Finally she managed to get them all up to the attic. Having set them in the middle of the floor for later distribution to both sides of the attic, she went down to the patio to take a break. She sipped a glass of iced tea, the warmth from the sun embracing her as she looked around at the trees and flowers in the yard. She took in a deep breath of the clean air and let out a contented sigh.
She finished her tea, then went back into the house. It was ten-thirty. There was plenty of time to organize the boxes in the attic before fixing lunch. Andrea always tried to eat three meals a day. She had a tough time keeping weight on her twiggy figure. Returning to the attic, she began to sort the boxes. She would put the winter clothes on one side of the attic and the Christmas things, along with John’s junk, on the other.
The attic floor consisted of wide boards fitted closely together. At the outer edges, six-inch boards spaced a foot apart extended out to the edges of the roof. The only light came from a round window the size of a basketball, situated in the front wall of the house. It was just bright enough to see her way around the musty space.
Nothing like working in a hot attic on her first day in her new home. She’d dressed in a thin summer outfit for the occasion and brought a flashlight in case she needed it. The floor creaked as she walked back and forth, setting boxes over to the sides. The heat of the attic had her feeling sweaty and sticky in no time.
Aiming the flashlight on the parted boards, she looked for insulation under them. John had not checked for it when they’d looked at the house. She saw nothing that looked like insulation, but she noticed something under one of the boards in the far corner, near the steep pitch of the roof. It looked like something had been wedged under the wood—perhaps it had been hidden there. She’d almost missed it for all of the dust. It appeared to be square, like a box. She wondered what it was.
She started toward it on her hands and knees until the roof boards touched her head, then she lay down on her stomach to wiggle her way in. She got closer and closer, until she could almost reach it. Setting the flashlight down beside her, she stretched her arm out as far as she could. At last she felt the object. Once she got hold of it she began to pull, but it was stuck. She twisted and wiggled it back and forth until it finally let loose.
Now that she had it firmly in her hand, she proceeded to crawl backward to get out from under the confined area. Once she was safe on the flat, sturdy floorboards in the center of the attic, she sat up straight. She set the box on the floor in front of her and brushed the heavy dust from the top of it. Heat from the wood floor warmed her sprawled legs as she looked down at the treasure she’d released from its hiding place. The old wooden box’s metal latch had rusted in place. Andrea pried at it until her fingers hurt, but it wouldn’t budge.
Again and again, she tried until finally it let go. Suddenly, the light from flashlight went dim. She knew the batteries were old, but she shook it anyway, trying to bring the light back up. It didn’t work. All she got was a dull orange glow from the silver cylinder.
Inside the box, sitting on top of what appeared to be a book, was an old photograph. It was printed on thick, cardboard-like paper. Although it was dull and yellowish with age, it seemed to be in pretty good condition.
Her eyes strained in the poor light as she tried to see. She stood up and walked over to the round window at the far end of the attic. Holding the photograph up to the daylight, she was able to see it more clearly. Her heart quickened as she got a good look at the figure imprinted there. “Oh!” she cried out in astonishment. The woman in the photograph could have been her twin ─ a remarkable resemblance to say the least.
Andrea thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, so she picked the box up and went downstairs, hurrying to her bedroom for a better look. Sunlight flowed in through the window, accompanied by a soft breeze that lifted the curtains up and down in a rhythmic motion.
With the wooden box next to her, she sat on the bed. Amazement held her as she gazed down at the face in the photograph. She marveled at the woman’s clothing. A high lace collar overlaid her dress, with a jeweled brooch at the neck. On the back of the photograph, she found a date — June 3, 1888. Small print at the bottom looked like the name of a studio.
She couldn’t help wondering who the woman was, and why the box had been hidden up in the attic. How had it even fit under those boards? But most of all, why did she and the woman look so much alike?
Setting the photograph down, she turned her attention to the other items in the box. The book turned out to be an old family Bible. She picked it up and dusted it off with her hand. It smelled musty. Gently, she opened it to the first page. Ink spots stained the page, suggesting it had been written with an old-fashioned fountain pen. Names and dates had been printed with great care, faded still but legible. Joseph Foster Dickens, Anna Marie Dickens, followed by Betsy Ellen and Sarah Helen Dickens. The dates were all in the 1870s and 1880s. A list of grandparents, aunts, and uncles followed. The city names sounded like places in England.
The box also contained a jeweled pillbox, an old locket, and three large hairpins with jeweled ends, very old and tarnished. Andrea looked at each of these antiques with great interest. She wondered why anyone would put these things in a box and hide it up in the attic. Or had it been put up there and forgotten?
By the names in the Bible, she guessed the woman in the photograph was Anna Marie Dickens. It seemed logical. It was possible this Anna had lived in the house a hundred years ago. That they looked so much alike was the remarkable thing. Photograph in hand, Andrea walked over to the mirror on the dresser and stood looking at her reflection. She held the photograph up next to her face to compare the likeness.
As she looked at the image in her hand, she began to have a strange feeling. Even though the photograph’s sepia tones had faded, she could picture the woman’s dress as dark green. She imagined she could feel the heavy taffeta gathered around her own waist. The brooch on the collar was mother-of-pearl surrounded with gold filigree. Her hand tingled, as if she knew how the dress and jewelry felt.
The plain, colorless photograph shook in her trembling hand. Overwhelmed with sorrow
that penetrated her soul, tears swelled in her eyes. The intense emotions full of fear mixed with sadness caused her to begin crying uncontrollably. Andrea had never experienced such heartbreak and sorrow before.
“Oh, oh… what is happening?” she muttered as she hurried over to the bed and threw the photograph down on it. There was no rhyme or reason to why she suddenly had these frightening sorrowful feelings.
