The Everdon Series- the Complete Set

by L C Kincaide

  Puzzled, she looked around for a ladder someone could have used to reach her window, but found none. Maybe it was written from the inside. It was possible to scrawl a message by pushing the window open and reaching from below to the outer side of the pane if someone had long enough arms. But she didn’t hear anyone enter her room to do it, and how did the word disappear in the seconds looked away? She had probably imagined the whole thing.

  She continued along the path that lead to the walled cemetery, not knowing why she headed that way. At this point, she had more questions than answers. The iron gate yawned open to the interior strewn with leaves and twigs that had blown in from the storm. Bathed in sunlight, the haven was a peaceful retreat, but choked in mist and cluttered with debris, it was merely a place of desolation. The fountain too had stopped, and the water was murky with decaying vegetation.

  Ivy approached the grave marker; there was something she had come to see, to confirm. The stone was dark and slick with moisture and plastered with soggy weeds. Stooping, she hesitated a moment not wanting to confirm her own fears, but she was here now, and her fingers scraped the stems and grasses on the granite aside to reveal the inscription. Below the family name was Amelia’s;

  Amelia Bramfield Everdon and child

  1880 - 1903

  Beloved Wife

  Amelia Bramfield. It was her grandparents’ surname, her grandfather was a Bramfield. That was only a coincidence, she told herself. It was a common enough English name. According to the date of birth, Amelia was only a year younger than Ivy was now when she died, along with her unborn child. Or miscarried child. Is that what she had come to see? She remembered the gruesome stain at the foot of the stairs where Amelia lost their baby, and a sudden grief rocked her.

  — REMEMBER —

  She wrapped her arms around herself. The damp air clung to her clothes, her hair and skin, chilling her through. A disturbing stillness pervaded the day, no birds chirped among these trees either, and even the squirrels hid curled up in their leafy nests.

  Ivy thought about the woman who lay buried here, who she was, what her life had been before it was cut short, before an old woman murdered her, for it was clear to everyone her death was no accident. What did Emma say about her husband — that he went mad with grief? She could not imagine such depths of despair. Their whole lives ahead of them, they lived in a beautiful manor house and were starting a family. Then, in the space of mere minutes it was all over, and the Everdons, along with their family members and friends under the roof that night, were cursed to relive the fated weekend for possibly the rest of their lives, or until something mysterious transpired, according to what Elinor believed to be true.

  She detected traces of another inscription below Amelia’s, and with a trembling hand swiped aside more of the sticking weeds. Ivy blinked at what she revealed.

  Mason Bloodwell Everdon

  1869 - 1933

  Beloved Husband

  She stared at the gravestone — at the name. This Mason was the first, the original Mason Everdon. The man she had come to know was his namesake as well as spitting image, she tried to convince herself, despite what Emma had told her. Old families often named succeeding generations after their ancestors. Sometimes they even looked alike. Emma was wrong that’s all. She had admitted to having little interest in family history, so it wasn’t like she was an authority. Ivy straightened herself and quickly left.

  On her way back, she caught a flash of white in between the trees and shrubs — the hothouse. Last night Emma said it was decrepit and should have been torn down. Did she see something different two days ago from what Emma saw? She didn’t want to ruin the dress, but since she was here already, and who knows if she would get another chance, she may as well have a look. The weather was steadily turning for the worse, and she was leaving soon.

  She hiked up her skirt to keep the hem from getting wet and tiptoed on the damp grass. The closer she got, the quicker her pulse raced. She hoped the charming Victorian structure was as she had last seen it with Mason, intact and filled with beautiful, exotic blooms, but once she had it in full view, her heart sank. The scene before her was not the hothouse as it had been earlier. The panes were shattered, with nothing more than glass shards clinging to a skeleton of wood and peeling wrought iron. Amidst dead plants, tables that once displayed vibrant flowers lay collapsed and rotted, or rusted beyond recognition. Remnants of pots poked up from debris. Soil, decayed vegetation and the odd branch were strewn across the soiled and cracked tile. A solitary length of chain hung from a slanted beam at the end of which hanging planters once contained ferns.

  Ivy blinked in disbelief. Was this some kind of a trick? She probably took a wrong turn on the path because this can’t be the same hothouse she had visited only two days ago. But looking around, she remembered the surrounding view and knew she was in the right place even if it looked completely different. It must have been the storm that destroyed it. What other explanation was there? At least one that made sense. She was desperately clinging to sanity and had not been aware of it until now. A shiver coursed through her, and she returned to the pathway. Emma had to be here somewhere. She couldn’t have just deserted her.

  Back on the path, she turned for a last look at the memorial garden. The mist had all but swallowed it, leaving nothing more than a ghostly imprint against a sheet of gray. The fog thickened, and she picked up the pace.

  Inside, the hall was bathed in silence, no sound of distant voices, no clatter of Clyfford and Saynsbery clearing the table, not even the ticking of a clock or crackling of wood in a grate. In fact, there were no signs of life at all except for her own footfalls as she approached the open door of the library.

