There was more going on than he let on, of that I was sure. I sighed. With him no longer employed at the manor, I might never find out what it was. There were so many visitors—easily distinguishable from the re-enactors by virtue of their contemporary clothing—that it looked more like a giant block party than a soldiers’ camp. Surrounded by tourists in capris and sports jerseys consulting BlackBerrys, Civil War women carried pots and baskets, their skirts generating little puffs of dust as the material skimmed the ground. Even though the re-enactors had only been here since Friday, patches of grass had already been worn down to bare dirt. The participants concentrated on their tasks, but seemed happy—eager, even—to take the time to answer questions whenever a T-shirt-clad tourist stopped them to talk. The sutlers in the very center of camp were doing a brisk business. No wonder the re-enactors, for all their disparagement of “farby,” chose to open their camp to the public from time to time.
