The Secret of Eveline House

by Sheila Forsey

  Max arrived in and flicked on the light. He was dressed in a blue T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, brown chestnut hair falling over one eye.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max, it was just a dream. I’m sorry for waking you.’

  ‘It’s okay, I was only half asleep anyway,’ he said, yawning. ‘I’ll pour you a glass of water. I could do with one myself. It’s the heat.’

  She was glad not to be alone. How could she still remember? But, in the dream, it didn’t seem like years. She had tried to push the memories away for so long. It had haunted her nights and her days, always wondering. Her mother’s voice was still intact in her memory, her perfume, the way she walked with a slight tilt of her chin. Her voice like velvet.

  She had loved to watch her put on her make-up and paint her lips scarlet. She looked like one of her dolls. Her beautiful clothes, the silks and chiffons, the fur stoles. But Eveline was clear too in her memory. Yet she knew that her mother had not always worn fur stoles and chiffons or lived in a house as charming as Eveline. She had often told Sylvia of her life in Ireland as a child where she lived with her family. And she had told her of Lough Derravaragh and how at sunset the lough glistened like glass.

  No, her mother was not brought up with fine clothes, but her elegance and grace were something that she was born with. She could see her in her mind’s eye sitting at her writing desk in Eveline. Her dark head bent in thought, her pen writing her beautiful words. The scent of the woodsmoke from the fire mingling with the smell of polish from Betsy waxing. The memory of flowers and the Christmas roses that were abundant that winter.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Max said.

  He helped her to sit up and then gave her a glass of water.

  Sylvia smiled wearily.

  ‘To be honest, I kind of did, but it was just a dream, a dream about a very long time ago.’

  Max looked intrigued. ‘What was it about?’ Or is it for telling?’ he asked with a grin.

  Sylvia looked at Max. Max was like her own. His parents had lived beside her when she moved to Chatham in Cape Cod. Max was a writer. His parents had died in a car crash years before. He had lived in New York for the last few years, got married and divorced, but had returned to Chatham and had come to an arrangement with Sylvia. He would live with her and help her and in return he had a home with her. For now, it suited them both perfectly. Max meant a great deal to her and somehow she knew she did to him too.

  Max had very little family and Sylvia had none, none that knew she existed at least. That was the strange thing. It was relatively easy to disappear. Chatham was a million miles from Draheen. Nobody had ever heard of Sylvia Ward the jeweller’s daughter. She had simply become Miss Sylvia. Max’s parents had christened her that when they first met her. She knew it was because when they tried in the beginning to engage with her she remained reclusive, not even allowing them to know her surname. So they had begun to leave muffins and flowers on different occasions on the balcony – always labelled ‘To Miss Sylvia’.

  Slowly she began to form a friendship with them and with their young son Max. She was guarded about her past and they never intruded on it. The name Miss Sylvia stayed with her and that is how she was known to everyone in Chatham.

  She had wanted to move to the sea. She felt, if she was ever to find some peace, living by the seashore would have to help.

  ‘So, come on, spill the beans! What were you dreaming about, some old romance?’ Max winked.

  ‘Not quite. I was dreaming of a house that I lived in as a child. It’s funny, you think you cannot recall something and then, somewhere in the recesses of your mind, it is as if you are there, dreamlike. The mind is a funny thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘What was it like? This house?’

  But as much as she trusted Max, she hesitated.

  ‘It was a very beautiful house with a garden of roses. It was not a large house, but it was a very charming house on the edge of a small town. There was a horse chestnut to the side guarding the house and we had a large black cat who liked to climb to the top and sit there viewing for a poor mouse.’ She could feel Max’s inquisitive eyes staring at her. ‘I’m tired now, Max. Thank you for the water and for coming in to me. Why is it that only in the dead of night does the past comes back to haunt us. I will sleep now – go get some rest.’

  ‘Okay, Miss Sylvia, I get the message – no more questions. You are a mysterious lady. I will see you in the morning with your morning coffee,’ he said, smiling.

  Max could not be kinder to her. Indeed, in ways he was like a son.

  When his parents died he was only seventeen and he had almost killed himself with grief. He had gone out that night and had not come home. It was almost six in the morning and his parents were becoming frantic with worry. They had tried to find him and drove all over the town looking for him. But there was an accident with an oil spillage and his parents crashed their car and were both killed instantly. Max could not forgive himself and blamed himself for their accident.

  But it was Sylvia who had somehow prevented him from going into total despair. She had got him some professional help and took care of him until he somehow began to stop blaming himself. She knew he still did but somehow he had begun to live with it. It amazed her how strong the human spirit could be. At times she had not wanted to go on herself but, somehow, she did.

  She drifted then into a dreamless sleep and awoke to the bright light of Chatham through her window. She loved to see the light coming in and rarely pulled her curtains. Every morning the sky was different, blues, violets, pinks and yellows slicing the sky.

  True to his word, Max arrived in with some freshly brewed coffee, some yoghurt and fruit.

  ‘You spoil me, Max.’

  ‘Some people are worth spoiling,’ he said, grinning as he opened the window and let the morning fresh air fill the room.

