“Not you, Poppo. I mean the doll . . .” Trina took Augustine and shook her finger at her while faking a stern voice. “You must never get lost again.”
“You better keep her inside from now on,” he said.
“I’ll put her in my pocket.” Trina slipped Augustine into the front pocket of her jean shorts. “So she’ll behave herself,” she said. But her dad wasn’t listening anymore. He had already shifted his attention to his own project.
“This stake here marks the old well,” he said, pulling the biggest stake from the ground as he walked backward, his arms outstretched while he eyed the distance to the French doors as if a measuring tape ran from the house to his fingertips. “I think I’m safe putting the new septic system somewhere . . . about . . . here.” He stopped and shoved the stake into the ground. “It has to be at least one hundred feet from the . . . Whoa!” he hollered.
In an instant he was gone, and all Trina could see was a ripple in the yellow tops of the goldenrod spreading in front of her like deep water. “Poppo!” Trina shouted as she ran toward him, but the whipping stalks seemed to hold her back. What if he had fallen into the old well? What if . . . ? And then he popped up right in front of her like an old-fashioned jack-in-the-box, scaring the wits out of her.
“Poppo!” she wheezed.
“No wonder they never farmed this land,” he said, brushing off his pants. “It’s full of rocks.”
“No kidding,” Trina said. She bent down and picked up a chunk of broken stone, took a good look at it, and held it up for her dad to see. “Look, Poppo. It’s not a rock; it’s cement.” She pushed back the stalks of goldenrod and tracked the chunks of cement in a straight line for several feet. “And there’s a ton of it.”
When Trina looked at her dad and saw that they were nearly the same height, she figured out he was standing in a sunken part of the field. The answer to the riddle clicked in her head. “This is where the carriage house was.” She picked up another chunk of cement. “And this is the foundation.”
“I’m impressed,” he said. “Maybe you’ll grow up to be an archaeologist someday.”
Trina was too busy analyzing the foundation to think about what she wanted to be when she grew up. “But where did the carriage house go, Poppo?”
“Who knows? I think we’ll leave that up to the next carpenter who passes through,” he said as he pulled his notebook from his pocket.
But Trina wasn’t going to give up that easily. Could the mystery of the carriage house be what Goldenrod wanted her to know? For the first time since they arrived in New Royal, Trina was curious about where they lived. “Did Mr. Shegstad tell you anything else about the house and the people who lived here?”
“Just that it was built in 1904 by a Mr. Harlan M. Roy. And how the light fixtures were from England and the fireplace tiles came from Italy. Stuff like that. Mr. Roy was a millionaire and he left everything he owned to his nephew because he didn’t have any children of his own.”
Trina felt a nerve spark inside her. “But that’s not true, Poppo. He had a little girl. She slept in my room and played with the dollhouse, remember?” Trina touched her pocket and gave the very quiet Augustine a little pat.
“Hm. Maybe you should become a detective instead,” he said, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in the Roys or the carriage house. He was completely lost in thought as he scribbled in his notebook. “I’m headed into town. Hank said my order should be here. Want to come along?”
“I sure do,” Trina said, surprising herself that she had any interest in going back to New Royal, but now she planned to learn as much about Mr. Harlan M. Roy as she could. “You can drop me at the library. I kind of like that detective idea.”
Her dad nodded, and as he tucked the notepad back in his pocket, they heard something. The noise came from the front of the house, and soon it became clear it was a truck engine rumbling.
“Maybe Mr. Hank is delivering your spindles,” Trina said.
“Not likely,” her dad replied, setting off at a run.
Trina followed. They ran toward the house, weeds slapping at their legs. The rumbling got deeper as the truck shifted gears and by the time they rounded the corner of the front of the house, all they could see was the back end of a pickup truck hightailing it out of the Land of Goldenrod.
“What in the world . . . ?” her dad said, and then he and Trina both spotted an enormous antique rocking chair sitting by the steps.
“I think someone else just returned some stolen merchandise,” Trina said.
The chair was plain, with tall slatted sides. Despite its thick green leather cushion, it looked like nothing more than a big wooden box on rockers. “Sure is in great condition,” her dad said. He gave the chair a push, but it was so heavy it barely moved. “I think a big chair like this belongs in the library.”
