by L C Kincaide
“Mum has a tendency to get nosy. She spends a lot of time alone, too much, if you ask me.”
“Why is that?” It seemed to her an odd situation; the woman had a condo in the city, a social life, and yet, she was compelled to live at the old manor.
“A Trust keeps the place going, and it’s a stipulation that the house be occupied for at least some of the time, I forget how long, by a direct family descendant,” Emma explained, “and only mum can fulfill that role. At least for now. It’s been that way for generations.”
“I’ve never heard of such a situation.”
“The 1903 reenactment is another story.” She sighed. “Mine is an old and eccentric family. You’d think in this millennium these bizarre traditions would have been done away with, but no.” She shook her head. “For a long time, I hoped mum would go out and meet people, you know, so she wouldn’t have to be on her own so much, but she was set against it. After my father’s accident, she decided to stay alone, so when someone new shows up at the house, she’s on them like a wet shirt.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” Ivy grinned ruefully.
“Well, sometimes it feels like that. She doesn’t mean any harm, but it can become annoying when you’re not used to it. Don’t worry, just get through tonight, and the good news is she goes to bed early.”
That bit of news reassured her that she would not be the lady’s target for too much longer. She didn’t particularly enjoy talking about herself, and less about her current situation of camping out in her best friend’s living room on a pull-out sofa.
Supper was an elegant affair served on bone china with silver place settings arranged on a white linen tablecloth. Candlelight glanced off silver candlesticks, and an arrangement of yellow roses graced the center of the table that sat a dozen, maybe even six more when extended. The room could easily accommodate that number. Elinor was right insisting on proper attire.
Saynsbery and Clyfford attended to the foursome gathered at one end of the long table their four course meal. Beginning with consommé served with sherry, broiled bluefish followed, then the main dish of braised beef with vegetables, and dessert was a custard pie and strawberry jelly.
“Part of our tradition is we serve traditional English meals. Our ancestors hail from England by way of Scotland, so it is appropriate to hold to that aspect, in addition to the manner of dress and such.” Elinor explained from the head of the table for Ivy’s benefit.
Emma whispered beside Ivy, “At least it isn’t boiled beef!”
Elinor cast her daughter a cool glance and turned her attention to their first guest.
“Are you at all acquainted with English food, Ivy?”
“My mother’s family is originally from England, so I am familiar with some.”
“Ah, how wonderful! See, Emma it isn’t just our family.”
“As long as nobody’s serving blood pudding for breakfast.” Emma scrunched her face. “I’ll never get used to looking at that in the morning.”
Matthew grinned from the opposite side. “I’m sure we can come up with some Sugar Kix, or whatever it is you start your day with.”
Emma squinted back at him, but her lips were turned up in a smile.
Elinor shook her head with resignation. “As you see, Ivy, for all our ancient traditions, we really do not differ from any other family.”
They ate their food in silence.
“From what part of England is your family from, dear?”
“I believe my grandparents are from York.”
“Imagine that!”
“The jelly is amazing! Raspberry is my favorite!” Emma interrupted the beginning of round two of the inquisition. ”What’s on the menu for tomorrow, mum?”
Relieved to be let off the hook, Ivy focused on her dessert.
After supper, they retired to the drawing room for coffee and Sherry, after which Emma and Matthew played a game of billiards.
“I hope you will enjoy your stay with us, Ivy. It is a bit out of the way, but the house itself offers many distractions.”
“It’s. Georgian, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, it is. Did you know it was built a complete replica of the Everdon Manor house in England? The granite was quarried in Devon because of its slightly pinkish quality that is not found here and used as ballast on the ship when it was brought all the way across the Atlantic and down the Hudson River. The building has undergone many improvements since it was constructed, of course, but most of the original features are still intact.”
“I can show you around, if you like.” Emma volunteered.
“That is a marvellous idea.” Elinor said, “But really it ought to wait until another time. Tonight, we need our rest.”
Emma turned to Ivy. “Oh, yes. The Ruskins and Langstones are coming tomorrow. Won’t that be refreshing for you, Matthew, a break from us women?” Emma teased him.
He lined up his shot, and with a click the last ball rolled into a corner pocket. Matthew appeared pleased enough.
“I enjoy the company of my lovely female kin, but I am looking forward to seeing the cousins.”
Elinor rose to her feet. “Well, I for one will say goodnight. We have an eventful weekend ahead of us. You should not stay up long either, dear.”
Emma and Matthew kissed their mother’s cheek and bade her a good night.
As soon as she was out of the room, Matthew was at the drinks cabinet pouring a Brandy. “Good game.“ He said. “You’re getting better when you keep your elbows in.” He toasted his sister with a grin.
Emma smirked playfully. “I only do that to let you win.”
He laughed out loud, then settled himself in the wing chair he favored and absently tapped his wedding band against the glass.
Emma caught Ivy’s raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “later”. When her mother was well on her way to her room, she turned to her. “Come, I want to show you something.”