  She wasn’t aware of going in until she stopped poised over the desk with the old family album that seemed to be waiting for her to pore over at her leisure, yet she hesitated. Why the reluctance now? She didn’t understand, but her curiosity was powerful, stronger than any fear of what she may discover between its covers. Resolved, she draped the damp field coat across the back of the chair and opened the tome to the beginning.

  The first several pages depicted early Everdons in front of their home; the fine script at the bottom of the photograph read, Everdon Manor. These pictures would have been of the family in England. The building itself looked exactly the same as the one that was built here, but with different surroundings. She turned more pages with black and white portraits, stiff-backed and serious ladies and gentlemen, chubby cheeked and chubby-limbed children. Among the portraits were scenes from hunts, balls, and family celebrations.

  As she perused the pages, Ivy thought she could now recognize some of the faces. A younger Margaret Bloodwell posed with, presumably her husband, a dark-haired man with an intense gaze. So, the broodiness went that far back. Mason’s double as a young man, not quite brooding but well on his way, and undeniably handsome. Another photo of two women with their arms linked and smiling. Amelia and — it can’t be — Lucy! Ivy peered closer to be sure, and yes, it was she! More page turns later, she found a wedding picture of Mason and Amelia. How happy they looked, and so beautiful together. Then there were images of the wedding party, everyone dressed in their finest clothes. It was summer, and silks and satins shimmered in the sunlight. Lucy was beaming beside the bride.

  She leafed a few years ahead. The American manor was under construction, then a picture of its completion, a large group of workers posing proudly in front, along with the lord of the manor in the middle of the assembly. On it went, cheerful occasions in faded black and white, and sepia toned memories in large and small prints trimmed with white scalloped edges. She arrived at the pages of the croquet tournaments. Ivy leaned closer to have a better look at the group photos. She had already seen the picture Mason had shown her earlier, and she carefully pulled one from its corners and held it close. The Ruskins were there, the Langstones, and a woma
n with light-colored hair behind Amelia’s shoulder. Her face was not clear, but the expression was familiar. Ivy stared at it not believing her eyes. The woman standing behind the happy and smiling Amelia regarded her with open hostility. She looked exactly like Victoria Seabrooke. And beside Amelia, who other than Lucy? Ivy replaced the photo with a trembling hand and studied the rest on the page. Again, another picture of the happy Everdons, and this time, Victoria was casting baleful glances at the object of her unrequited affections. Coincidence. It must be, she swallowed, but it was difficult, for her mouth had gone dry, yet she continued to turn the pages.

  A couple of years later, the collection included some casual pictures taken at Christmas. A huge trimmed tree in the ballroom, soaring almost to the ceiling and dripping with ornaments competed with the chandelier, and in the corner stood the grand piano, the same one Carrie had been playing the night before. Then came the last photo of the croquet game. Again, the players posed in their whites with a tent set up off to the side. A maid somehow made it into the photo as she bent over the table. She had glanced up just as the photographer took the picture. Ivy squinted. She looked very much like Styles. The woman who resembled Victoria faced the camera with a blank expression. The resemblance was astonishing.

  Ivy turned the pages, moving forward in time, but there were no more pictures of Amelia. There were a couple of her husband, which must have been taken when he wasn’t aware of it, for he was not posing. One was in profile, identical to Mason’s, another of him sitting in an armchair and gazing off into the distance. The family members had changed too. A new group of croquet players assembled in front of the house with the tent to the side, same as in past years and exactly like two days ago. Everyone wore the same sporty costumes and smiled for the camera on a beautiful sunny day.

  She scanned ahead. My God, how long had this been going on? There were no more pictures of the Victoria double either. She took notice of another photo, a group this time, and again, Lucy was there, older now, her hair cropped fashionably shorter. The skirt lengths had changed too, and smirking for the camera, her cheeky attitude was still very much in evidence. In yet another photo, Lucy as a matron smiled sweetly, standing beside an older gentleman seated on the bench in the memorial garden. He looked like Amelia’s husband, his face lined and weary. The hair still full and waved had turned gray, but the intensity of those dark eyes never faltered though their expression was of unfathomable sadness. Lucy’s hand rested protectively on his shoulder.

  Ivy shook her head in disbelief at what she was seeing. There was only one plausible explanation — the genes are very strong among the Everdons. It simply wasn’t possible for those people to still be living, never mind having regained their youth in the process! Ghosts did not speak or touch if they existed at all. Her mind would not allow the possibility. It must be some kind of game. Or maybe they were all insane.

  Curiosity urged her on to look further. There were pictures of Elinor as a younger woman posing with a tall, light-haired man who was probably her husband. These were followed by photos of Matthew as a toddler then some of Emma as a little girl. More images of family occasions followed, and every year, the croquet tournament. Next, a picture of Elinor dressed in black and downcast at her husband’s funeral with Emma, now in her early teens, looking forlorn beside her, and a young and stoic Matthew standing by.