He groaned as he picked up the chair and his muscles bulged in his arms. All Trina could do to help was run ahead of him and open both front doors. Once inside, she helped push the chair across the foyer floor and into the library. When they finally placed the chair in front of the fireplace, she was out of breath too.
But as she stood back and admired it, she had to admit it was worth the effort. The chair made it easy to imagine the library filled with books and desks and old-fashioned lamps. The dining room had its table and now the library had its reading chair. A sense of peace and contentment seemed to float through Goldenrod.
Trina’s dad plopped into the chair and the leather seat gave out a poof of air, like a sigh of relief, as if glad to be sat in after so many years. “Maybe I’ll take up smoking again,” he said.
“Oh, no, you won’t,” Trina said, squeezing into the chair next to him. The chair rocked in a comforting way, her dad’s long legs making it go back and forth. “It’s not good for you. Besides, the library is not the smoking room.”
“Then bring me a book.”
“One of those books?” Trina said, playfully, pointing at the towering, empty bookshelves.
Her dad frowned. “Then bring me my slippers!”
“Don’t be so silly, Poppo. We have servants who take care of such things.”
“Servants, huh? Did you eat the oatmeal the cook left for you this morning?”
“Yes, I did, but I think we’re out of milk. When the chauffeur takes me into the city, perhaps he could get a few groceries.”
“I’m sure he will if the maid folds all that laundry she washed.”
“Of course she will. As soon as she gets that raise she was promised.”
Her dad slapped the wide arm of the rocker. “Then bring the chauffeur his keys. A trip to the bank is in order!”
Trina giggled. “They’re in your pocket, Poppo, where they usually are.” She wriggled out of the chair and started making a mental list of all the things she wanted to research at the library: Queen Anne houses, New Royal, the Harlan M. Roy family, and carriage houses. Anything that might help her understand the mysterious old house she was supposed to call home.
Chapter Eight
“I shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes,” Trina’s dad said as the truck pulled up to the front of the New Royal Public Library.
Trina looked up at the stately building, which stood nearly as tall as the treetops, and then up and down Main Street. She could see as far as the Cat’s Meow Diner and beyond the city park. Once again, the streets were completely empty. Did anyone besides Miss Kitty live in this town?
“What if I need more time than that to become a detective?” Trina said as she jumped from the truck’s running board and slammed the door. Hearing a hissing sound near her feet, she looked down cautiously, half expecting to see a snake like the ones that slithered through their yard in New Mexico. “Do you hear that, Poppo?” Trina bent close to the front tire. “This tire’s going flat.”
Her dad hopped out of the truck and wiggled free a spike of metal. “They don’t make nails like this anymore. Must’ve picked it up in the yard,” he said. “Be
tter give me at least an hour so I can get this tire fixed.”
Trina waved good-bye to her dad, ran up the broad stone steps, and used every muscle she had to open the heavy, polished brass door. The door closed soundlessly behind her as the snap, snap, snap of her flip-flops echoed beneath a rounded ceiling two stories high.
Afraid of making any noise in this lifeless library, Trina put one hand over the pocket that contained Augustine and carefully slid her feet across the black and white marble floor all the way to a large desk made of dark wood that matched the woodwork at Goldenrod. A domed bell, like the bells she’d seen in motels, sat on one corner of the desk. She tapped it and listened as the tinkling sound softly reverberated around her. A tall elderly gentleman with perfectly combed white hair stepped from behind an enormous bookshelf. He moved so elegantly in his bright white shirt and black bow tie, Trina pictured him greeting guests at Goldenrod—wearing a tuxedo.
“Good day. I am the librarian, Mr. Peter Kinghorn. And you are?”
Trina looked up in the dim light. The old gentleman’s voice was serious, but his face was kind. “I’m Citrine Maxwell,” she said, impressed by how studious her name sounded in a library. “Do you have a computer I could use for some research I’m doing?”