Curious, Ivy followed her out to the central hall, passing the parlor. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of Mason, who stood by the fireplace with his back to her and didn’t see them walk by. Lucy was there too, engrossed in reading a book in a nearby chair. Why hadn’t they come to supper, Ivy wondered, or to the drawing room?
Emma walked past it without slowing down, and Ivy had to pick up her pace to catch up. She must not have seen them.
“His wife spent one weekend here, her last, and she flat out refuses to come back.”
Arriving at the open gallery, they continued straight along a short corridor that led to another hallway.
“Why? The party didn’t go well?”
“You can say that. She got it in her head to hold a séance — saw herself as some sort of medium, and she wanted to commune with the ghosts of Everdon Manor. She even brought her Tarot cards and a crystal ball for the occasion. Mum was totally beside herself as you can imagine.” Emma turned left into a wide hallway.
“And?”
“She did. Commune with the ghosts, I mean.” Emma said matter-of-factly. “During the séance, her candle flame blew out, the doors rattled, the crystal ball rolled off the table, and she tripped on her way up the stairs as she ran, but if you ask me, that had more to do with her imagination than any ghost. She scared herself half to death and left the next morning. Now, Matthew has to endure these weekends on his own, poor guy.”
Ivy followed Emma down a long hallway similar to the one she had gotten lost in. A row of wall sconces on each side lit up to reveal panelled walls painted in cream and hung with life-sized oil portraits of various subjects. Chairs and settees placed at intervals along the way awaited admirers in case one became tired, or simply wished to study the paintings at their leisure in comfort.
“This is the portrait gallery. It spans the entire house and separates the north
and south wings. The wing down that way,“ she indicated toward the east, “is unused.” Emma turned and faced to the left, or west. “That one is closed off, so if you get lost, get lost in the northeast wing. It’s a lot safer.”
“Why’s that?” Ivy was curious.
“A crazy relative tried to burn down the house at one point. She almost succeeded.”
That sounded foreboding and she ought to keep it in mind for future reference. She hoped to remember which hall led where as she followed along.
Emma stopped and turned to Ivy. “Come and meet the family.” She prepared to make the introductions. “These are the ancestors, the early Everdons on this wall.” She indicated to her left. “Over here,” she turned around, “we have the Langstone branch.”
She headed further, and Ivy followed her to the far end where the first, and presumably the most senior of the Everdon forebear’s portrait was hung, and they worked their way down the lineage.
Framed in heavy and ornately carved and gilded wood, the ancestors were a grim bunch against muted backgrounds reminiscent of Rembrandt oils. The Everdons and Langstones scowled or peered haughtily down their noses at whoever was admiring their countenance if the individual were a man. The women, not quite as forbidding, but somber just the same, gazed in quarter profile, their backs rigid, hands resting folded in their laps.
“This one gives me the shivers.” Emma hugged herself.
The portrait painted when its subject was already approaching old age was not flattering. Rather, it hinted at the noblewoman’s dominant and reserved nature, if she were in fact, as portrayed. Dressed in a deep red velvet gown with a ruff collar, a less dramatic version of its Elizabethan predecessor, flaring under her chin, she did not appear particularly amiable as she endured her portrait sitting session in the chair. But none of the family members looked approachable, to be fair. It was the style of the era. For whatever reason, the expectation was for the subjects to be presented at their most serious, even dour selves.
“Who was she?”
“She is none other than our Everdon matriarch, and it’s because of her we have to reenact this weekend year in and year out.” Emma said exasperated.
“I don’t understand.” Ivy was surprised by Emma’s reaction. “I thought you enjoyed these weekends.”
Emma sighed, “I do, but to be honest, less and less each year. Anyway, she was bound to a wheelchair, hardly ever left her room, and she went mad. Or maybe she lost it before then. I forget which.”
“Mad?”
Emma studied the old lady’s likeness dispassionately. “Yep. She should have stayed in England. Maybe the move pushed her over the edge who knows? But yeah, psycho, cracked, unhinged…”
“I get it.”
“One fine night, she went out wheeling on her own and pushed the young lady of the manor down the stairs. Amelia never saw her coming, and down she went, head over heels straight down to the bottom while her poor husband watched.”
“God!”
“She died in his arms. It was terribly tragic, and even romantic in a gruesome way except in his grief, he cursed the lot of us.”
“What do you mean by cursed? Don’t tell me you believe in those things?”
“I don’t know what to believe, but mum does and uncle Theo, and that whole generation of Langstones, and everyone before them. Creepy, isn’t it?”
“Kind of. So, how does this curse play out?”
“Well, the weekend party has to take place every year at the same time, and all the players have to show up, otherwise, they die.” Emma said matter-of-factly. “So the curse goes.”
“What?” Ivy found it hard to accept. ”That’s crazy!”
Emma grinned at her. “You don’t believe me.”
Ivy shook her head.
