The Myrtles Plantation

by Ghostly Enconter

  I held my breath as Betty Jo called the plantation, barely daring to breathe, lest the spell be broken. I listened intently, trying to hide my disappointment when she said, “Tomorrow will be fine.” I could hardly wait. We had an appointment for two o’clock the next afternoon.

  Jim and I stayed at the Cottage Plantation that night, just a short drive up Highway 61. I was intrigued, because at that time, it was the only bed and breakfast in St. Francisville, and the rooms were actually in the plantation house. The Browns, originally from New York, had purchased the plantation and ten original outbuildings in the 1950s and had been running the inn ever since.

  I climbed up into the canopy bed and lay awake trying to remember as much as I could about the one time I had seen the Myrtles. It had been several years since our trip down the Mississippi River, when we were passengers on the paddle-wheeler Mississippi Queen. From the steamboat we toured at least a dozen different plantations. Most of them blended together in my memory, but the Myrtles had left a lasting impression. Many of its features stood out in my mind. The first was the unusual style of the home, not the typical, imposing Greek revival mansion, with mammoth columns in front, but a much more graceful, feminine home, with French ornamental ironwork framing its galleries like delicate lace. The interior was adorned with one of the finest examples of plaster frieze work in the South, and certainly the finest I had ever seen. The chandeliers were exquisite, and the stained glass cast shimmering shadows on the shiny wood floors.

  When I was finally overcome by sleep, my dreams were filled with visions of the Myrtles before the Civil War, of a home filled with gaiety and children’s laughter, of formal dinner parties and gala balls.

  We awoke to the early knock of the maid and the aroma of fresh Southern coffee delivered on a silver tray. What a great day. Today was the day we would revisit the Myrtles!

  Breakfast was served at 7:30 a.m. in the formal dining room. I scarfed down my “plantation breakfast,” barely tasting the crisp bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs. “What’s this?” I inquired when a bowl of plain white mush was passed to me.

  “That’s grits,” offered another guest at the table. I placed a small dollop on my plate. Assuming they were to be eaten like oatmeal, I reached for the sugar.

  “That’s the way Yankees eat grits,” another gentleman corrected. “Down here we eat them with butter and salt.”

  I found it interesting that grits are referred to as “them”; after all, a serving of oatmeal, or even Raisin Bran, is never plural. I smothered “them” with a “mess” of butter, feeling more Southern by the minute.

  Only six more hours. We passed the time driving around town, all two streets, lined with gift and antique shops, and Victorian homes dripping with gingerbread and wrought iron. When we arrived at Audubon Realty, Betty Jo was on the telephone. She smiled at us and waved.

  Finishing her call, she led us out to her car. Within a few minutes we were turning into the gates of the Myrtles. I held my breath as we rounded each turn in the winding drive. Century-old oak trees lined the lane, their branches like arms beckoning us. We rounded a bend, and I caught sight of the house. My heart skipped a beat.

  “It looks like the haunted house at Disneyland,” Jim joked. Actually, it did. The Myrtles had the same white clapboard exterior, the shutters painted in the same aqua blue, and the ornamental ironwork was strikingly similar. It was eerie!

  I practically ran up the brick pathway lined with bright red welcoming lilies. When I finally reached the house, I felt so small. From the bottom of the steps looking up, you really got a feel for the immensity of the structure. I wondered what mysteries this old house harbored, what passions and tragedies had touched the lives of the people who had lived and died there.

  Betty Jo and Jim were already on the verandah waiting for me when Mr. Pearce dramatically threw open the double doors.

  “Good afternoon,” he drawled. “Welcome to the Myrtles.”

  I bolted up the steps to join them. Betty Jo was making introductions. “Mr. Pearce, I’d like you to meet Jim and Sarah.”

  “Frances,” I corrected. Why couldn’t she remember my name? Yesterday she had called me Sarah all day.

  Betty Jo blushed noticeably, and repeated, “Of course. I know that. Frances.”

  “Please, call me John L.” His articulation was melodic. He appeared to be eloquent and refined, the epitome of a Southern gentleman.

