“Really?” Evelyn asked. “I’ve found him nothing but respectful.” She remembered the warmth of his hand against her cheek. The feel of his lips on hers.
“Oh, Evelyn.” Lavinia breathed an exaggerated sigh. All other conversations in the room had trailed off, and she basked in the rapt attention of her guests. “I meant no offense. I am only offering friendly advice. I’ve known Will far longer than you, and he’s always been a bit of a rogue. As Charles’s wife, your behavior must be above reproach.”
It could have been Alma speaking. Lavinia stared at Evelyn disapprovingly, her dour expression making her look far older than her years. Had Lavinia ever been young? Evelyn wondered. Laughed uproariously for no reason? Or had she been molded from birth into a miniature version of Alma, joylessly protecting the Brewster legacy?
“I assure you, I am very aware of what it means to be a Brewster,” Evelyn said. The other women looked at Evelyn and Lavinia with wide eyes; this discussion would be recounted over dinner tables throughout the county tonight.
“Good,” Lavinia said. “I hope we can both prevail on Will to mend his ways.”
Lavinia couldn’t know what had happened in the garden. But her gaze made Evelyn uneasy. Lavinia suspected something. Which meant that Alma did, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALISSA TRACED her fingers along the edge of the stone bench. For decades, this pitted surface had weathered the seasons, protected only by the branches of the maple tree that curved overhead. The hedges enclosing this section of the garden had long since outgrown their beds, and the grass had been taken over by weeds. Cut off from the rest of the backyard, the space felt neglected and lonely. Alissa wondered if Evelyn Brewster had ever sat here.
She heard Danny call her name from the main yard.
“In here!” she shouted.
Danny pushed aside the unruly hedges and poked his head through.
“Come on in,” Alissa said, tilting her head toward the other side of the bench.
Danny walked over and settled down next to her. Over the past few weeks, they’d fallen into a comfortable routine. Every morning, they would discuss plans for the day over coffee in the dining room. Then they got to work. Lately, Danny had been ripping out cabinets in the kitchen, while Alissa focused on her bedroom upstairs. They would meet for lunch—often sitting out on the front porch—before continuing to work late into the afternoon. Around five o’clock, they would check in and review their progress.
Today, Alissa had been stripping wallpaper in her bathroom, exhausting labor that made her shoulders and arms ache. Even with an electric fan going full blast, the sweltering summer heat made the job especially miserable. She quit work early, eager to spend a few minutes outside before the sun disappeared over the horizon. She’d wandered into this overlooked section of the garden, and decided to rest on the bench. She must have been daydreaming for quite a while, if Danny was already finished with work. Watching him sit down next to her, she found it comforting to know that someone missed her when she wandered off. Even if that person was being paid to check on her.
“Landscaping is my last priority right now,” Alissa said, “but what would you think about opening all this up?”
“Here?” Danny asked.
“Yeah. Tear out the bushes, and get rid of this old bench. It would make the backyard look much bigger.”
Danny looked around. “Maybe. But I kind of like it the way it is.”
“Really?” Alissa was still skeptical.
“Granted, it needs work,” he conceded. “The bushes should be cut way back, and it would look better with some plants around the perimeter. But I like the concept—a garden within a garden.”
Alissa shrugged.
“It’s a place to escape to,” Danny said. “Don’t you ever need that?”
“Sure,” Alissa said.
But she didn’t, not really. She’d never felt so removed from the rush of ordinary life. She’d quit her job and moved from the city, leaving her boyfriend and most of her friends behind. Working on the house, she spent most of her time alone. She’d found this secluded space melancholy a few minutes before, but now, with Danny sitting next to her, she reconsidered the hidden patch of green. It created a peaceful sanctuary around them, a place where they could go beyond their roles of boss and employee. For a moment, she imagined sitting with Danny on a date, his hand brushing hers as they reached for the menus in a restaurant. The way he would push his hair off his face before looking at her. How she would blush when their eyes met in the candlelight. Alissa looked at Danny’s hand on the bench beside her and fought the sudden urge to touch him.
“I wanted to tell you something,” Danny said.
“Yes?” Alissa asked quickly. Could he be thinking the same thing?
“It’s about the original owners, the Brewsters,” he said. Alissa smiled encouragingly to cover her disappointment.
“I know I made fun of you for being obsessed,” Danny continued. “But I ran into someone who might be able to help. When I went to the hardware store after lunch, I saw an old friend of my mother’s, Julia Larkin. She was really interested when I told her I was working over here. She’s lived in town her entire life and knows everyone. Probably knows where all the bodies are buried, too. She met some of the Brewsters way back when, and says you’re welcome to call her if you want to talk.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a telephone number written in shaky black ink. If this was Julia Larkin’s handwriting, she must be ancient.
Alissa took the paper. “Thanks,” she said. “I wonder if she knows how Charles died.”
Danny cocked an eyebrow. “A hundred-year-old mystery, and you’re going to solve it?”
“I need to understand what happened,” Alissa explained. “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel a connection to them. They were happy here once. I owe it to them to bring that happiness back.”
“You already have,” Danny said.
