The Everdon Series- the Complete Set

by L C Kincaide

  “Reminds me of Scrooge and Marley.” Emma grinned.

  He gave a hearty laugh. “Very good! And I couldn’t agree more. Fortunately, I’ve pushed my most pressing ideas through with only minor improvements left.”

  “I hope they haven’t been as stingy as Mr. Dickens’ pair.”

  “Not quite, I’m glad to say, and the bulk of the work is done.”

  “And now you can focus on being a hotelier.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You seem to have a talent for that too.”

  “Thank you for your observations. I admit to it being a vastly different skill set though I miss the challenge of earlier days. What about yourself? What is waiting for you back home?”

  Not a lot, actually. But she couldn’t say that even if it was the truth. “In all honesty, I don’t yet know. The last year has been… how can I put it… unsettling.”

  “Oh I’m sorry. I won’t pry.”

  She could have kissed him for that. Anybody else would have been all ears, and she’d be stammering about her escapades on the other side and more recent developments on this one. Her life, even more than before, was a mess. Just ask her mother. She desperately searched for a different topic.

  “This house must hold many memories for you.”

  “It does.” He admitted. “A lot has happened under this roof.”

  “An old building like this would have seen its share of deaths.”

  “That’s certainly true. Family members in the past generally died at home rather than elsewhere. But more people were born here, including all the Everdon generations after Margaret and Reese down to your grandfather.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if parts of it are haunted. I felt a chill in the hothouse when I was there earlier.”

  “Yes, that. The temperature can fluctuate in there. We haven’t found the source yet, but it is an old glass structure, so we don’t expect it to be perfect.”

  “It must have been me, then. I’m sensitive to the cold, especially when it’s damp out.”

  “Unfortunately, that accounts for much of the weather here.”

  “Boston too.”

  The grandfather clock chiming eleven times took her by surprise.

  “So late already?”

  “Where did the time go?”

  “It seems like we just came in.”

  They were alone in the dining room and the waiter had cleared away their plates some time ago. Only a dribble of wine in her glass and a half-filled cup of cold tea were all that remained.

  “Is it too tedious of me to say again how glad I am you are here?”

  “No, not at all. In fact you may tell me again tomorrow.” She warmed. “Coming here was the best idea I’ve had in a long time, believe me. I loved every minute and I appreciate everything you’ve done to make my stay here so special. I envy your guests who come back.” Even the ghosts seemed content, except for the woman hanging around the hothouse.

  “You can too. You’ll always be welcome.”

  “Thanks.”

  The silence stretched between them interrupted only by the crackling of the burning log. She needed to feel pampered considering what awaited her at home. But for now, there was no need to think about it. She still had three days to herself to fill with memories to tide her over the rough spots ahead. Maybe she could even spend more time with Adam if his schedule allowed. After tomorrow, their paths would likely never cross; she had no reason to return to England and flying over oceans wasn’t her favorite thing. But, who knows? Life was weird.

  “I should go on up. You probably have to be up early.”

  “No rest for the wicked.” He said with a wink and held out his hand. When she rose, he hooked it through his arm and she didn’t mind at all.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “I was thinking of going into the village. It’s kind of cool it being named after my family.”

  “It is charming with a fair assortment of shops and pubs. If I may recommend, Frogmoor’s Pub for lunch. You will enjoy it.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  He escorted her up the stairs and paused on the landing of the open gallery.

  “I bid you a pleasant night, Miss Emma.” He released her and inclined his head.

  “You as well, Adam.”

  If he were to lean over and kiss her cheek, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise, nor would she have objected to a real kiss, but she had to remind herself this was not a date. He was hosting a descendant of the family who once inhabited this manor house. And she was see-sawing in emotional turmoil which could spell all kinds of trouble. She would heed Rachel’s counsel and her own restraint. But how easy it would be…

  Giving her a last smile, he turned toward the stairs. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as easy as that. They had said their goodnights in full view of anyone who may have been passing by and no gossip would have stirred from that innocent parting. Unlike her, he had a reputation to maintain. He almost reached the bottom when she headed to her room. If he were to turn, she didn’t want him to find her gawking. And she wanted to talk to Rachel, her one true friend who was not tired of her constant calling.

  After the chat, Emma recapped her evening. A chambermaid had come in while they were at dinner and turned down the bed and left a chocolate on the pillow, and flames danced in the refurbished marble-faced gas fireplace. Again, her real room came to mind. If she could take this place and set it down by the Hudson instead, she’d probably be living in it, maybe writing the Everdon memoirs which some high-powered Hollywood producer would make into a horror movie. It seemed like a reasonable career for a single woman who found herself in the country, and she did okay in copywriting even if most of her time had been spent shuffling papers.