Mr. Kinghorn tipped his head toward a clunky computer on the big desk. “I do, but the Internet is down and there is no telling when it will be up again.” He sighed a little. “Truth is, New Royal has been quite overlooked by the modern world, so we are frequently required to do things the old-fashioned way. With books.” Almost smiling he added, “However, if you ask me, nothing electronic surpasses a book.” He picked up a pencil and notepad. “You just tell me what you need and I’ll help you find it.”
“I’m looking for information on Goldenrod,” Trina said stoutly, wondering if he too would back away at the mention of the house’s name.
To the contrary, Mr. Kinghorn perked up. “That’s an easy one.” He set down his pencil and notepad. Trina’s heart skipped with excitement as he leaned forward, pointing to a low bookcase on the far side of the library. “Goldenrod is from the genus Solidago, so you’ll want to look under S in those big white encyclopedias.”
Trina’s expectations sank lower and lower with every word Mr. Kinghorn uttered. “You’ll never find pictures on a computer as exquisite as the ones in those books,” Mr. Kinghorn said proudly. “You can make tea from the flowers, you know.”
“I didn’t mean the flower,” Trina said as politely as possible. “I meant the house.”
Mr. Kinghorn gripped the desk, as if he needed it to keep himself upright. “That Goldenrod? How do you know about that Goldenrod?”
“I live there,” Trina said.
Mr. Kinghorn eyed Trina thoughtfully. “I heard there was a little girl. Your father must be the carpenter Mr. Hank told me about.”
Trina nodded.
“Miss Lincoln said you didn’t register for school. She was certain you and your father had left town.”
News sure traveled fast in New Royal—even without the Internet. Trina could feel her face turning red as she pondered what other rumors might be going around New Royal. And she wondered if Charlotte had anything to do with them.
“I am afraid we are a very small community, Miss Citrine,” Mr. Kinghorn continued, seeming to guess what she was thinking. “We all keep each other’s secrets, if you know what I mean.”
Keeping secrets in New Royal obviously meant poking your nose into everyone else’s business. Trina wanted to turn around and walk out the door so there would be nothing more to say about her, but she steeled herself. She couldn’t leave empty-handed. “So, do you have information about the old house? I’d like to see anything you have.”
Mr. Kinghorn’s bony hands shook slightly as he straightened his already perfectly straightened bow tie. “I do, but I have never kept it in the main library, child. I keep it downstairs. Locked in the vault.” He scanned the empty library before he leaned his head over the desk toward her and lowered his voice. “I’ll retrieve it for you.” He turned from the desk, strode through an arched doorway made of stone, and disappeared.
The thought of information so secret it had to be locked away made Trina jittery, so it took her a moment to feel a poke in her side. She pulled Augustine from her pocket. “I’m so sorry, Augustine, I forgot you were in there.”
Augustine opened her eyes and brushed her hair back from her face. “I am not sure what is worse: to be catapulted across the Land of Goldenrod or to be forgotten in a deep, dark pocket. Where are we? We are supposed to be looking for my prince.”
“We’re in the New Royal Public Library.” Trina held Augustine up to see the giant shelves stuffed with books, the big-paned windows, and the balcony on the second floor, which had to be the equivalent of at least half a mile overhead to the little doll. “The library is also known as the Land of Books,” Trina said.
Augustine’s mood changed from angry to a little bit shy. “Does my prince live in the Land of Books?”
Mr. Kinghorn’s footsteps sounded in the stairwell.
“I’m sorry, Augustine, but I have to do this to you.” Trina hurriedly stuffed Augustine back in her pocket, feet first.
“But my prince—”
“Shh!” Trina said, shoving the doll deeper into her pocket.
Mr. Kinghorn was panting as he emerged, carrying an old wooden apple crate. What looked like a dish towel was draped over his arm. “I found these papers in my father’s desk after he passed away. Some belonged to my great-grandfather.”
“Are you related to the Roys, then?” asked Trina as she followed Mr. Kinghorn to a large table with carved lions’ heads for feet.
“No, no, child,” Mr. Kinghorn said without further elaboration. “Would you lay the linen cloth on the table, please, Miss Citrine,” he said. “I don’t want to scratch it.”
