by L C Kincaide
A chill washed over her, a coldness that was directly proportional in intensity to the warmth she had experienced with Mason, or her imaginary episode with him, when she realized what she was looking at. A physical rest of a reminder. The carpet fell from her fingers and her eyes moved up the stairs. Amelia Everdon tumbled down these stairs and died in this spot. A knot in her stomach formed and clenched on her last meal.
She lifted the carpet by its corner, loath to touch it now, and gingerly repositioned it, covering the grisly evidence.
One hand on the banister, the other lifting her robe, she climbed the staircase to her room eager to wash her hands.
It took several reminders that nothing was going to spoil her stay — not those of her imagination and certainly no historical events either. Bad things happened everywhere, she reasoned, and if there was a visible reminder for her to find, then so be it. She was not a shrinking violet nor a child. There was no reason to take it so personally. She hoped the rest of her visit would be uneventful.
SATURDAY
~*~
Ivy awoke and immediately tensed. Someone was in the room drawing the curtains open. Her first thought was crazy wheelchair lady, but that made no sense, even half asleep.
“Good morning, Miss. I hope you had a restful night.” A cheerful voice addressed her.
She had gotten used to Jen moving around in the apartment while she camped out on the pull-out couch, but this was different.
“Clyfford, is that you?” She asked squinting at the woman, but only had an impression of a ruffled cap atop dark hair, and a white maid’s uniform.
“No, Miss. It’s Styles.” She replied in a lilting Scottish accent. “What a lovely day it is today. Perfect for enjoying the gardens.” Styles drew open another curtain.
Ivy risked opening her eyes to the pale October sun streaming into the room, and to her great relief, her head did not explode as she had feared it might after the previous night.
“Your bath is already drawn.” Styles continued brightly. ”I shall return in a bit to help you get ready.” And with a turn of white apron she was gone.
This woman was certainly friendlier than Clyfford, she mused throwing back the covers and padded to the bathroom.
Memories of last night’s adventures, especially what transpired in the parlor, returned in vivid detail as she prepared for the day ahead though she still couldn’t decide how much of it really happened. The only logical explanation that remained was that she had suffered a seizure, but at what point? It bothered her how real their time together seemed and being so uncertain of it left her anxious about her reaction to Mason when she encountered him again. Asking him directly if they kissed in the early hours of the morning after she choked on her drink did not strike her as a good conversation starter. Maybe it was better to just let it go as if it never happened at all, she decided towelling off.
Passing by the windows, she marvelled at the cloudless blue of the sky and the vibrant red and golden hues of the hills beyond. Styles was right. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day. Her eyes glimpsed the door knob plate — the key was still in the lock, and she furrowed her brow. She remembered locking herself in at some point — yes, when she first returned to the room after her escape from the wheelchair in the gallery. Then she had left the room after awakening from a bad dream, but didn’t remember if she locked the door after that. But Styles would not have been able to get inside if the door had been locked. She shook her head. No more nightcaps for you! She’d better move and finish getting ready.
Returning to the dining room, Ivy had a chance to appreciate the finer details revealed in the light of day. Like all the other rooms she had seen thus far, the walls were panelled from floor to high ceilings and displayed oil landscapes in two horizontal rows against a pea-green background. She took notice of a mahogany Victorian wall clock, its arms frozen at six minutes past eleven, the pendulum hanging still. She was yet to find one in this house that kept time.
Above them, an opulent chandelier dripping with multitudes of crystals flashed in the morning sun lending the meal a festive air. Again, she concurred with Elinor’s dress code. A splendid room such as this commanded that anyone seated at this table should be appropriately attired. Jeans and T-shirt would have been an insult to the elegance of the décor.
Elegant Staffordshire china painted in soft greens, blues and pinks, with a matching tea set, and a silver coffee urn were laid out on a fresh linen tablecloth. Silver napkin rings glinted around the matching napkins. Used to paper napkins at home, Ivy was loath to dirty these fine ones and felt completely decadent pouring her coffee from the gleaming coffee urn and adding sugar cubes with dainty silver tongs. She was surprised to find someone still made sugar cubes. Performing these simple acts at the beautifully set table now held new meaning. In this lavish setting, breakfast was raised to a higher level of importance. No one seated here was likely to scoop cereal from a bowl balanced under their chin.
A traditional English breakfast awaited in a lavish display on a Hepplewhite mahogany sideboard with poached eggs, bacon and toast, baked beans, and porridge. Overwhelmed with choices, for she only ate toast or cereal in the morning, she pondered the offerings displayed in the silver chafing dishes, delighting in the delicious aromas.
They were just the three of them at breakfast. She hadn’t seen Lucy nor Mason nor Matthew since last night. Perhaps they were early risers.
Emma ate heartily from her full plate.
“If there is something else you’d like,“ Elinor spoke up, mistaking her hesitation, “cook will prepare it.”
Her cheeks warming, Ivy turned to her hostess. “This is more than enough. Everything looks so delicious, I’m just having trouble deciding.”