  I instantly forgot my irritation about Betty Jo’s forgetting my name as we entered the foyer. It was even more beautiful than I remembered. The floors were made of polished cypress, so shiny you could see your reflection. The afternoon sun cast a golden reflection of the regal French cross design from the stained glass in the doors onto the floorboards. As I looked up, the first thing I noticed was an enormous wrought-iron chandelier, much too big for most homes, even with the highest of ceilings, yet perfect for the massive entry hall that ran the entire length of the house. Hanging from it were the largest crystals I had ever seen, both amber and smoky.

  “It’s Baccarat crystal,” John L. explained. “It came from a sixteenth-century castle in France. The colored crystals are very rare. Each one weighs over four pounds.”

  I wondered how the ceiling supported such a heavy weight, but it had obviously hung there for quite some time. Even so, I stepped aside rather than pass directly under it.

  “Would you like a glass of sherry before we begin our tour?” offered John L. Never one to turn down a drink, Jim accepted. I just wanted to see the house. Mr. Pearce opened the French doors leading to the double parlors, identical in structure, and led us through the daintily furnished ladies parlor to the massive, modern goose-down sofa in the gentlemen’s parlor. He left us sitting there in amazement, returning minutes later with a silver tray, upon which sat a finely cut crystal decanter and four tiny glasses. “To the Myrtles,” we toasted. I felt so at home.

  While the others made small talk, my eyes devoured the two rooms. The plaster frieze work in both parlors was in a grape pattern; thick white mounds of intricately crafted twisted vines and leaves. Against the luscious pastel peach walls, it almost looked as though we were on the inside of a giant wedding cake, the luscious frosting looking delicious enough to taste. I tried to field the questions and small talk directed my way, but my attention was focused on the incredible beauty of the rooms.

  “Frances.” A woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked over at Betty Jo, the only other woman present, but she was talking about how she had recently lost eighty pounds. A jovial John L. listened intently.

  “Frances,” the voice called again. I frowned. An eerie feeling crept over me. Hesitantly, I asked John L. if perhaps there were something “unusual” about the house that we should know about.

  “Absolutely not,” he scoffed. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing really. I thought that I heard something.”

  “Heard what?” John L. persisted.

  “A voice, but it was probably nothing,” I concluded, not wanting to let on that I was hearing things. The voice, however, continued to beckon. Each time, I looked around, hoping someone else had heard it, but no one appeared to. I decided not to mention it again.

  “Are you ready to see the rest of the house?” John L. finally asked. I had been ready since the moment Betty Jo first mentioned the Myrtles. John L. led us to a smaller, darker room adjoining the gentlemen’s parlor that he called the game room. The deep emerald green walls were trimmed on top with a Scottish plaid border, giving the room a distinctly masculine feel. In the center of the room sat a very old Chippendale gaming table, with several cards from an antique playing deck displayed on top. I was studying the unfamiliar characters on the playing cards, which resembled a Tarot deck, when suddenly I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I looked up, and a dark, deep-set pair of eyes met mine. A man in a painting was staring directly into my eyes. His stern, piercing eyes seemed to follow me as I unconsciously backed into the corner. T
he portrait was only a few feet high, framed in noticeably aged oak, and yet his face seemed very lifelike. The portrait lamp above seemed to cast shadows under his cheeks, giving him a grayish cast. His head seemed to turn to watch me as I moved around the room. I couldn’t escape his gaze. It gave me the creeps!

  “Isn’t that a marvelous portrait?” John L. chimed in when he noticed my attention fixated on the painting. “They say it’s the mark of a talented artist when they can make the eyes follow you like that.”

  “It’s interesting,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. It was silly of me to be so shaken by a mere painting. Still, I was glad when Betty Jo took the lead and reached for an exit.

  “What’s in here?” she asked, as she tugged on one of the two doors adjacent to the portrait. The door rattled against its frame, refusing to budge. “Oh, it must be locked.”