  To have the vision for an undertaking such as restoring an old manor house and the talent and skills to execute it humbled her. What had he said? That whoever administered the Trust was obdurate? It peaked her curiosity. Who exactly owned this estate? She had no idea what happened to the property after her grandfather emigrated. She assumed some family connections did though only the Langstones fit that bill and Sir Theo never mentioned it. If anything, they seemed relieved to have nothing to do with it at all. As far as mum was concerned, the place did not to exist.

  She made a note to look up the offices of Simcoe and Andrews in the morning.

  MONDAY

  ~*~

  Emma stretched in the brass bed and smiled contentedly. Luxuriating in one more stretch, she threw back the covers and padded to the window surprised to see an unfamiliar view. It had slipped her mind where she was. Facing west, shadows lengthened toward verdant fields and rolling hills where she had expected to find the Hudson River and autumnal foliage of the Catskills. Ah, yes, springtime at the other Everdon Manor. The river flowing beyond the trees glinted in the sun heralding another sunny day filled with possibilities. Emma opened the window and breathed deeply the crisp country air. Never fond of mornings, a fresh start was one of the few things she liked about it. And coffee.

  Remembering to call the lawyers, she sat at the desk and started her laptop. The phone number for the law firm was easy enough to find online. When she got through, the receptionist transferred her to Mr. Andrews’ assistant, a Mrs. Higgins who gave her the same response — Mr. Andrews was unavailable.

  Emma wasn’t sure what to ask; speaking with the lawyer himself would have been easier, so she did the next best thing and asked for a copy of the Trust. The assistant seemed reluctant, saying it was a ponderous document and perhaps it was better to make an appointment and have it explained to her… blah, blah, blah.

  Never one to deal well with bureaucracy, Emma grew impatient.

  “I don’t need an explanation
.” An idea occurred to her. “I’m in London with my mother, Elinor Everdon-Stuart. We would like a copy of the document as soon as possible. Or does she have to rearrange her holiday plans to accommodate you, Mrs. Higgins?”

  The woman sputtered on the other end and said she will send a PDF to Emma’s email directly.

  Emma disconnected the call. How had mum put up with the bureaucracy all these years? That task completed, she turned her mind to more pleasant things.

  After her shower, she changed into her T-shirt and jeans that would soon need laundering, if not already. They weren’t garments she could rinse in the bathroom sink. Maybe she would find some interesting shops in the village when out exploring and considered staying an extra day. No other options had presented themselves and she was here, and so far, everything was going better than she had expected.

  By the time she finished breakfast, her mind was made up. People milled around her and she studied the central hall while waiting for a couple to finish checking in. They looked excited to be there and Emma smiled, happy to see business doing well.

  “Good morning, Miss Stuart.” Adam’s assistant greeted her; her demeanor courteous, professional, and the smile genuine, if not a touch frosty at the edges. Her scraped-back hair and smart business suit added to her authoritative presence. Otherwise, she was an attractive woman in her thirties with wide-set hazel eyes and a pert upturned nose upon which perched tortoiseshell-framed glasses. Adam had no idea she had a massive crush on him.

  “Good morning, Miss Walsh.” She read the name on the badge.

  “I hope you enjoyed your visit with us.” She said trying to warm up to her now that she was leaving.

  “I did. The manor is spectacular and the service just amazing.” She replied loud enough for the new guests to hear. “In fact,” she continued with enthusiasm, “I’ve decided to stay another night.”

  “How wonderful!” The chill rushed back.

  “Is Mr. Kinsley available?” Emma asked.

  “I’m afraid he’s indisposed. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Actually, I’ll need a ride into the village.”

  “Miss Collins will be pleased to call a taxi for you.”

  “Perfect.” Emma said brightly.

  “Enjoy your outing.” Miss Walsh strode away.

  Unlike the skylines of the cities, not much seemed to change in the countryside, and she found comfort in that and leaned back in the seat to enjoy the short ride.

  Glancing around the cobbled streets lined with old trees and stone and timber buildings, she imagined Margaret and Reese Everdon passing through in their carriage. The town would have been a cluster of houses surrounding a square in those early days. Had Mason wandered through here with Amelia on his arm? Or her grandfather when he was a boy?

  She strolled through the quaint village delighting in the stalls and an open market selling local crafts. In a dress shop, she found a couple of dresses that fit, a loose top and a light, but warm woollen wrap for the chilly evenings, and a pair of lower heeled shoes. After two days, she had grown weary of transitioning between sneakers and stilettos. It was hell on her calf muscles and the next trip down all those stairs may not end as well as the last. Remembering to stock up on gifts and small trinkets to take back home, she explored the shops and even poked around in a tobacconist’s because she liked the old-fashioned name and it smelled woody and rich with the aromas of different pipe tobaccos.