  The walls were painted an off-white and the wood panels a gentle blue. It really was a pretty bedroom with soft cream throws and a pale-blue rug on the white wood floor. Sylvia liked to think the house was like a cool summer breeze, a balm to her senses.

  ‘I thought, after you are dressed, we could take a stroll along the beach. It’s a beautiful morning,’ Max suggested.

  Sylvia was about to say no, but she knew that he would not take no for an answer. Maybe he was right, and it would do her good. It might blow the remnants of her dream away. It had been so vivid. But now in the morning light she knew it was only her mind playing tricks on her. The ghosts of the past had left her for now.

  CHAPTER 30

  It took her quite a while to get washed and dressed. But thankfully she was still able to do everything for herself. Her bathroom had a walk-in shower and afterwards she dressed in some cool linen trousers and a fresh pink blouse and cardigan. She had a cane that she used to help her to balance as sometimes her balance was not as it should be. She sat at her dressing table and for a moment the years drifted away. Her eyes were the same as her mother’s. But in her memory her mother was forever young. She combed her silver hair and put some cream on her face, then sprayed her favourite French perfume. Aromas affected her deeply. This perfume had a light hint of rose.

  Max linked her arm as they walked down to the seashore. The smell of the saltwater was as healing as it always was. They watched the gulls swoop for their breakfast. The white waves looked pure and, yes, the cobwebs of her dream were drifting away with the sea air. She didn’t talk. She needed to clear her mind.

  After the short stroll she sat in the shade with some iced tea that Max had made. She was still tired from the night before and could feel herself drift into a light sleep. Just as she felt herself drift, it hit her. The scent of wildflowers. Wildflowers that grew in Ireland in winter. At first, she thought it must be her imagination. She was in Cape Cod and it was summer. But the scent was so strong, as if she was in an Irish garden. The same aroma that scented Blythe Woods. She looked around. She was not sure what she expected to see. There was no one there and a
s quickly as it had arrived the aroma began to disappear. But a strange sense had come over her. She had tried to forget the dream of last night. In the cool light of day she had hoped it was just like Max had said – just the heat playing tricks on her mind.

  Her mother had loved the intoxicating aroma of flowers and had been like a child when she first saw Blythe Wood. Like a memory locked into her soul, the image of her mother was as clear as day. She became unsettled sitting there. Normally she would be content with a book or magazine on art, flicking the pages and enjoying the breeze. Her mind was always full of art. It was a way of life. It was how she viewed life. Trying to see the beauty but sometimes only seeing the pain. The sea now inspired all her work – the gulls, the waves, the lighthouse. The colours of the sea depending on the light. Luckily Chatham had quite the tourist trade and her paintings sold very well in the galleries there and the surrounding different towns of Cape Cod. She tried to settle but she couldn’t, the aroma of earlier had given her a feeling of unease.

  She had a room converted into a studio. A large table stood in the centre and all her paints and brushes were on custom-made shelves. Glass at the front looking out on the ocean. Each time she painted it, it was different – the texture, the depth, the darkness and the light. She liked to take inspiration from the colours. The signature on the end was simply Miss Sylvia. It provided her with a good living and her paintings had allowed her to be independent financially.

  But today her mind had drifted away into the past. She felt uneasy. She called for Max to bring her inside. She could walk but the balance problem had made it difficult for her to manage alone.

  She also had a lady who called in once a day. Doris. A large lady full of fun and laughter who Sylvia adored. Doris would leave her house like a new pin and manage to put some lovely homecooked dish in the stove before she left. She did the laundry too. But mostly it was the wonderful energy this beautiful African lady brought to Sylvia’s life every day that gave her such unexpected joy. She was like a bloom of energy that dispersed light as she went, leaving little petals of energy as she whisked through the house.

  Max came and helped her in. Sylvia noticed that he was gone so brown from the sun. He lived a quiet life. Too quiet, Sylvia thought. She had lived her life alone. But she hoped that Max would one day find a love that brought joy to him – someone that he could share his life with. He had so much love and kindness in him. Sylvia worried about him. He too had had too much heartache for one life. But he wore it lightly, his face always ready to break into a smile, hiding any pain underneath.

  ‘Max, I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Your wish is my command, kind lady,’ he said, teasing.

  ‘I need you to go on your laptop and look something up for me.’

  ‘Okay, what’s on your mind? Some ancient artist? Some new handmade paper that costs a fortune?’

  ‘I want you to look up a house for me. A house, can you do that?’ she asked cagily.

  ‘Miss Sylvia, you can actually see a house these days on the internet if you have a code. But do you know the address? Maybe I can google the street.’

  Technology astounded Sylvia. But no, she was not ready for anything like that. It could be demolished for all she knew and, if it was, she did not think she could bear it. She was about to tell him she had changed her mind. It was a spur of the moment idea brought on by that dream last night.

  ‘Okay, so where is this house?’ Max asked her, his hand on the laptop.

  ‘In a town called Draheen in Ireland.’ There, she had said it.

  Max looked quizzically at Sylvia.