  “No, it can’t be, there is no lock on that door,” said John L., looking puzzled as he slid over to the door. It opened easily at his touch. I shivered as a burst of cold air blew into the room.

  “It’s just the door to the back staircase,” he explained. “We will go upstairs later.”

  I poked my head through the door to look at the stairwell. I had a sense of déjà vu, and the eeriest feeling that something was beckoning me to go up the stairs.

  “That’s absurd,” I thought. I quickly shut the door and rejoined the group in the dining room. Still, that staircase looked hauntingly familiar.

  “Ooh, isn’t this just beautiful,” cooed Betty Jo. I might have thought her comment was merely a sales technique, but the room truly was breathtaking. Pale pink cream walls were offset by the bold, dramatic forest green faux malachite fireplace mantel. Bright floral draperies puddled around each of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out to the lush tropical pond in back. The immense eighteenth-century English dining table was in contrast to the delicate china and German crystal bordered in gold that was daintily set on top. In my head I flashed to an earlier time, when genteel ladies and gentlemen were seated at the table, toasting their host, each other, and the latest crop of cotton, delicately clinking the fragile glass.

  Next John L. led us into the French bedroom, adorned in bronze Doré, gilt, and flamboyant Louis XV furniture. This room was a darker pink, almost mauve, yet none of the rooms felt excessively feminine. Because of the enormous size of the rooms, and the characteristic high ceilings, even the most macho of men would not feel threatened by the peachy-pink color scheme.

  I noticed that all the keyholes on the doors in the French bedroom were upside down. As we walked back into the entry hall, I saw that they were upside down there too, so I asked John L. about them.

  “It was an old superstition,” John L. explained. “People believed that if they turned the keyholes upside down spirits would not be able to get into their house.”

  “Look at the beautiful doorknobs,” he continued, diverting our attention from the keyholes. “They look just like silver, but they are actually mercury enclosed in glass.”

  John L. pointed out several more of the outstanding architectural features in the entry hall before leading us upstairs.

  Clutching the walnut banister tightly as we ascended the grand staircase I was excited about seeing a part of the house not open to tourists. I felt the temperature rise as we approached the landing, and I remembered that the burst of air from the back staircase had been icy cold. How odd.

  Upstairs, only two of the rooms had been restored and were functional bedrooms, while the other rooms were barren and undecorated, filled with storage boxes, Christmas decorations, and miscellaneous odds and ends. My mind went into overdrive as I started planning how I could renovate them. I felt like an intruder as I peeked into the many nooks and crannies, opened unusual-shaped doors, and investigated hidden crawl spaces. What a wonderful place for children to play hide-and-seek!

  Suddenly I realized I was lost and alone in the maze of rooms. I sought the nearest hallway and found John L. waiting to direct us back through the center room into another hallway, where he paused at the same staircase we had ascended. “The back staircase is a little steep, so I prefer this one,” he explained.

  We adjourned to the gentlemen’s parlor for more sherry and conversation. Finally, Betty Jo smoothed her stylish, fitted skirt as she stood up to leave. “It’s nearly ten o’clock,” she sighed. I couldn’t believe it was so late. It seemed as if we had just arrived.

  Jim and I returned to our cozy plantation inn up the road. As soon as the door to our room was shut behind us I turned to Jim.

  “What do you think?” I asked, pleading with my eyes.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jim replied.

  “It is. Oh, Jim, we’ve been planning to get an inn one day. This is it. This is the perfect place. The bedrooms upstairs are sitting empty just begging to be used. And the place is already making an income from the daily tours. John L. says he makes even more from the antique and gift shop in the old carriage house. If we move the antiques over, we can make the large area in front into a bar. You would like that; you can bartend, I can cook, and we can serve gourmet candlelight dinners in the formal dining room. What do you think?”

  “Sounds like you have it all planned out.”

  “My mind started turning the moment we walked through the door!”

  “You always had a good head for business. But we will be leaving all our friends and family to move down here, have you thought about that?”

  “I know, but it’s worth it. I love the house. I . . . I just can’t explain it, but I know the Myrtles is where we belong.”

