It went quicker than she expected; the bushes were denuded down to the earth, their branches stacked alongside the house. Lord it was getting warm! The branches cut was only half the job. She’d root these bushes out for once and all. She returned to the shed for more tools, coming out with a pickax.
Lord, she should have done this last fall! She took the pickax and swung it down into the center roots of the first bush, impaling the point in the mass. She bent the handle back until she heard a soft crack under the earth. She repeated the action four more times.
“That’ll do ye in good,” she muttered as she wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve.
She took off her hat, laying it upon the awning of Eamon’s carriage. Grunting and chuffing she repeated the same destruction on the remaining bushes. One more memory of the crumpet for the fire. She’d enjoy burning the woody debris in the fireplace.
She expected her husband to notice right away. When Kevin asked why she had done so, she’d tell him she found terrible leeches and vermin infesting them. She’d say that on her walk today, she had seen one of the neighbors taking their own bushes down and asked about it. She would say she learned this fungus was terribly poisonous—should the children so much as prick themselves on a thorn, it could kill them!
She was more than a little surprised when she shooed the girls into the house and put Eamon down that the scent of roses wafted through the entire downstairs. It was a warm afternoon, and all the windows were open. Her nose wrinkled at it. Certainly many people found the aroma of roses appealing, but to her it was the smell of weakness and snobbery.
Thank God it had faded by the time Kevin came home.
He didn’t say a word about them all evening. She watched him carefully for the telltale signs she had been able to pick up of him being annoyed, but there wasn’t a one. He discussed the happenings at the base as usual, inquired about the children, as usual, and that was that. A normal evening at home.
The following morning she went to collect the mail and her heart stopped.
Each of the bushes she had torn out had been replaced.
And were in full bloom.
“How in the name of God had he done it?” Her eyes were wide as saucers. She strode down the walkway. Not a spot of dirt was on the paving stones. She bent down. And the earth was fully packed. She looked to each bush, finding the same thing. On one of the bushes she found a strange thing—while all the blooms were shell pink, one bloom had gone wayward and was pure white.
“Well, Colonel if it’s a battle ye want, so be it!” She marched to the garden shed and got the clippers, bow saw and pickax again. “I told ye I was not afraid of workin’!”
Being the second time doing, it went faster, and the scraps were piled up where she had put the original detritus. Why in the world Kevin had cleaned up so thoroughly, she had no idea. Except he hadn’t been out of her sight all evening. He must have called some gardeners in to do the job while she was cooking supper. Sneaky, clever man. How much did he pay them to do the work overnight? And so quietly? She hadn’t heard a sound.
Again, the house was filled with the bouquet of fresh- cut roses when she returned to start supper. The twins were down for naps in their room, and Eamon was in a cradle in the living room. She went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, fuming at the man and his waste of money. For heaven’s sake, they could plant other flowers!
When she heard the motor car pull into the drive she scampered outside. They’d have it out now!
“Meeting me at the car, Bridey? How romantic!” he said with a smile when she came through the side door. His second comment died on his lips. “Darling, what’s the matter?”
She was bent over at the waist, her mouth gaping open, her face white. As white as the single wayward bloom on the rosebushes along the walkway.
Chapter 13
A weaker woman would have thought she was going mad and Bridey did give into that temptation for a short bit. She took to her bed immediately, but didn’t dare try to sleep until Kevin joined her later that night. She explained herself by saying she had some sort of cramps, but should be all right soon.
She had no confidence in that being the case when she finally fell asleep, hearing Kevin’s deep breathing beside her.
She was surprised to wake the next morning fresh as a daisy. She was sitting in the kitchen with a pot of tea as she considered these strange events. Kevin was off to work and the children were still abed. He had been puzzled and concerned by her taking ill so suddenly and yet completely recovered in the morning. She calmed his worries by telling him she had tried too hard to be a good soldier yesterday and it was just a bit of overwork. He made her promise that she would at least consider hiring some help if only for a short while.
As if she’d let that happen!
She filled her teacup again, mulling over the strange occurrence of the day before.
Perhaps she was going mad; but she didn’t feel insane! Shouldn’t a madwoman be agitated? Shouldn’t she be traipsing around the house singing lullabies or opera arias? Dressing in the oddest of clothes and eating raw food or something? She ought to be yammering to herself like a maniac were she mad, right?