  She had guarded her past for so many years, even from him. But something was pulling her there. It was more than the dream. It sounded silly but the aroma of wildflowers was like a message to her very soul. It had to be her imagination, but it had been intoxicating.

  ‘There was a house there. It was called Eveline. I am not sure if it still even exists. But could you see if anything comes up?’

  Max did as he was asked and within minutes he looked up.

  ‘Okay, I have something.’

  Sylvia could barely breathe. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Just tell me what it says.’

  ‘I can show it to you. It’s an article that I found about an auction.’

  ‘No, just tell me,’ Sylvia whispered.

  ‘Alright. It says that Eveline House was locked up for nearly seventy years but was recently sold as a going concern. That’s all I can see. But I can dig a bit more? Gosh, it looks really quaint. Very charming.’

  ‘Does it say who bought it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. That’s all.’

  ‘Would you like to talk about it? I can keep searching and see what else comes up.’

  ‘No, Max. But thank you. That’s enough for now.’

  ‘Are you okay? You look like you’ve had a shock.’

  ‘I am just not ready to talk about it yet, Max. It’s something about my past.’

  Max wrapped a blanket over her legs. He knew not to pursue it.

  ‘Right, Doris is off today on that shopping trip. I can only imagine what she will buy. I am off to rustle something up for us for dinner later.’

  ‘Thank you, Max.’

  ‘I will be in the kitchen or in my study. If you need me just holler,’ he said softly.

  That night sleep would not come. Eventually Sylvia awoke and switched on her bedside lamp. Max had left a glass of water for her. She took a pill from the drawer. She had to shut out the memories. They were back to haunt her. They frightened her too. She did not want to become unwell. But the door had been opened again.

  The next morning, she sat at her dressing table and began her routine. Brushed her hair. Her face was pale despite living in the sun. She looked at her hands. Old hands. Yet she didn’t feel old. At times she was still young, still searching for answers. She opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph. It was of her mother and father. They looked so happy with their whole life ahead of them. He was so handsome and she was incredibly beautiful. Then she fingered Betsy’s rosary beads. Poor Betsy, what would she have done without her? How precious her mementos were to her!

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Coffee!’ Max called.

  ‘You are a dear. Come in.’

  ‘I am going to meet with my agent today. To see if he can give me some direction. But I will be back in the late afternoon. Is there anything you want from town?’

  ‘No, but I do want to ask you something.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Would you help me find out something about my past?’

  ‘Is this something to do with that house we looked up?’ Max asked gently, sitting down on a wicker chair.

  ‘That house was my home once upon a time. It was where we lived. I have run from it for too long. But something tells me it is time to go back and face the truth. Whatever it is. No matter how painful.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Miss Sylvia?’ Max asked, intrigued.

  ‘Max, you have often asked me where I came from. I know you thought I was English. I suppose I am in a way. I was born in London to Irish parents. But I did live in Ireland for a short time. I once lived in that house that I asked you to look up.’

  ‘Miss Sylvia, can I ask why you never wanted to talk about it before? Your past has always been such a guarded thing with you. Are you sure you are cool to talk about it now?’

  ‘I have never told anyone what happened, Max. To be honest it was too difficult to process. When I was only eight years old the life I knew changed forever. But for some reason it is as if the past has come back to me. Draheen was a town full of secrets. Secrets that now need to be unearthed. But I am very frightened of what the truth might hold.’

  ‘Are you alright? You look a little unwell?’

  ‘I am okay. I am not sure I have the strength right now to tell you all of it. But I want to at least try and find out what happened. Will you
help me? I need to contact the people of Draheen.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Max said softly.

  ‘I lost so much in that town. I was only a child when we drove away from it but in some ways, I never left it.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Sylvia retreated into her art studio after Max left for his appointment. She took a fresh piece of paper. She always purchased the finest quality handmade paper for her painting. She prepared her brushes and paints. The sound of a pencil against the rough paper was as familiar as her breath to her. The only other sound was of a bee trapped at the window. She opened it and watched the bee fly high into the Chatham air.

  She began to lightly sketch out her painting. Her hands were mottled with age but once she began to sketch it was as if they were young again. When she was painting her interior world took over. Her body only a vessel of what she would create. The image was already in her mind. It was as if her hands were in control as she began at first to lightly sketch out her painting.

  Then she mixed some paints and water and in what seemed like hushed tones of lightest grey, she began painting the most delicate hues as a background. She adored watercolours. They were gentle. Yet there was no room for blunders. Her balance was affected but it did not affect her hands. At least two hours passed, and she did not stop. She was completely in the moment.

  She had to allow the painting to dry before she could begin painting in the flowers. It was of course a painting of the wildflowers of Ireland.

  Strange how a scent could evoke such memories. She had no idea where it had come from. Like a whisper from the past it had caught her. In that moment, she knew somehow the time had come. How her mother had loved that fragrance and how abundant the flowers were in Blythe Wood and at the rear garden of Eveline . . . She remembered even where they grew in the garden. Peeping out beneath the frosted ground. How she had dreamed of that garden!