Alissa glanced at him, but his face was turned away, looking up at the maple leaves above them. This was the closest he’d come to revealing any feelings for her. She could ask him what he meant. Find out if he thought of her as more than the person who signed his paychecks.
Or she could let the moment pass. Continue living a life without complications.
A breeze rustled through the leaves, and Alissa closed her eyes and lifted her face to it, welcoming the brief respite from the heat. When she looked up again, Danny was standing.
“I’d better clean up my stuff,” he said. “You don’t pay me to sit around, right?”
“It’s fine…” Alissa began.
“Just making sure you get your money’s worth. See you tomorrow.”
The sudden change of tone threw Alissa off balance. One minute Danny was talking to her as a friend, the next he was acting like an obsequious servant. She’d worked alongside him long enough to know that he wasn’t a man who had trouble taking directions from a woman. They had a comfortable, friendly rapport. But he seemed unwilling—or unable—to go beyond that. To him, she would always be the boss.
And wasn’t that as it should be? Alissa stood and stretched her sore arms. Already, the spell that had settled over her in that hidden garden had been broken. Maybe it had been no more than wishful thinking.
THAT EVENING, Alissa dialed Julia Larkin’s phone number.
“Oh, yes!” Julia exclaimed when Alissa introduced herself. “Danny told me all about you!” Her voice quavered, but her enthusiasm had not weakened with age.
“As he might have mentioned, I’m very interested in the original owners, Charles and Evelyn Brewster.”
“Can’t say I knew them personally.” Julia laughed. “I’m not quite that ancient!”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” Alissa stammered.
“A joke, a joke,” Julia reassured her. “We old ladies do have a sense of humor, you know. I’m thrilled someone your age is interested in local history. What do you want to kn
ow?”
“Well, anything, really. I did some research and learned that they moved into the house shortly after they were married, and that Charles died a year later. But I couldn’t find out how he died.”
“That’s easy,” said Julia. “It was an accident. A fall.”
“Do you know what happened?” Alissa asked.
“It was before I was born, so I don’t have all the details,” Julia said. “But I remember something my mother used to say. Whenever my brother ran down the stairs too quickly, my mother would scold him and say he could die that way, it had happened to Charles Brewster, and he could be next. She was always telling stories about people dying horribly to scare us into behaving. Not that it had much effect on my brother.”
Alissa pictured a body falling from the second-floor landing, tumbling over the railing to the foyer below. It was the only place in the house where a fall could have been fatal. Had Evelyn been there? Had she watched her husband die?
“It shattered the family,” Julia continued. “They were never the same afterward, my mother said. Charles’s mother had been a formidable woman, but she became a recluse after his death. He ran the business, you see, so when he died, their company faltered, too. By the Depression, there wasn’t much left of the Brewster fortune.”
“Do you know what happened to Evelyn, his wife?”
“I have no idea,” Julia said. “I believe she moved away. Certainly, I never heard anything about her growing up. I wouldn’t blame her for leaving and starting over somewhere else, would you?”
“No,” said Alissa. Sometimes running away was the bravest choice. She knew that firsthand. “Do any Brewsters still live in the area? I know Charles had a brother and sister.”
“I don’t know much about the brother,” said Julia. “He was something of a black sheep. As far as I know, he disappeared off to Europe or somewhere and wasn’t in contact with the rest of the family. As for the sister, Lavinia, she lived here all her life. After her mother died, she moved into what we called the Brewster mansion.”
“The one that was torn down?” Alissa asked.
“Yes—it was quite a place. Very elegant, but also rather intimidating. It had towering stone walls, rather like a fortress. Lavinia had only the one daughter, Beatrice. Imagine, a family of three living in that huge house! My family was invited to their Christmas party once, sometime in the early thirties. You never saw such decorations. It was one of the highlights of my childhood.”
“What happened to Beatrice?” Alissa asked.
“Beatrice was a full generation older than me, so our paths rarely crossed,” Julia said. “She married and moved into your house. By the time the war came along, her parents had sold the mansion, and it was being run as a school.”
“So, Beatrice was the last of the Brewsters?”
“I suppose so,” said Julia. “But of course her last name was Preston. I’ve forgotten her married name. She moved away during the war—something to do with her husband’s job—and I’m not sure what happened to her. There haven’t been any Brewsters here for years.”
“Oh.” Alissa couldn’t hide her disappointment. Julia Larkin had lived in Oak Hill her whole life, but she didn’t have the answers. Maybe no one did.
“There’s one more person you could try,” Julia said. “But he may lead you on a wild-goose chase. His name’s Roger Blake. He lives outside Winchester, about ten miles from here. Calls himself a writer, but he’s a troublemaker as much as anything else. For years, he’s been working on a book about local unsolved crimes. He thinks it will be a bestseller, but it sounds more like an excuse to dig up old gossip. In any case, he called me a few months ago asking about the Brewsters. Claimed he’d found information about them in some archive in Baltimore. How there was more to Charles’s death than met the eye, and that sort of nonsense. I thought he was talking the story up to draw attention to himself yet again, and I told him what I’ve told you, which isn’t much. But if you think it would help, you could call him.”