Trina took the cloth from Mr. Kinghorn’s arm and smoothed it across the table. As he set down the crate, the scent of the wet fields at Goldenrod wafted through the air. Then Mr. Kinghorn pulled out one of the fancy chairs that matched the fancy table and nodded his head at Trina. She sat down and watched anxiously as he reached into the crate. His trembling hands withdrew a large flat book with a brown leather cover and black pages. “Wow, that’s a really old book,” Trina said.
“A scrapbook,” Mr. Kinghorn said, drawing her attention to the word “Scrapbook” etched in the leather cover. After he sat down, he took a moment to put on a pair of reading glasses and get comfortable. “A lot of people kept scrapbooks back then. And the Roys were kind of like celebrities.” He opened the cover of the scrapbook to a yellowed newspaper clipping. “Here we go. Front page of the New Royal Register, Sunday, May 28, 1905,” he said, squinting despite his glasses.
Trina leaned in for a closer look at the blurry black-and-white photograph of a garden in full bloom. It had cobblestone paths and a fountain and was filled with fancily dressed people. The caption read: “Mr. and Mrs. Harlan M. Roy host the first annual flower gala in the East Garden at Goldenrod.” Trina couldn’t tell among all those fancy people who Mr. Harlan M. Roy was, and she didn’t see any children running around.
“The Roys are the ones who built Goldenrod, right?” Trina asked eagerly.
Mr. Kinghorn shook his head. “Not exactly. The Roys paid for everything, of course, but my great-grandfather designed and built it, as he did everything in town. He was the architect for Mr. Roy’s construction company. My great-grandfather could build anything and everything.” Mr. Kinghorn sounded proud, and no wonder. His ancestor was responsible for all the grand buildings in New Royal.
Mr. Kinghorn pointed to a tiny head of a partygoer. “That’s my great-grandfather right there.”
“But why did they build their house way out here?” Trina wished she had kept her mouth shut, knowing she had just insulted Mr. Kinghorn and the town he lived in. “I mean, so far away from town.”
“You mean, in the middle of nowhere?”
When Mr. Kinghorn’s serious face cracked a smile, Trina nodded, relieved.
Mr. Kinghorn cleared his throat. “Mr. Roy was an Iowa boy. He made his fortune in railroading, but he never took to the big city life. He built the house as a wedding present for his wife.” Mr. Kinghorn crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “They say it was the only way he could convince her to leave New York City. He promised her that someday New Royal would have everything she loved about the city—shops, restaurants, theaters . . .” He peered at Trina over the tops of his glasses. “He had what you call a big ego. Even named the town after himself.”
Mr. Roy. New Royal, of course. “I guess it didn’t turn out like he planned,” Trina said.
“Such are many promises,” Mr. Kinghorn said.
“Mrs. Roy must have been very lonely.”
“Indeed. I think that’s why they had so many parties out there.” He leaned forward and turned the page to another newspaper clipping with a similar photo of another party. “They had spring parties and fall parties . . . Every year.” He kept turning the pages of the scrapbook, one party picture after another, until he came to a blank page. “Every year, that is, until the tragedy.”
Trina stared at the empty black page. “What tragedy?”
“Diphtheria. The dreadful epidemic of 1912. Mr. Roy caught diphtheria on his travels and brought it home. He recovered and was traveling again, and all seemed well, but then his wife, Anne, and their little girl, Annie, became ill.”
Goosebumps popped up on Trina’s arms. Annie. Annie had to be Augustine’s little girl. “What happened?” Trina said breathlessly.
“Mrs. Roy survived, but little Annie died.” Trina put one hand to her mouth and the other over her pocket as if she could protect Augustine from the unbearable truth. She swallowed hard. “A few days later, they found Mrs. Roy wandering in the East Garden, calling for the dog. She said Annie had thrown a ball for him to fetch, but he never came back.” Mr. Kinghorn took off his glasses and looked into Trina’s eyes. “The dog—Toby, they called him—had died the winter before.” Mr. Kinghorn shook his head sadly. “Pure grief. It unsettled her mind. She couldn’t accept the fact that Annie was gone. Eventually she lost all sense of reality and Mr. Roy had to put Mrs. Roy in an institution. Different times, you know. Mr. Roy never forgave himself for bringing the illness home to his family.”
The Secret of Goldenrod Page 9
