by Wendy Webb
I took several hesitant steps down the dark hall when I heard a voice. Adrian? I followed it to what I thought was the end of the hall but discovered it actually turned a corner. Of course, like the third floor, this, too, was U-shaped. I peeked around the corner and saw a door was open about midway down the hall, light streaming from inside. As I got closer, I realized that it was indeed Adrian’s voice I was hearing; he was speaking on the phone to someone. I intended to knock on the doorjamb to let him know I was there, but his side of the conversation stopped me short.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” he said, the anger in his voice hanging in the air. “This is no longer your affair.”
“That’s touching,” the sarcasm whittled his voice to a hiss. “But considering what you’ve done, forgive me if—”
“No. Absolutely not. Not back there.”
“The best place for her? That’s absurd.” His voice was louder now, angrier. “How can you even ask why? I fully blame you for the whole debacle, for everything that happened.”
Was he talking about Mrs. Sinclair? I crept closer to the door.
“Those are your words, not mine. I would have chosen ‘gross incompetence.’ ”
“Yes, I do mean it. And don’t think for a moment my threat doesn’t still stand. If this effort doesn’t work, you will pay for what’s happened to her.”
“No, it is not dangerous, and no, I did not have to clear anything with you. Somebody had to do something. You certainly were of very little help.”
Silence for a moment. And then he hissed: “She’s already here, you fool. It has begun.” I heard him slam down the receiver.
My blood ran cold. Was he talking about me? I waited outside the door for a few moments and then poked my head around the jamb and saw Adrian, his head in his hands, sitting at a desk strewn with papers.
I nearly spoke to him, wanting to ask what that conversation was about, but something about the way he was sitting with his shoulders slumped, head in his hands, made me think better of it. Obviously, he was upset by what had just transpired. I held my breath and backed away.
As I walked toward the grand staircase, I ran headlong into Marion. Why did she always turn up when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time?
“Marion!” I said. “I was just—”
She shook her head and smiled. “This house can be so confusing,” she said, taking me by the arm and walking with me up the stairs. “No one blames you for losing your way.”
Back in my room, I sat at the window and tried to piece together what I thought I had overheard, but nothing was making sense to me. It was just a one-sided conversation that may or may not have been about me. But… what if it was about me? What might it mean? Mrs. Sinclair had hinted at an “ulterior motive” for inviting me to Havenwood. Did the conversation have something to do with that?
As I thought about it, seeds of suspicion were taking root in my mind. Everyone had been so warm and welcoming to me—almost too warm. Too welcoming. Something about it was off. Wrong. But what?
And then I put my finger on it—they were too familiar with me. I had just met these people, and yet Adrian was always touching me, offering me his arm when we walked. Mrs. Sinclair was always calling me “darling” and “my dear.” And really, when I thought more about it, I was just an employee. And a brand-new employee, at that. I didn’t hear anyone referring to Marion as “darling.” They were treating me like I was a family member who had finally come home.
I thought of asking them about it, but how does one say: “You people are being too nice to me and I demand to know the reason why!”
And then I thought of the papers strewn on the desk in Adrian’s study, the ones I had seen when he had been on that call. Maybe they could shed some light on things.
As six thirty neared, I looked at myself in the mirror. I had chosen a glittery black sleeveless sheath dress to wear and it fit like a glove. I wound a strand of pearls around my neck and put pearl drop earrings in my ears. It almost felt like a costume, truth be told, but one that I wouldn’t mind wearing every evening of my life. Timeless elegance, here in this timeless house.
I slipped out the door, but instead of heading all the way down the grand staircase, I stole down the hallway on the second floor. I knew everyone would be in the drawing room having drinks and the ever-present Marion would be busy in the kitchen. It was the perfect time to get a look in Adrian’s study.
I poked my head around the doorframe and saw the room was empty. Not wanting to turn on the overhead light—too bright—I flipped on the desk lamp and began to look around, my heart pounding so loudly that I was sure everyone could hear it downstairs.
The papers weren’t on the desk as they had been, but a manila folder sat in Adrian’s inbox. Might it be as easy as that? I opened it to find a business ledger. Not it. But underneath where the folder had been, I spied a stack of papers.
With shaking hands, I slipped them under the soft glow of the lamp and began to read. It was a handwritten letter.
Oak Lawn Sanitarium
May 28, 2003
The patient has progressed steadily, if slowly, from a state of extreme catatonia to being fully aware and alert. She is walking and talking, responding to questions. The patient has, however, suffered a psychotic break. Total amnesia of the event. While not typical, it is possible in those who have endured extreme trauma. The memories may return or they may remain hidden. The patient is nonviolent.
I recommend no visitors at this time. Progress is tenuous but I will, of course, keep you informed. More as I have it.
It was signed by a doctor—a psychiatrist?—along with his phone number.
I stood there holding that letter for a moment, and then the significance of it hit me. The date! Ten years earlier. That was right around the time Mrs. Sinclair “died.” She must have been in a mental hospital after some traumatic event, and rather than let the public know about it, Adrian concocted the story that his mother had died. Perhaps the catatonia was so severe, he didn’t think she’d come out of it.