Emma brushed her worries aside. “You know what? You’re probably right. It makes no sense. My distinguished family is as superstitious as a bunch of ignorant peasants from the dark ages. Wouldn’t surprise me to find torches and pitchforks in one of those decrepit sheds out back.” Her tone was derisive. “They believe whatever suits them. ”
She scanned the portraits, her eyes moving from one face to another.
“They said it was an accident. The police would know, wouldn’t they? If something was accidental or not?”
“Yes, I suppose they would.” Ivy answered her. “What are you talking about?”
Emma’s eyes met hers.
“I had a cousin — he didn’t come one year. He was a great guy, fun too. Now he’s gone.”
“That could have been a coincidence. People often find meaning where there is none.”
“Maybe most people. It’s just that mum insists it wasn’t.”
“That’s her opinion. It doesn’t mean it’s anything else.” She tried reassuring Emma, but it didn’t seem to be working. She attempted another tack. “Is there a way to break this curse? If it’s real?”
Emma chose her words carefully. “We invite people every year and have the party and hope that one year he will be pleased by how it all goes.” She shrugged.
“And how will you know when he’s pleased? Does he talk, leave messages in a fogged up mirror? Make an appearance?”
“Mum says there will be signs. I wouldn’t know, and I’m glad. It’s just creepy. Of course, mum tried to tell me all about it because one day my turn will come, but I don’t want to know. God!” Emma shivered. “I hope it goes well!”
“In that case, so do I.”
They ambled along, pausing before one painting then another. Men and women, some dark-haired, others blonde or white-haired, even a few bald gentlemen compensating for their bald pates with abundant facial hair. Ivy stopped in front of a portrait, and its dark-haired subject met her gaze with a familiar intensity. Ivy started, her hand moving to her pearls. She stepped closer to be sure her eyes had not deceived her and found herself gazing into Mason’s eyes, or those of his ancestral double. The resemblance was striking, down to his brooding expression. His predecessor wore his hair differently, longer at the back, and his sideburns were wider, encroaching on his cheeks. He presented a suave figure in a black morning coat, his silk puff tie loosely knotted around a high stand collar.
Ivy examined the painting, searching for a date, but the hall was too dimly lit to make that possible. It was either a remarkable coincidence, or it was an excellent rendition of the style of the period.
“And that’s him, the lord of the manor.”
“You mean the one who cast the curse?”
“One and the same!”
“What happened to him?”
“After his wife died, he became a recluse. He died in this house. I don’t know the gory details.”
Emma caught Ivy’s expression and burst out laughing. “I hope I didn’t scare you with that story about the curse. It’s an old legend, and who knows how much of it is even true! Like I said, I’ve never seen any evidence of it. But he is a dashing fellow, don’t you think?”
Ivy studied the man’s portrait, the dark and intense eyes, but there was no hint of malice or bitterness in them. Unless it was painted before the tragic event before grief twisted his soul and turned his heart to stone.
“Hmmm — very.” She agreed. “So, how are you related to him?”
“He’d have to be a great, great — I forget how many greats, but he was some sort of uncle. He never had any children.”
“On account of his wife dying.”
“Hmmm — hence the curse.”
“Right.”
“This is Amelia Everdon.” Emma indicated the portrait next to his.
The subject was a young woman, about their age. The artist had captured the gleam of copper highlights in her upswept auburn hair and the silky texture of her wine-colored gown. A three-
tiered garnet choker set in gold encircled her neck and matching drop earrings twinkled at her ears. Her head was turned in quarter profile like the other women, but rather than appearing distant, a faint smile played upon her lips, and her eyes were soft and dreamy as if she was thinking about someone precious.
The portrait evoked a peculiar sense of melancholy in Ivy though there was nothing particularly sad about it. It was a beautiful painting, rich in color and alive with well-placed highlights on the jewels and eyes. And there was something else…
“Our forebear and head of the clan is this one,” Emma moved to the portrait next to Amelia. “Maxim Everdon, the younger brother.”
He too was a handsome fellow bearing a resemblance to his older sibling, but with lighter coloring, the hair brown instead of black. His blue-gray eyes held the beholder’s with a hint of amusement, his lips too were lifted at the corners hinting at a light-hearted nature. The lady depicted in the portrait beside his lacked Amelia’s vibrant hair color and soft features, but was attractive in her own right with clear blue eyes and a mass of sandy-blonde braids and coils arranged on the top of her head. The modern day Everdons inherited her coloring, and Ivy thought she detected a resemblance to Elinor around the eyes. Her attention returned to Amelia.
“What do you think?” Emma asked watching Ivy closely.
“It’s a beautiful painting.”
Emma’s eyes shifted between her and the portrait. “You don’t see it, do you?”
Ivy shrugged. “See what?”
“Look closer, or step back.”
Ivy peered closer, and apparently not yet seeing what Emma did, stepped back and shrugged again.
“I still don’t see it.”
Emma shot her an exasperated look. “You could pass for her.”
Ivy’s eyes widened in surprise. “You really think so?” She stared at the painting. They shared the same eye color and their hair was a similar shade too. Maybe even the heart shape of the face.
“You do.”