With tears streaming down her face, she ran to the bathroom, turned the cold water on, and splashed it on her cheeks. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly until she stopped crying. She looked in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were swollen and red, her face white, and she didn’t understand why.
Several moments passed before she was able to completely compose herself. Taking a towel from the rack beside the sink, she wiped her face. Still trembling, she returned to the bedroom and sat in the chair by the window. Tears dripped down her cheeks again. Sorrow pierced her heart like the thrust of a knife. She felt as though something awful was about to happen — but what, and why?
The phone rang, startling her. She jumped to her feet, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand as she hurried to answer it. “Hell…ooo…?”
“Andrea, is that you?” John asked.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I wanted to remind you I won’t be home until late. I have calls to make and papers to fill out for tomorrow.”
“I remember, John.” Her voice cracked.
“You sound like something’s wrong. What is it?”
Andrea steadied herself. “I’m fine.”
“I think I’ll be home a little late tonight. I’m swamped with work and won’t get out of here any sooner. Don’t worry about dinner for me, I’ll grab something from the diner.”
She agreed and hung up, glad the conv
ersation had been brief. It was difficult for her to conceal how upset she was. She needed time to think about what had happened and why she’d had those awful feelings. Her mind raced with questions. Strange as it all was, she finally came to the conclusion it had to be her imagination — a foolish reaction when she’d seen the photograph. Besides, she was tired from moving and all the excitement.
After putting the photograph back in the box, she glanced one more time at it before setting the lid in place. The terrible feeling started up again, so she quickly took the box to the closet and set it on the floor inside, then closed the door. She returned to the attic to finish putting the boxes out of the way, hoping if she kept busy she would forget about what had happened. Still, the haunting memory of the photograph lingered without mercy.
A little before one o’clock, she had the kitchen dishes put away and was ready to start on the good china in the dining room. But first, she wanted — and needed — a break. She sat at the kitchen table with a glass of iced tea, thinking about the photograph and the names in the old Bible. It dawned on her that old houses like this often had records in the local library. She had plenty of time to go into town and take a look. John would be late anyway, and she didn’t have to worry about dinner.
She showered and changed, then headed for town. She parked the car in front of the old stone church near the library and walked up to the front entrance. It was now two forty-five. Pausing for a moment, she looked around the square, thinking about Chicago with all of the skyscrapers, the heavy traffic, and noise. How pleasant it was in this quiet little town compared to the big city.
A librarian at the desk directed her to the lower level, where a young woman showed her where to find the records of the town. “The records of century-old houses are over here.” She pointed to a section with shelves. The books were in alphabetical order. “If you need anything, just let me know,” the young woman said as she walked away.
The shelves were filled with large plate books and ledgers. Andrea walked back and forth, trying to find the right one. The assistant librarian across the room saw her and came over. “Let me help you. What is the name of the street you want to look up?”
Andrea stuttered a little. “Ah…um…” She couldn’t think. “Oh, yes, Chesterfield Avenue. I almost forgot the name of my own street. We just moved here.”
“That would be right in here.” She handed Andrea a large book from the second shelf. It was so heavy Andrea hurried to set it down on the table in front of the shelves. She thanked the woman and asked her how late the library was open.
The soft-spoken lady told her, “Our hours are from eight to seven Monday through Friday, and noon till five on Saturday. We are closed on Sundays. You have plenty of time. If you need any further help, I’ll be right over there.”
It took a while, but Andrea finally found Chesterfield Avenue, only to learn it had been changed from Old Oak Road about fifty years ago. She would have to look up Old Oak Road to find what she wanted. The reference list was in alphabetical order, so she was able to find it quickly. She started to look for her house but could not find it. She took down one book after another and looked through them to no avail.
After exhausting all the listings in the books, she called the young girl over to help. “I can’t find the house I ‘m looking for. Maybe you can have better luck.” Andrea gave the girl her address, and the girl was able to find it with no trouble at all.
“Here it is.” She set another book on the table and opened it to the page that read Old Oak Road.
Amazed at the number of people who had occupied the house through the years, Andrea thumbed down the list, looking for the right one. I wonder why none of these people ever found that old wooden box up in the attic? It occurred to her that maybe it had been waiting just for her, but it was only a silly thought.
The house had been built in 1885. At that time, the property had sat on one hundred acres. Over the years, parcels had been sold off. Joseph and Anna Dickens were listed as the first owners. Theirs was a moderately small family with origins in England. Little had been written about Anna Dickens. Andrea once again had to rely on her gut feeling. Anna had to be the one in the photograph. It seemed unlikely it was anyone else.
She made notes on a pad of paper, listing all the owners of the house to date. Many questions entered her mind as she wrote. Was the woman in the photograph really Anna? When had the county acquired the property for back taxes? And why had that old wooden box been hidden under the floorboards in the attic?
Suddenly, a voice startled her. “The library will be closing in five minutes. Have you found what you were looking for?” It was the librarian who showed her to the room earlier.
Andrea stood up. “Oh, my! I can’t believe I was here so long. Is it seven o’clock already?”
“Almost,” the woman told her.
Andrea hurried to the stairs, the librarian right behind her. “I should have been home by now. My husband is probably worried about where I am. I didn’t leave him a note. I wasn’t planning on staying here so long.”
At the entrance door, she thanked the woman and rushed out to her car and drove away. It was all she could do to refrain from speeding down the highway. What would she tell John? The last thing she wanted was to worry him. Her first day in their new home, and she’d gone off on a wild goose chase over something she couldn’t explain. But Andrea knew she had to find out more about the woman in the photograph.
Astraea Press
Pure. Fiction.
www.astraeapress.com
Table of Contents
Over the Mistletoe
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Robins:
Jennifer Robins Page 7