So, the person Adrian was talking to earlier was probably her psychiatrist. That was why he got this letter out after all of these years. The phone number. Maybe she had had some sort of a relapse…?
I put the letter back where I had found it and flipped off the light, feeling suddenly ashamed for snooping. Obviously, it wasn’t something Mrs. Sinclair intended to have as public knowledge. And considering her rather eccentric behavior—the cowboy getup, her jogging suits, her seeming to have several personalities—and the way Adrian and Drew were so protective of her… It all made a sad sort of sense. This was the reason Adrian wanted a companion for his mother when he was away on business. He was worried about her mental state, and considering this new information, I could understand why. It didn’t explain why I was the person he chose for the task, but at least one mystery of Havenwood was solved.
As I made my way down the stairs for dinner, I felt a wave of sympathy for Mrs. Sinclair. Catatonia, amnesia, winding up in a mental hospital… whatever had caused that, it had to be very bad. I vowed then and there to stop asking about it. I didn’t need to know any more. If she wanted to tell me about it someday, that was one thing. But I was done pushing.
I found Marion waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. “Mrs. Sinclair is in the drawing room,” she said, motioning the way.
“Julia!” Mrs. Sinclair cooed as I entered the drawing room to find a fire blazing in the fireplace, candles flickering all around the room, and Adrian and Drew standing together at the sidebar. “You are breathtaking!”
Adrian and Drew turned to me then, each holding a lowball of, I assumed, Scotch. Adrian was smiling while Drew’s mouth hung agape as he shook his head.
All eyes on me, I felt suddenly shy. “It’s amazing what a bath and the right dress can do for a girl,” I said, shrugging and moving toward the bar.
“My dear,” Mrs. Sinclair said, floating toward me in a wispy teal-a
nd-black gown that looked as if it were made of hundreds of silk handkerchiefs, “you must excuse my absence today. I was feeling rather tired from all of our adventures yesterday. I hope you had something to keep you busy.” She looked at Drew with dancing eyes.
“I did indeed,” I told her. “We went for a lovely walk in the woods.”
Drew was pouring me a drink, and I whispered to him, not wanting a repeat of the night before, “Light on the gin, please.” He nodded slightly, handed me a glass that was mostly tonic and lime, and came out from around the side of the bar.
My face broke into a wide grin. He was wearing a kilt with a green, blue, and black print and a sash of the same print over a white shirt, along with knee-high stockings and black shoes. His shoulders looked extraordinarily broad and his legs incredibly muscled, as though he had spent a lifetime, or several, working outdoors.
“Laird Andrew McCullough only breaks out the kilt on special occasions,” Mrs. Sinclair said, beaming. She crossed the room and tousled his hair. “I think he should wear it all the time.”
Adrian poured himself another drink and joined us in the middle of the room. “You two seem to have hit it off in my absence.” I couldn’t tell if his tone was humorous or not—he was so reserved at all times. He seemed to have an edge to him tonight, I thought, perhaps having to do with that phone call.
“Julia here is quite the horsewoman, so I’ve learned,” Drew said, doing his best to deflect the comment. “She has braved the fierce Nelly, and won.”
Laughter all around. We talked of other things until Marion came to summon us to dinner. Adrian was quick to offer me his arm, which I took somewhat reluctantly. Drew was right behind, escorting Mrs. Sinclair into the dining room.
We chatted idly over a dinner of spicy lentil soup, roast beef, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and a crisp salad. Nobody asked Adrian about his business trip and I certainly didn’t, either, considering what had occurred at my Chicago home. I wondered how much Mrs. Sinclair knew, but thought it best not to find out.
After dinner, Marion led us away from the drawing room and down the hall, to what I knew would be the east salon. We walked through the library in silence, Adrian and Drew exchanging worried glances, until we reached the room’s doors, which were open.
We entered the east salon to find candles flickering everywhere, a fire blazing in the fireplace, and a bar set up with cognac, B&B, Scotch, and other liqueurs I wasn’t familiar with. A tray of chocolates sat nearby.
The room was in beautiful contrast to how I had seen it before—first in disarray and then in stages of repair. The wood-paneled walls gleamed in the candlelight; a chandelier glittered above the round table. The sofas looked as good as new, and the floors shone with a fresh polish.
And yet, the very fact of setting foot in this room was making my stomach turn. Maybe it was the otherworldly experience I’d had earlier, but there was a sense of darkness here that made me want to run and hide.
“Mother,” Adrian said, gazing around the room with a strange look on his face. “I can’t believe it. You’ve opened it up again. Without consulting me.”
“Oh, darling,” she said, crossing the room and taking his hands in hers. “I thought it was time. Now, more than ever.”
He shook off her embrace and took a few steps forward, anger bubbling up from under his usually reserved facade. “We said this room would never be used again. Not until—”
“I know, my darling,” Mrs. Sinclair said, approaching him slowly, as though she were coming up on a wild animal. “But I realized yesterday that the only way is to open this room up. Now. I thought you were on board with this. You are the one who…”
But then everyone stopped talking. The silence hung around us like a tangible thing. I realized the others were staring at me. Drew’s mouth was open, his eyes wide.