Alissa scribbled down the phone number Julia recited.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Julia warned. “Roger is a big talker. He could be seeing something that’s not really there. He prefers the tarnish to the shine.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d rather look at the dark side. I prefer an inspiring legend to the messy truth. Everyone here still talks about Charles and Evelyn Brewster because we’re drawn to romantic love stories. The fact that he died young makes it all the more poignant. Does how he died really matter?”
Maybe not. But she couldn’t give up now. Alissa had always been someone who read the end of books first. She wouldn’t be able to stop until she found the ending to this story.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WAS NO other choice: Evelyn would have to ask Alma for help. Whatever her mother-in-law knew or suspected about Evelyn’s feelings for Will, she wanted Charles’s marriage to succeed. The future of the Brewster family depended on it. If Evelyn was to produce an heir, Charles couldn’t continue to leave her alone, night after night. Alma was the only person with the power to make him change.
Evelyn knew that appealing to Alma would mean humbling herself before the person who would most enjoy her humiliation. Alma had been against the marriage from the start and now, she would have even more reason to gloat. Evelyn would have to accept fault and nod at her criticisms. But the shame would be worth it if it saved her marriage. If Alma could convince Charles to treat Evelyn as his wife, rather than an irritating houseguest.
Evelyn sent a note asking if they could meet to discuss a family matter. Alma’s reply arrived a few hours later, one sentence on a thick monogrammed card: “I would be happy to receive you at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
The next day, Evelyn started up the front steps of Alma’s house precisely at three o’clock. She wondered if Will was home. Surely Alma wouldn’t invite him to their private chat? Or perhaps she would, as a test for Evelyn.
Hayes, the butler, escorted Evelyn into Alma’s sitting room at the back of the house. Two small settees, piled with embroidered pillows, sat opposite each other in front of a fireplace. Alma was at a desk along one wall, her back to the door, and continued writing even after Evelyn was announced.
“Please, sit down,” Alma ordered without turning around.
Evelyn perched on the edge of one of the settees. A silver tea service and a plate of pastries were arranged on the table in front of her. A cup of tea might help calm her nerves, but she was afraid to break the silence.
After several excruciating minutes, Alma leisurely folded a piece of paper and slid it into an envelope. Then she walked over and took a seat on the settee opposite Evelyn. There was no hug, no greeting. As always, Alma kept herself apart.
“So?” Alma asked as she poured tea into a china cup and passed it to Evelyn. “What is this pressing family matter?”
Evelyn took a deep breath. She must come across as hurt, not angry.
“Charles and I have been married for six months,” she began. “As you are aware, we come from very different backgrounds, and I have had much to learn. You and Lavinia have been so gracious. Without your guidance, I would have been quite lost.”
The flattery did not soften Alma’s suspicious expression.
“I find myself in a very delicate situation, and I hope I can count on your guidance once again.”
“Delicate?”
“Yes.” Evelyn placed her teacup on the table and looked directly at her mother-in-law. “Nothing would bring me greater happiness than a child. I know it is your fondest wish as well. But Charles is so rarely at home. I find it difficult to do my duty.” She refused to lower her gaze, hoping Alma would read her meaning in her eyes.
“Charles is a busy man,” Alma said. “Surely you see him in the evenings?”
Evelyn shook her head. “At first, yes. But for the past few months, we’ve barely crossed paths. He either stays in Baltimore overnight or returns ho
me long after I’m asleep. I don’t wish to inconvenience him, yet it seems I must.”
“How quickly a doting wife becomes a demanding shrew!” Alma said with a bitter laugh.
“I hope I’m not a shrew,” Evelyn said defensively.
Alma picked up the teapot and poured herself a cup, then leisurely stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar. When she continued, her voice was pensive. “It is a delicate balance. A wife must treat her husband as lord and master of the house, yet earn his respect as well. A strong man requires a strong partner.”
“What can I do?” Evelyn asked. She heard her voice quaver and prayed she wouldn’t cry. Alma considered tears a self-indulgent weakness. “I assure you, I’ve done nothing to offend him. And yet, I believe Charles has been—that is, I suspect he keeps company with other women.”
“He told you?” Alma widened her eyes in horror.
“Not directly. But his disinterest and frequent absences can lead me to no other conclusion.”
For a minute, Alma looked as upset as Evelyn. Now that she knew the truth about her son at last, Evelyn hoped she might be an ally after all.
“How dare you raise such a subject in my presence,” Alma said, her voice cold with contempt. “Some coarseness is to be expected, given your upbringing. Still, I am appalled.”
The words rang through Evelyn’s head but she couldn’t make sense of them. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear—”
“I haven’t finished,” Alma interrupted, practically spitting out the words. After a brief pause, she continued in her usual calm, measured voice. “I do not approve of such behavior, but it is how things are done. You are very naive indeed if you think a man of Charles’s stature can be satisfied with a simple country wife. I trust he’s discreet?”
Evelyn stared at Alma, at a loss for words.
“Has he brought a woman to social gatherings? Been seen with someone else by one of your friends?”
The House of Secrets Page 8