Elinor, reassured, nodded and smiled. “Don’t be shy, Ivy. It is not as if you have to watch what you eat.”
If she were staying much longer that would change. She decided on a bowl of oatmeal, coffee and juice. That should be enough to keep her going until lunch.
“I never make breakfast at home. Cooking is boring and the cleaning up after even worse.” Emma leaned toward Ivy. “To be honest, this is the best part of the weekend — the food!”
“I heard that.” Her mother’s voice was light, but held just a hint of reproach.
On her first morning, Ivy already learned a couple of things about this family. The women, namely Emma and Lucy, were spirited and the men reclusive.
“Matthew is an early riser, so he had breakfast ages ago.” Emma said noting Ivy’s glances around the room. “He’s probably out touring the estate.”
Ivy nodded, as if she understood perfectly well about touring estates. She may as well be on another planet.
Turning to Ivy, Elinor was curious. “Tell me, dear. Last night you mentioned you were interested in the Edwardian era. Is that part of your profession? Are you a historian, perhaps?”
“Actually, it’s only an interest, but I’ve always been drawn to that time whether reading about it in books, or movies, and history as well.” Ivy enjoyed talking about her pastime and hoped Elinor would not pursue the questioning into more personal territory.
“Hmmm, how fascinating.” She considered this and asked something far worse. “And naturally, you have a young man to share your interests with.”
“Really, mum! Isn’t that a bit personal?”
Elinor merely shrugged her elegant shoulders.
“Forgive me, dear. I assumed a lovely, intelligent young woman would have a young man at her side.”
“Now, who’s being Edwardian?” Emma continued. “I don’t think a woman should have to settle for just one man when there are so many to choose from. We do actually live in a new millennium, despite what you see here.” Her hand made a sweeping gesture indicating the antiqued room.
“That will
be enough, Emma.” Her mother gave her a warning glance. “It is only once a year the family gets together, so please mind yourself.”
“Sorry, mum.” She conceded. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise. Right after I have another sausage.”
“Your hair,” Elinor commented turning back to Ivy. “It’s such a lovely auburn, so vibrant. Is it your natural color?”
“Mum! What kind of question is that?” Emma turned from the buffet.
“I’m sorry, It is not my intention to pry, but young people nowadays are always changing their hair color from what they were born with.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Mum still hasn’t gotten over the time I dyed my hair green.” She laughed. “I mean, mousy blonde hair. What can be more boring?”
Ivy grinned at the exchange. “Yes,” she answered the question. “It is my natural color.”
“Well, it is stunning, really. Quite unusual.”
“Damn!”
“Emma!”
“Sorry, mum. I dropped a sausage on myself — ugh — my dress is ruined!” She turned around to face Ivy, an ugly grease stain spreading on her skirt.
“For heaven’s sake, Emma, don’t rub it in! Leave it to Clyfford, she’ll take care of it.”
Emma threw down the napkin and held the garment away from her body in disgust.
“Ivy, why don’t you go on ahead. I have to get out of this mess. I’ll come and find you.”
Finished with breakfast and reassuring her hostess she would be fine on her own for a while, the women went their separate ways.
Trying to decide on a direction, Ivy stood beneath the immense rectangle of the skylight. Divided into individual large panes, it was set into the ceiling at the apex of the hall, a three full stories above, and was an impressive feat of engineering considering its age. A wisp of cloud drifted lazily by. If no one was around, she would have been tempted to lie underneath it and watch the sky shift and change in the soft hush. How utterly exhilarating it must be to experience a thunderstorm from this perspective, to witness its raw, coruscating power while safely removed.
“There you are!” Lucy greeted her cheerfully, breaking into her musings. “How was your first night? Did you sleep well?”
In a pale green dress with a matching ribbon peeking out from a pile of curls, she seemed to have drifted soundlessly into the room.
“Just fine, thanks.” Ivy returned her smile. She didn’t see the point of getting into the specifics of her adventures, particularly those that defied explanation though if anyone were to understand, she sensed Lucy may be the one.
“We have another beautiful day and so warm in the sun. If it continues, we’ll have a perfect afternoon for playing croquet with the cousins tomorrow. I was on my way out. Come, I will show you around a bit before I have to see about the preparations.”
A smile spread over Ivy’s face.
“What is it?” Lucy asked, curious.
“I just remembered something. It’s silly…”
“No, really. I would like to know.”
“It’s that when I was a girl I had a doll.” She hesitated, “I named her Lucy.”
“You did? Now, that is a coincidence.”
“I suppose it is. She was very lovely, dressed in a frilly pink dress. She was my favorite doll.”
Lucy smiled at this revelation, seemingly amused.
The doll had been an antique, her head crafted from porcelain, and brown-eyed with a mass of sable curls on her head, topped with a wide sunhat. It was quite a coincidence, now that she thought further about it, and the doll did bear a likeness to the Lucy, who now stood beside her. She couldn’t recall what happened to it. Maybe her mother had her stashed in a box somewhere.
Ivy followed Lucy across the central hall, and they turned deeper into the house along another corridor. Passing by several open doors, Ivy peeked into the rooms, noting tall windows and maple paneling.