Or else a quiet madness then—she should be sitting in a chair, huddled under blankets and coats maybe. Or hiding beneath her bed perhaps, drooling and pissing herself like some lump of flesh!
But no, she was having none of those experiences. She could recall the events of each of the last few days in order, from waking to sleeping. She could remember what she prepared for supper each and every night of the last week, what dress she wore to church on Sunday, and what clothes she laundered three days ago!
No, her mind was clear as glass.
So if she was able to recall that she had washed and ironed Agnes’ pink jumper and Alice’s gray one two days ago, then her memory of destroying those rosebushes was accurate as well.
Her eyebrows drew tight and her lip curled. “Well, then Melanie dear, I think three will be the charm!” she said aloud.
She rose from her chair and went out the side door into the drive. Hearing the noise of a motorcar’s gears grinding, she looked down the street to watch a truck pull up to the Ashton home. Rose Heating was painted on the side. Two men got out, and as she watched, they opened the large rear doors of the truck and began to unload tools and equipment. Of course. Mrs. Ashton had told her just the other day they were going to have central heating installed. She hoped the racket wouldn’t wake Eamon.
One of the men noticed her watching and stopped. He put his hand above his eyes shielding them from the bright morning sun and smiled.
“Bridey Walsh as I live and breathe! Is that really you?” he called out.
She sighed. Jackie Morrison was a regular patron of the Royal Tavern on Fridays after work. He had tried several times to chat her up when she had visited the Ladies’ Room.
“It’s Mrs. Bridget Crawley now, Jackie Morrison!” she called back. “I’ve married me a colonel in the army almost a year ago!”
“And so you work there?” he spoke, gesturing at the home behind her.
Shaking her head she looked over with a rueful smile. Pointing at the brass plaque mounted beside the front door she said, “Now Jackie, I know ye weren’t the brightest light when we were in school, but were ye to look beside the front door, ye’ll see the name Crawley, will ye not?”
He tilted his head, his gaze following her finger. “Crawley,” he said in a low voice. Turning back to Bridey, he added, “Aye and I do.”
She folded her arms, thinking of the shanty where he had lived, in Lowerton. Probably living in a hovel not much better these days. “Me husband and I are the owners of this home.”
The smile fell from Jackie’s face. “You sound pretty proud of yerself, Bridey.”
“‘Tis Missus Crawley to you, sir!” She gave a wave like brushing away a mosquito and walked back up the drive. Her drive. She went around it to the side of the house, the noise of the two
men resuming their labor fading as the structure came between them.
She didn’t bother with the pickax this time. She planned to limit her efforts to the one bush which had the white bloom. She’d just cut its branches down and see what happened. She squatted down with the garden shears in hand.
“Well, Melanie dear, shall we try again?” she said aloud, and lopped off the branch.
With the crunch of the branch being cut, the world went still. The thuds and clangs of Jackie Morrison and his man down the street stopped cold. She glanced down the drive. They had just arrived and were now taking a break? She’d make sure not to hire that company if they were ever in need!
Looking down the driveway gave her a bit of a start. The world was different somehow. It was still. Not only had Jackie and his man grown quiet, but there wasn’t a sound from the birds in the trees. Just a moment ago they had been peeping and squeaking to beat the band. Gazing into the branches, she didn’t see a single one. Not only that, but she couldn’t hear any more of the rustle of the leaves in the morning breeze.
There wasn’t any breeze at all.
Nor a sound.
She looked down the drive toward the backyard. Everything seemed normal.
Or did it?
The day was as bright as ever; no sudden rising of storm clouds… but it was different. She looked about her. It was as if someone had turned up a gas light in a room too high. The light was stronger, almost washing out the color of her dress, and the green of the leaves on the branch she held in her hand.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” she muttered in shock. The white rosebud positively glowed in her hand! She put her finger on it. It felt as cool as any flower that was freshly picked.
She walked down the drive to the street with the pace of a condemned man going to the gallows.
She rounded the side of the house and stopped.
Holy Mary, mother of God! The street was deserted. Jackie Morrison’s truck was gone. She looked up and down the street. Not a soul. She peered into the park across the way to see it empty as well.
The air itself was dead. And was pressing in on her.
Just as it had when she visited Deirdre’s a lifetime ago!
Her eyes flew open and a gasp emptied her chest. She spun and heaved in a lungful of that dead, dead air.