  A familiar sight stopped her in front of a bookshop window. A book on display featured a black-and-white image of Everdon Manor on its cover with the Everdon name in bold print. Intrigued, she took a copy from the shelf and leafed through the pages looking at photos, most of which she had seen before in the family albums, and many further in the book she had not. It didn’t surprise her to find the fine print credited the photographs to Adam Kinsley, who had documented the restoration process. Why hadn’t he mentioned this to her? The books should be displayed at the reception desk for the guests, and made a note to mention it, sure they would sell. She bought two copies for him to autograph and a handful of postcards of the village. Stepping into the narrow street, she retraced her steps to the main square and searched around for Frogmoor’s. Being a tourist was hungry work, she realized, and the two books added weight to her purchases.

  The pub was everything Adam promised it would be, down to the blackened hearth large enough to roast a pig, which she didn’t doubt had been a common practice. The menu, however gave her pause as she tried to decipher what a ploughman’s lunch was, never mind bangers and mash or toad-in-the-hole. Crispy pig’s head raised her eyebrows. Not quite the offerings they’d have at the Ritz, nor anywhere else she’d been. Noting her befuddled expression, the server came to her rescue. Despite the strange names, the food was delicious in its simplicity and she wouldn’t have minded their addition to the Weekend menu which she always found complicated and overwhelming. But then, nothing was ever simple then.

  Gazing around her, she again mused whether Mason had frequented this pub for an ale with his brother, Maxim; the establishment was old enough according to the mounted plaque. They would have sat at one of these scarred wooden tables joined by their father or friends and shared good company and laughter. How different would their lives have been if Mason and Amelia had never left England? She would have lived, and they’d raise a family though she couldn’t be sure how that would have influenced her grandfather’s emigration to the States. She would never know the answer to that, except their manor would not have been built and nobody would have been cursed.

  Whatever decision had driven Mason to leave his home country, no one could fault him for what followed, nor condemn him for every Everdon descendant’s fate. He had no way of knowing it all pivoted on a seemingly chance crossing of his path with Victoria Ruskin. That unfortunate incident had doomed them all.

  Did there occur a pivotal moment in everybody’s life where a decision set the tone for the rest of their lives and the lives of others? What was hers? Had it already come to pass without her realizing it, or did it still lay ahead? Would she make the right call? She hoped so.

  Emma gave herself a quick shake; this was not the time for such grim thoughts. What was done was done and until now, not one of her family members had set foot in these parts, which was reason enough to celebrate. Being part of where her ancestors had once made their lives grounded her with a sense of familial belonging despite not having been here before, and she gained comfort in that.

  Paying her bill, she wandered to the village square and scouted for a taxi to take her to the manor, happy to have extended her visit a while longer. Wandering around busy London in a crush of tourists held no appeal, and nothing waited for her at home except certain heartache with John. If not for Rachel and the baby coming, she saw no reason to rush back, and that saddened her.

  No one had left messages while she was away and. John had given up bringing both relief and disappointment, but there was no point in thinking about that when it could wait until later. Unpacking her new clothes took priority, and she hung them up in the armoire careful to remove the tags while she remembered and slipped the flowing buttercup top over her head.

  Still full from her hearty lunch, she decided a walk outside would do her good. The central hall was deserted and hushed; neither of the Misses Walsh nor Collins was about, and again, she marvelled at the similarities and differences between the two manors though she ought to be used to that by this time.

  A cloud passed overhead dimming the marble for a moment before the rectangle of sunlight reappeared. The sweet scent of lilies rose to meet her as she descended the stairs, which was a new and pleasant experience. Her manor was bleak and musty despite it being half the age of its original counterpart, and she tried to recall the last time a flower bloomed anywhere, either inside or out and could not. Had anyone opened the windows t
o let in air? If Amelia hadn’t died, would it look like this now? It was impossible to say though odds were good it would have fared better.

  She skirted around the floor where the rug would have been, still uncomfortable to stay too long under the skylight. Looking up, only scattered clouds drifted by. No sinister mist hung anywhere. A burst of broken things — wood splinters and a languidly rotating wheelchair wheel interrupted her musings, and she started. Upstairs, a door closed and voices sounded prompting her to keep moving.

  Emma turned right and followed the hallway and took the side corridor to the end knowing what she would find on opening the door. It was surreal. A pea gravel path veered to the left and a few feet later joined a laneway that split, the north winding toward the corbel bridge, the other leading to a low building that was the garage. The doors were open, and curious, she approached the antique sports car she had taken here. The hood was propped up and sounds of tinkering escaped from the far end. A wrench fell and clattered on the cement floor.

  “Sod it!” A familiar voice muttered.

  Emma stooped and picked up the implement.

  “Oh!” A disheveled dark head popped up and blue eyes met hers, showing surprise and warmth. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He said. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough.” She held back a giggle.

  Straightening, he wiped his grimy hands on a rag. He wore jeans, the rolled up sleeves of his work shirt exposing strong forearms, and she appreciated his rugged charms.

  “Sorry about that.” He grinned sheepishly.

  “No worries. I’ve been meaning to increase my vocabulary of English slang.”

  He gave a hearty laugh. “In that case, stick around. You’ll sound proper local by the time I’m done here!”

  “Is it serious?”