed. “To think that you have something that your grandmother made with her very own hands. I wish I had some reminders of my family.” She put her head to one side, adding, “Although perhaps I don’t. We weren’t a very happy family, come to think of it. I don’t think I’d care to be reminded.”

Beulah smiled. “A family treasure, Miss Rogers. What you have is a wonderful family treasure.”

“It’s more than that,” Charlie Dickens remarked. “Much more.” They all turned to look at him as he came to the table. “What you have, Miss Rogers, may be a national treasure. Or perhaps I should say, rather, a Confederate treasure. Something that all true daughters and sons of the South would be proud to call their own. Congratulations.” He bowed with a gallant flourish, and Bessie got another whiff. He had definitely been drinking. Nobody else seemed to notice it, though.

“Con . . . gratulations?” Miss Rogers asked hesitantly, flushing. “But I don’t understand. It’s just a . . . it’s just a pillow, that’s all. A pillow with strange symbols all over it.”

Bessie leaned forward urgently. “The symbols,” she said. “What do they mean, Mr. Dickens?”

Instead of answering, Charlie Dickens asked, “Does anyone have a pair of sharp-pointed scissors?”

Bessie got up and went across the room to the table next to her chair and fetched the scissors from her sewing basket. “Will these do?” she asked, handing them to him.

“Perfect,” Charlie replied. To Miss Rogers, he said, “With your permission, I would like to open a seam along one side of your pillow. I will try very hard not to damage the material. May I?”

Miss Rogers hesitated as if she might say no, then drew a breath. “Of course, if you feel it’s necessary,” she said, and then added, impetuously, “Oh, but do be careful, Mr. Dickens. It’s an antique. That pillow is as old as I am.”

“That can’t be so very old,” Charlie Dickens said in an unusually chivalrous tone, and began snipping at the seam on the left side of the pillow. The thread was thin but the stitches, which had obviously been put in by an expert seamstress, were firm. The snipping took several moments.