“Eamon!” she screamed. She flew up the drive to the side door. She flung the clippers and branch from her hand and yanked on the door. The instant it opened, she heard a loud clang from across the street and Jackie Morrison’s bray of laughter telling his man to be careful or he’d lose a toe.
She froze in place, staring into the mudroom.
Stepping back out, she looked to the side. Lying on the ground to her right was the garden shears, but when she looked to the left, the branch she had tossed was gone. She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath and stepped back down to the drive.
Waving at her in the morning breeze was the white rose in full bloom, back on the bush.
Her knees became oatmeal and she collapsed onto the steps.
***
If Bridey Walsh was anything, it was pragmatic. All right, she was also a cold-blooded murderess; she had to admit that to herself. Even so, it wasn’t an angel of judgment sent by the Lord above. This was no Michael the Archangel sent to her home.
This was a haunting by the spirit of Melanie Crawley.
“Very well, Melanie,” she said as she collected herself. “Ye may keep ye’re bloody roses!” She collected herself as best she could and went about her day.
That night in bed, Kevin was feeling rather randy.
“Kevin, dearest, it’s been only a short while since I birthed Eamon,” she said. “I’ll be needing a wee bit more time.” Didn’t the man realize how exhausted she was at the end of the day?
The look of disappointment on his face would break the heart of a marble statue. “Of course, darling,” he said, “I’m sorry for trying to impose myself upon you so soon.”
“Thank you, dear.” She stroked his face, trying to wipe away his ardor. As she did so, the scent of roses washed over them both. She saw his nostrils flare in recognition… and a twinge of grief perhaps?
‘Damn you, Melanie. He’s mine now!’
She gave an impish smile. “You’ve been a gentleman to me, Colonel Crawley,” her voice husky and smooth. “And it has been some time since ye’ve enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, has it not?”
“Twelve weeks and three days, but who’s counting?” he said.
She touched his shoulder and pulled him back when he went to roll over. “Well now, that’s quite a long time, isn’t it? Let’s see what else we can do as a…” she wiggled her eyebrows at him, “consolation.”
He gave a little gasp. “Oh! Mrs. Crawley! Console me indeed as best ye can!” He closed his eyes and crossed his arms beneath his head. “You’re… giving me great… great comfort in my moment of need…”
As she tended her husband, the aroma of roses faded as quickly as they came.
‘Tis me bedroom now, Melanie.
***
“Ye’ll come when I call ye, Agnes Crawley!” Bridey gave the child a swat on her behind. “Don’t yell back to me ‘What’ ye heathen!” She gave the five-year-old another swat, eliciting an “Oww!.”
It was two days later, and Bridey had been in the kitchen. Kevin and she were having the Ashtons over for supper and cards that evening and she was harried. When she had called out to Agnes from the kitchen to come and dry the dishes Alice had finished washing, the child’s reply of “What?” had been the last straw. That girl had been flip and nervy all day! She took the child by the ear, quick-marching her to the kitchen.
As they went from the living room to the dining room, she heard the rattle of her favorite vase on the shelf. She looked over to see it dance on the shelf like a marionette. Her sisters had given it to her as a wedding present!
Oh really, Melanie? Ye don’t like your precious daughter being punished? Let’s see about that!
She scooped the child off the floor, and plopping into a chair at the dining room table, she put Agnes over her knee and gave her three quick cracks on her bum.
“Break that vase, and the child pays!” she said aloud, watching it.
The vase stilled. The only sound in the room was Agnes’ soft sobs.
She hauled the child off her lap and stood her upright. “What will you say to me the next time I call ye, Agnes!”
“I’m coming?”
“Good. Now into the kitchen with ye and dry those dishes like a good girl.” She gave the girl another tap on the bum and sent her packing.
Alone in the room, she said out loud, “We better be having a truce here, Melanie. Ye can’t hurt me nearly as much as I can hurt the twins. If ye could, that vase would have conked me in the head! So leave me be, and all will be well, understand?”
When she smelled the roses, she knew she had won.
The truce held until she discovered Kevin’s Last Will and Testament.
Chapter 14
Bridget was able to put her battle with Melanie behind her in short order. As she regained her strength from childbirth, the entire episode began to fade in her mind as if it were a dream. She knew it wasn’t true; it was simply easier to not think about it. As long as Melanie didn’t try to assert herself, Bridget saw no reason to do anything other than live her life.
Her situation changed in a single evening.
The Haunting of Crawley House (The Hauntings Of Kingston Book 1) Page 9
