“They say she was carrying on with a man down there,” she’d continued, pointedly fixing me in her watery, gray-eyed gaze. “A Bohemian artist who painted pictures of naked women…”
…I laughed, suddenly understanding that the mysterious photo was intended to warn me against my current romantic folly. “Bobby is a wonderful man and I am not ‘carrying on’ with him, as you so charmingly put it. We’re both deeply in love and we are probably going to be married soon—”
“That’s what that Bohemian painter promised her, but I can assure you that men like that do not marry,” she said, casting a knowing glance out the window toward the island. There had next followed a long silence as Aunt Ellen sadly shook her head and gazed down at the pretty, unsmiling face looking out at us from the sepia background of the ancient studio photo.
“Her father, that would be my mother’s uncle George, went all the way down to New York on the train and pleaded with her to come back home,” she finally went on, “for the sake of common decency and the family name.” Aunt Ellen had gazed at the old photo again and then abruptly snatched it from my hand.
“What happened to her?” I asked, by then genuinely intrigued. For the scandalous story, and even the existence of the anonymous young woman in the picture, had obviously remained a closely guarded family secret for generations.
“She came to a no-good end. And that’s all I’m going to say about it,” the old lady stubbornly concluded, the somber finality of her tone making it clear that some unspeakable fate had befallen the wayward girl.
Then, as if a lightbulb had been switched on, Aunt Ellen’s bloodless lips had suddenly stretched into a semblance of a smile, unappetizingly exposing the pink plastic gums of her dentures. “Now then,” she had said, slipping the scandalous photo into the back of the album from which she had taken it, “I suppose that whatshisname feller you brought up here with you will be expecting me to fix him some kind of a big shore supper.”
“Aunt Ellen,” I said sharply, “since you deliberately trotted out that old photo in order to justify your antiquated and prudish view of Bobby and me sleeping together, the very least you can do is tell me who the girl was and what became of her.”
Her dignity visibly shaken by the harshness of my accusation, the old woman had set her fragile china cup on the magnificent silver tray and rose slowly to her feet. “Why, Miss Susan Marks, I cannot imagine what you are going on about,” she proclaimed innocently. “And you have no call to raise your voice to me, young woman.”
“The name, Aunt Ellen. What was the damn girl’s name?” I shouted at her in frustration.
The blood rose to her face then, centering in two bright spots on her heavily powdered cheeks. “That person’s vile name has not been spoken in this house for more than eighty years,” she hissed in reply. “And I do not intend to speak it now, or ever.”
Then, without waiting for my reply, she had turned her hunched old back on me and hobbled out to her whitewashed kitchen, muttering to herself some inanity about the boiled lobster and parsnips she was planning for supper.
Bobby and I left Freedman’s Cove shortly after he returned from his hike out to the lighthouse that afternoon. As I angrily tossed our belongings into the car, Aunt Ellen had stood on her front porch, stubbornly pretending not to comprehend what she had done or said to drive us away.
Anxiously wringing her gnarled old hands, she had at the last moment even partially swallowed her stiff-necked New England pride by begging us to at least stay on until after supper.
She was still standing there in the chilly afternoon breeze as we drove away, a tiny, bent relic from a bygone age when the universally accepted wisdom of one’s elders allowed and even encouraged them to lecture their foolish young folk when and as they pleased.
“You sure you don’t want to go back and give the old girl another chance?” Bobby was looking at me with genuine concern as we drove slowly down the charming, sundappled street.
I turned then and glanced back at the frail, white-haired figure standing there small and alone on her big old-fashioned porch. I could feel the hot tears of frustration and anger welling up in my throat as I shook my head and fumbled in the bottom of my purse for a crumpled cigarette, even though I’d quit months earlier. “Oh, to hell with her,” I sobbed, punching the lighter on the dashboard. “Just drive.”
That was the last time I saw Aunt Ellen alive.
A few weeks later I received a call from the town constable, informing me that my aunt had suffered a massive stroke and passed away in her sleep. She had been discovered dead in her giant four-poster bed, by her cleaning lady.
When the news came, Bobby was somewhere far out in the North Sea on a mysterious, monthlong assignment for the oil company. So, overwhelmed with guilt at the horrible way that Aunt Ellen and I had parted, I drove up to Freedman’s Cove alone and made the arrangements for her funeral.
Nobody else was at the gloomy service but the cleaning lady, a few other old people that I didn’t know and my aunt’s elderly lawyer. Following the burial in the little cemetery behind the stern whitewashed Unitarian Church, the lawyer took me aside and informed me that my Aunt Ellen had left me her entire estate, which consisted mainly of the house and all its contents.
Feeling absolutely rotten, for, despite our last ugly encounter, Aunt Ellen had for most of my life been like a mother to me, I had called and asked Damon to come up and stay with me while I dealt with the house. And though he loathed flying, my dear partner had bravely caught the first commuter flight to Newport.
Surprisingly, Tom Barnwell, the boyish real estate agent I had called, mostly because we’d dated for part of one breathless, hormone-charged summer right after high school, also immediately came to my rescue. Driving a new BMW convertible and looking far better in faded jeans and crew-neck sweater than he had any right to, he had arrived at the house bright and early the next morning.