“This is the library.” Lucy explained when she noticed Ivy had come to a stop. “Come inside, if you would care to see what a true musty old library looks like.”
A blending of scents; aged leather, warm wood, ancient paper, and a hint of pipe tobacco vied for attention as soon as she stepped into the book-lined chamber. Burgundy and deep green hues of the fabrics, and rugs, so different from the other rooms she had seen thus far, lent it a heavy, masculine feel. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered the walls, and natural maple wainscoting glowed in the morning sun, only interrupted by tall, leaded windows that looked out at a stand of maples edging a garden. To the side, Ivy glimpsed a sparkling glass structure that could be a hothouse. Hand-tinted hunting prints; riders on horseback and hounds at chase occupied what little wall space was not devoted to books and windows.
“There must be thousands of books in here.” Ivy mused aloud.
Leather-bound volumes with gold stamped lettering on their spines, all old and probably rare and valuable packed the shelves. Surely, the house must be armed with a sophisticated alarm system to keep the collection safe, especially if no one was living in the house full-time. The library had the essence of a museum rather than a room in a private home. It seemed odd, but it wasn’t her business, Ivy decided.
A massive kneehole walnut desk near the windows held more books. By the marble surround fireplace, a wing chair awaited its next occupant. Dual armies in ivory and ebony faced each other on a marble chessboard within arm’s reach on a pedestal table.
“Oh, indeed! Those shelves house several collections. Why, some are so valuable no one can handle them, so they exist only to be admired from afar. Some can be handled with white gloves.” Lucy laughed. “I fear they will turn to dust with no one having read a single word in them! The later editions we are actually allowed to touch are on the other wall.” She pointed to the bookcases on the opposite wall.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to remember which side holds what books.” Ivy mused.
“No, indeed. There are photo albums too.” Lucy went over to the desk and opened a large tome. “Come and look at this.”
Curious, she crossed the room to see what Lucy was studying.
“This album contains the earliest photographs of the Everdon ancestors. The Daguerreotypes are too bulky to fit in here, and they’re scattered around the house.”
Lucy carefully opened the leather-bound album to a random page of black and white and mostly faded photographs. Arranged symmetrically on the pages, their corners were tucked into black paper photo corners to hold them in place. Peering more closely at the fading images, she recognized at least some of the faces.
“Who is this?” Ivy asked pointing to a picture of an austere-looking, middle-aged woman dressed in white, her face set above a high collar. A house bonnet completely covered her hair, over which she wore a hat with a tall crown. She gazed off camera at something she did not approve of.
“Ah, that is my grandmother, Margaret Cornelia Bloodwell Everdon.”
“She looks like she was a formidable woman.”
“Some have said that, but she was very particular about whom she liked. Believe it or not,” she grinned, “there were one or two people. She was bound to a wheelchair for the last decade of her life and refused to leave her rooms.” Lucy gazed at the photograph. “It is quite sad, really. They installed an elevator in the house so that she could get about more freely, even venture outside, but she would not. I suspect it was her pride. I understand she had always been a rather independent woman. Only the staff use the elevator to move trolleys and heavy items. I suppose it’s much easier for them than having to carry everything up and down the stairs. At least someone made good use of it.”
Wheelchair. Ivy recalled the creaking sounds and the distinct shadow she had seen the previous night. But it wasn’t possible the occupant of that chair was Margaret Everdon. Lucy�
�s grandmother would have to be a hundred years old, if not older. An infirm woman of considerably advanced age was not likely to be roving the halls under her own propulsion if Ivy’s conclusions were even remotely close to what she’d heard and seen. There was no mention of the old lady being insane either, but of course, they weren’t the same person; the oil portrait was painted while still in the Victorian era when the lady was already in her later years. The resemblance among the generations in this family was remarkable.
Ivy examined the other photographs. Groups, large and small of couples posing for the camera, and some individual portraits. She had no clue who these people were though some looked vaguely familiar from the previous night’s tour.
A group picture caught her eye. The photographer took it on the front lawn, the manor in the background and it appeared very much like it does now, the surrounding trees not yet as tall and full. Everyone was dressed in sporting whites, most of them holding croquet mallets. She peered closer, for it was a large gathering of maybe a dozen players, both men and women, the ladies wearing sun-hats festooned with flowers and ribbons, the gentlemen in straw boaters, all smiling for the camera.
Her eye stopped on a familiar face. It was Mason’s counterpart, and again she marvelled at the striking resemblance between the two men. She recognized the woman standing by his side from the portrait beside his in the gallery; Amelia Everdon, his tragic wife. At her side stood a dark-haired woman, but she could not see her features at all; she was brushing aside a strand of hair the moment the picture was taken so her hand was a blur in front of her face.
On the facing page, she noticed a lithograph of Everdon Manor at the end of a long and winding approach that cut through a meadow. A forest grew to its right, a river flowed at its left, and a familiar corbel bridge spanned from one bank to the other. The structure looked the same, but the surroundings were different.
