#TALL TAIL BY RITA MAE BROWN PLUS#

On such a twisty road, Harry thought it best to be alert. Given the threat of a storm, Harry chose this faster route instead of the pleasant drive to Whitehall, where she would also turn left to head home.Ĭoming at her in the opposite direction, a red Camry flew around a curve up ahead.

They reached another left turn, which wound a few miles down to old Three-Chopt Road, Route 250. Tucker, a corgi, was also present and always ready to help. Murphy, the tiger cat, and Pewter, the gray cat. Accompanying her in her old 1978 F-150 sat Mrs. Turning left, heading for Crozet, she noted dark clouds backing up behind the Blue Ridge. Now, as an adult, as Harry passed the place, rumbling on the narrow road leading out of Garth Road, she wondered if this consideration would always hold true. Over the centuries, many declared they had seen ghosts here, but with a consideration praiseworthy in the disembodied, the departed never disturbed children. As a child, Harry had steered clear of the graveyard, and even as an adult that hard-eye stone angel gave her a shiver. The cemetery in which this imposing tomb commanded center stage was said to be haunted. Hard to say, for their reputation for ruthlessness endures to this day. Susan Tucker, Harry’s best friend, was their granddaughter.įrancisco and Maureen Selisse had been childless, and this gaggle of children might have pleased them. The estate’s owners, the Holloways, had children, loved children, and were welcoming to any and all.

#TALL TAIL BY RITA MAE BROWN PLUS#

Harry had played there as a child with children from the neighboring estate Beau Pre, Big Rawly itself, plus those children whose mothers drove them to the estate. In general, the wealthy wanted Georgian homes, but Big Rawly, modeled after a French château, down to the stables and outbuildings, never failed to impress. Brick or clapboard, most early Virginia homes resembled one another. The stories varied, but no one denied that Francisco had been stabbed to death.īig Rawly, the plantation on which this sordid event occurred, looked much as it did in 1784. Three other people stood in the room when it happened. Historians still puzzle over exactly how he was murdered. Lying underneath this imposing marble tomb rested the bones of Francisco Selisse, born January 12, 1731. His mouth set hard, his eyes piercing, he was not the promise of peace, repose, and eternal joy with the Almighty. Flaming sword in hand, the Avenging Angel, bestride a monumental tomb, looked over the rolling land toward the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Tall tail by rita mae brown