  “Okay. If you think we can afford it, and if the loan goes though, we can get it.”

  “Oh, Jim,” I cooed as he started kissing me and stroking me in the heavily draped antebellum tester bed.

  Later that night, I secretly began to cry, deep heart-wrenching sobs. I felt so scared, moving so far away from my friends and family. I would miss them so much. I clutched Jim as he lay sleeping soundly next to me. I was letting go of my old life, of everything I had known and done up until then. We were about to leave our home, our family, our friends, and move far away to what, in many ways, seemed like a strange and foreign land.

  However, I knew the journey that had brought us here had begun long before this day, and I knew there was no turning back. I felt sad and apprehensive, yet I had no doubt that my future would be at the Myrtles.

  CHAPTER 6

  At exactly 7:30 a.m. the same apron-clad maid as the morning before delivered our wake-up coffee. I pulled down the frilly comforter and inched my toes along the faded dust ruffle until they reached the coolness of the hardwood floor, then hopped down from the high antique tester bed. I drew a deep breath. I was ready for whatever lay ahead.

  At two o’clock we all met again at the Myrtles. I was in the same dreamy state I had been in the day before. I wanted to see all the rooms again—all twenty-eight of them. Once more, I marveled at all the architectural features that make the Myrtles unique: the plaster frieze work, the chandeliers, the French antiques, the double parlors that make into a ballroom, the windows that can be raised up into the walls. I was beside myself with excitement.

  The familiar silver tray with the sherry decanter was waiting for us when we finally adjourned to the gentlemen’s parlor. This was a lifestyle to which I knew I could easily become accustomed. Once again I was enveloped in the warmth of the parlors, daydreaming about the days, the seasons, ahead, and living at the plantation. I was even planning my first Christmas at the Myrtles, when something else strange happened. Every time Betty Jo, John L., and Jim laughed, I heard a room full of voices and laughter that sounded like a big party going on. It continued for a few seconds after they stopped laughing. I looked around. Didn’t anyone else hear it?

  The gaiety and laughter sounded vaguely familiar, and for an instant I recalled, as a small child, standing on my tiptoes, peeking out of the windows on the top floor of my grandparents’ home to eavesdrop o
n their parties. From my second-story perch, I couldn’t quite make out complete sentences from the patio below, but I caught bits and pieces of the adult repartee. Hearing the voices now, I had the same feeling of overhearing forbidden conversations.

  Not wanting to let on that I was hearing voices again, I waited for the right moment before asking John L. for a second time, “Are you sure there is nothing strange about this house?”

  “Don’t be silly. There is nothing here!” John L. scoffed. I found it odd that he would not look me in the eye.

  We continued chatting about the history of the house, and many of the antiques. When John L. turned to me and asked if we had children, I realized he thought we were married, and I was suddenly afraid that if we told him the truth, he wouldn’t want to sell the house to us.

  “I have two children from a previous marriage, a son, Jeffrey, who is nineteen, and a daughter, Jennifer, who’s sixteen,” Jim replied.

  “The Myrtles needs a family,” John L. flatly stated.

  Growing up, I had always assumed I would have kids. Those dreams had been dashed when I fell madly in love with Jim. Shortly after Jennifer was born, Jim had a vasectomy. We went to a specialist to see if it could be reversed, but since it had been over ten years since the procedure, the possibility of success was minuscule. I loved Jim so much I couldn’t bear leaving him, and Jeff and Jenny, who stayed with us almost every weekend in San Jose, filled the huge hole in my heart. If we moved to Louisiana, I would miss them terribly.

  When we got down to the business details, I noticed that John L. directed all his questions to Jim, totally ignoring me. Sensing that I should let it go, I kept my mouth shut. It had been my dream, and the money for the down payment would come from the restoration work I had done, and yet I was left totally out of the negotiations. I wondered if it were even safe to confide in Betty Jo that Jim and I were living together, but not married. It’s common in California, in most of the country, for that matter, but this was the Deep South, the Bible Belt, and they had different ideas about things.