“What?” I said.
“The resemblance is amazing,” Adrian murmured. “Seeing the two of them together like this, it’s really quite something.”
The painting was hanging back on the wall above the fireplace, where I had seen it before. There it was, in all of its ghastly glory, man with the severed head and all.
Mrs. Sinclair glided across the floor and took my hand. “Julia, darling,” she cooed. “When you came to us, Adrian said he thought you bore a passing resemblance to one of Havenwood’s most famous visitors.” She gestured at the painting. “I wanted to come in here to see for myself.”
“Who is she?” I wanted to know, staring at my mirror image.
“She is Seraphina, my dear.”
“Seraphina?” I parroted. “From your novel?”
“Not quite,” she said. “I patterned my character after her. This is the real Seraphina, the most gifted and famous medium of the Spiritualist Age.”
I thought of the book I had found in the library. “The woman to whom Dickens gave the copy of A Christmas Carol?”
“The same,” she said. “That’s why I thought it so remarkable that, of all the books in the library, that’s the one you were drawn to.” She pointed up at the painting. “If you look closer, you’ll recognize him. Second chap from the right.”
I walked a few more steps into the room and squinted up at the painting—it did look like the photographs I had seen of Dickens.
“So, this is Christmastime 1867? Here at Havenwood?”
“It is indeed,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “He came all the way from the East Coast just to see her.”
“But…” I was having trouble formulating my thoughts. I wasn’t familiar with the real Seraphina—I had no idea there was a real Seraphina until just now—but I certainly knew the novel of the same name written by Amaris Sinclair. It was about a psychic medium who opens the wrong door to the spirit world, a door she can never close again. It was a dark tale of possession and murder and sorrow, and it had always reminded me of a variation on the theme of Pandora’s box.
I wondered if that same kind of evil in the novel was let loose here, at Havenwood, in this room, by the real Seraphina. Was that what inspired Mrs. Sinclair to write her most famous book? Was that what I was feeling when I stepped through the door?
As I looked at my twin hanging above the fireplace, a cloak of fear wrapped itself around me, making my skin tingle. I can’t explain exactly why. What is so frightening about resembling a woman in a painting, after all? It’s an oddity, a curiosity, not a nightmare. But something about the way they were all looking at me, coupled with what I had experienced in that room earlier, made me squirm. My breathing became shallow and quick, and my heart began thumping. I felt the fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in again, and flight seemed like a very good option. I wanted nothing more than to run away from Havenwood and all the secrets it contained. But I couldn’t very well go running into the snow in my dress and heels. And I had promised Drew I wouldn’t.
All at once, the conversation I had had with Mrs. Sinclair the day before began rapping at the back of my mind. What had she said? That she had an ulterior motive for inviting me to Havenwood? As I stood there with everyone looking from my face to the woman in the painting and back again, I got the terrible feeling that her ulterior motive had something to do with me being a dead ringer for a dead woman.
TWENTY-ONE
You knew about this?” I asked Mrs. Sinclair, finally finding my voice. “About how much I resembled this woman in the painting?”
“Of course I knew about it,” she said gently, recognizing, I supposed, the fear welling up in my eyes.
“So, you realized it that first day when you saw me at breakfast?”
She shook her head. “Long before that. The news reports on television, dear. Adrian spotted the resemblance right away.”
I felt a chill, from the inside out. I thought back to the day Adrian appeared on my doorstep. Was this, finally, the reason they had sought me out? This resemblance was the ulterior motive?
Amaris Sinclair sighed, crossing the room to take a seat on one of the sofas.
“I knew this all was going to come out,” she said, shaking her head. “But I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.”
That same cold breeze whooshed around me. And then it was gone.
“So, you saw me on the news and realized I look like this lady in the painting, Seraphina, and that’s why you asked me to come here?”
“Now, Julia,” Adrian said, crossing the room to take my hand. “Don’t make too much of this. You’re getting worked up over something very small.”
I could feel the calmness he was trying to exude. And when I thought about it rationally, what he said made sense. “It’s just a resemblance to somebody who lived and died more than one hundred years ago,” I said, looking from one to the other of them. I wasn’t sure whom I was trying to convince. “It doesn’t mean anything more than that. It’s just an odd coincidence that doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
Mrs. Sinclair smiled. “Oh, but it does, my dear,” she said. “It does.”
“Mother—” Adrian began.
She waved a hand at him. “I think it’s time she was told.”
She was looking at me but not focusing on me, not really. Her eyes seemed to be seeing something that wasn’t there. I noticed her hands were shaking, and remembered the letter from the psychiatrist I had seen before dinner. I followed her across the room and sat next to her, taking those shaking hands into my own. My skin tingled.
“Please,” I said. “If you have something to tell me, just say it. Whatever it is, it’ll be all right.”
“Your resemblance to her is no coincidence, Julia,” she said. “Seraphina was your great-great-grandmother.”
TWENTY-TWO
I stared at her, not knowing quite how to respond to what she had just said to me. Was this an aftereffect of her illness? Was she psychotic? Or was she simply creating fiction, as she had done so often over the years in her novels?