  Ivy paused at another group photo with familiar faces of the current Ruskins and the Langstones, all of them younger and some of them slimmer. Carrie, still a young girl and already shy stood with Frances. Robert and John were recognizable as the handsome men they would grow into in the next few years. George was standing beside his brother, their resemblance strong and looking exactly as Ivy had seen him yesterday. Her heart beating faster, she looked for him in more photos, but all the pictures of him had been taken on that weekend, it seemed. She didn’t see him in the following year’s photos, not even in the group pictures of the croquet tournament. Then she saw it, a newspaper clipping with a grainy photo of George, a black band running diagonally across the bottom third announcing his death in an automobile accident. Ivy snapped the album shut and shoved it roughly away from her as if it had scalded her hands.

  Dear God, what am I looking at? What sort of a sick prank was this? Those pictures had to be fakes! Lucy would have to be an old lady now if she was even living. Why, she predated Elinor! And that couldn’t have been George! He was very much alive! She had spoken with him, shaken hands with him! And if that woman was truly Victoria gazing so wistfully at the object of her obsession, then that man would have to be none other than Mason himself!

  Her heart hammering, Ivy jumped to her feet knocking the chair over backward. She was either losing her mind or someone had set this up as a cruel joke. But who was it, and what did they hope to accomplish? What was the point of making her believe people, actual people of flesh and blood who were living, are in fact dead? And was this individual still in the house, lying in wait for her? Or was it a group effort? A fragment of the argument between Emma and Elinor came back, the part where they had been arguing about her and something Emma didn’t think was right. And Elinor’s bizarre speech about Everdon Manor welcoming her. What the hell was that about?

  Only one thing remained for her to do. She had to get out! Surely, one of them must still be here! It would have been unconscionable to have left her behind. But again, was it someone she can trust? Ivy bolted from the room and raced up the stairs. If the narrow skirt allowed it, she would have taken them two at a time.

  Pulling her tote from the bottom shelf, she changed back into her own clothes and pocketed her cell phone. There was no point in turning it on; she already knew there was no signal, so why waste precious battery power on that bit of useless knowledge? But if she managed to get far enough away and closer to town, she may get lucky and call out. She threw on her jacket and jammed her feet into her boots. She was done playing dress-up.

  The hallway was empty, and she ran down the stairs, across the central hall and didn’t slow down until she reached the door. She yanked it open and stumbled into cold, dense fog. The landscape had disappeared, and she couldn’t see more than two feet ahead.

  The opaque mist swirled around her, and she thought she would choke in the stifling mass, but she pressed on, the gravel crunching beneath her boots. Her arms waving before her, she veered to the right toward the garage where, with any luck, the cars parked as they had been since Saturday night. She had to know if they were still there and confirm she had not been abandoned.

  Taking one step at a time, the trip seemed endless, and frustrated, she broke into a sprint, feeling the air in front in her blindness until she crashed into the wooden boards and bounced off. She had reached the garage. Inching forward, she moved toward the middle and felt for the handle across the slippery wood, said a quick prayer and unlatching it, she heaved the door open. Glancing over her shoulder, only the filmy whiteness billowed closer. The house had disappeared, and a heavy silence descended upon her.

  She turned her attention back to the garage and took her time shuffling in the dark. Smacking into a fender could be potentially more painful than bouncing off a wooden door, but within a few steps anxiety gripped her — she should have bumped into a car by now. Stepping sideways, her arms still stretched out before her, she kept going until her fingers reached the far wall. Moving diagonally, she crossed again, her eyes becoming more accustomed to the gloom. Without windows not much light filtered to the far side through the opening, but as she stood in the middle of the space, she had enough light to know the cars were gone! They had left her behind in the house! She couldn’t believe it. Why would they do that? What had Elinor said to Emma? They were free; he had lifted the curse.

  — Everdon Manor welcomes you! —

  As if they had offered her up for sacrifice! To what? We’ll see about that! Ivy turned back toward the manor hoping this time she would not
meet anyone. She needed to call for help, and the only way for that to happen was to get higher, and that meant going to the roof. At least she knew how to get there.

  Apart from the bare bulbs, the service stairwell had no other illumination save for a series of narrow windows, and Ivy suspected the only people to have used it were chimney sweeps, and even that could have been years ago. She was out of breath by the time she climbed the three flights of stairs, and her thighs burned from exertion. Having made it to the top, she hoped to make her way out to the rooftop itself, and reached for the iron handle. It protested on the turn, and she pushed hard against it. On the second try, it scraped on its rusty hinges and opened a crack, and she heaved against the ancient wooden boards wondering who would give up first, the door or her aching shoulder, but she couldn’t stop now. After one more push, she squeezed through, and chilled, damp air smacked her in the face as she stepped tentatively onto the roof.

  Copper sheeting, dingy and green from more than a century’s worth of weathering arched over the east and west wings. Several chimneys with four chimney pots each stood sentry around her. The material under her feet was slate, mossy and slick with moisture, and she did not care to venture too far, for the skylight was nearby, and she did not want to lose her footing. Without having to approach the edge to see, she was keenly aware of the distance to the ground, and her stomach clenched in response.

  The sky brooded in solid gray, and dense fog shrouded the horizon. Here and there, Ivy detected a hint of landscape, the hills, ghostly and ashen phasing in and out of focus into the distance. Though not as heavy as below, the mist nevertheless climbed its way to the roof and wafted languidly around the chimneys in wisps as if playing hide’n seek, taunting her.