Touring the cluttered rooms with Damon and me, Tom had suggested I brighten up the old place, whether I wished to sell or turn it into a summer rental: Aunt Ellen’s house, with its secluded private beach and spectacular sea views was the last of the Freedman’s Cove Victorians that had not yet been converted to a summer rental. And, according to Tom, it would command a handsome weekly rate.
Later, as we lunched together in a window booth at Krabb’s, Tom had offered to find reliable workmen to do the necessary remodeling, and said he’d personally take charge of the house after I returned to New York.
Initially I was baffled at the extraordinary attention Tom Barnwell was lavishing on a potential realty client. Then Damon had excused himself to go to the restroom and my old beau’s motivation suddenly became clear.
“Sue, I’ve never forgotten that night we spent together on Dad’s boat,” he said huskily.
I felt myself flushing bright crimson as he suddenly leaned across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Well, Tom,” I replied, patting his big, capable hand and injecting what I hoped was a carefree tone into my voice, “we were a couple of wild and crazy kids, weren’t we?”
In fact, I had never forgotten that night, either. But then, I don’t suppose many people do forget their first genuine sexual encounter. For that was what the night aboard his father’s sleek new motorsailer had been for me. And, I suspected, it had been the first time for Tom as well.
Thankfully, Damon had returned quickly, ending the awkward moment. Tom had sheepishly gone back to discussing the lucrative summer-rental market in Freedman’s Cove, sparing me the necessity of reminding him that he was married, or boring him with tales of my handsome and fabulous lover.
The next day we went to work on the house.
While I went through countless boxes, trunks and closets, deciding what to keep and what to dispose of, Damon took charge of the redecorating. Helped by Tom, he hired workmen to redo the place inside and out including a modest updating of the old-fashioned kitchen. Partly because of the clutter at the house, but mos
tly because of my unpleasant memories of my last visit with Aunt Ellen, we had both stayed at a pleasant little B&B a few blocks away.
Damon and I drove back to New York after five days, leaving Tom to see that the decorating was properly finished. We took with us only Aunt Ellen’s silver tea service, the Tiffany lamp and a few other items that she had treasured. Everything else either had been left for the use of summer renters, given away to local charities or, in the case of Aunt Ellen’s innumerable boxes of letters and old photos, locked in the still-unexplored attic, to be sorted out later.
I soon forgot all about the embarrassing incident with Tom…
Chapter 5
It was very late when I pulled into the narrow drive beside the house and switched off the Volvo’s engine.
Stepping wearily out of the warm car I stretched my numbed shoulders and looked up at the proud old Victorian. While she was still alive, Aunt Ellen had always kept a light burning in the parlor at night, so the house would seem warm and inviting to visitors, she said. But now the windows were dark and the place looked inexpressibly sad and empty.
The beacon from the lighthouse on the point swept across the pale yellow clapboards, illuminating the tall, angular structure like a flash of lightning in a cheap horror movie. In that instant I had the fleeting impression that a face was peering down at me from the high window of the turret bedroom. Then the light moved on, plunging the house back into the darkness of the cold, moonless night.
I stood there a moment longer, staring up at the blank window thirty feet above and wondering if it was possible that the place could be occupied. For, though summer rentals of the property had far exceeded my most optimistic expectations, no one had ever taken the house after mid-September. And I hadn’t even bothered calling Tom Barnwell before leaving the city to tell him I was coming up.
Anyway, I was almost certain that I had only imagined the face in the window.
A chilly blast of wind from the sea riffled my thin sweatshirt, sending a chill through my exhausted body and driving me back into the car for my keys and purse. From the cluttered rear seat I retrieved only a small overnight case and the bag of basic groceries I’d picked up at a minimart just off the interstate. Everything else, I decided, could wait until morning.
With my arms full I hurried to the front porch and climbed the broad steps. On the off chance that the face in the window had not been merely a trick of the light I pressed the old-fashioned doorbell and listened to the sound of chimes echoing through the house.
When after several seconds no light came on inside and I heard no footsteps on the stair I fumbled with the unfamiliar new lock that Tom had installed on the oak-framed glass door and let myself in. From memory I located the switch on the foyer wall. The glittering Austrian Crystal chandelier blazed to life at my touch, flooding the marbled entryway with light.
“Hello,” I called out loudly, just to be absolutely certain that I wasn’t stumbling in on some poor couple snuggled in for a romantic New England autumn weekend—something that Bobby and I had often talked about doing but had never quite gotten around to.
Somewhere above my head, in the vicinity of Aunt Ellen’s old bedroom, I thought, a rafter groaned under the buffeting of the rising wind outside.
The house was otherwise silent.
Satisfied that I was alone, and feeling just a little foolish, I sighed heavily and dropped my overnight case onto the worn pine deacon’s bench beside the front door. Then, switching on more lights as I went, I walked back toward the kitchen with my groceries.
As I passed through the parlor and the dining room a small smile of pleasure crossed my lips. When Damon and I had left Freedman’s Cove three years before, the workmen were still finishing up the remodeling and the place had been a complete mess. Now, however, with my aunt’s best furniture neatly rearranged and gleaming with lemon-scented polish and with the clutter of painter’s drop cloths and ladders gone, I realized that Damon’s hurried makeover had done absolute wonders for the Victorian.
Gone, along with Aunt Ellen’s somber, densely patterned wallpaper and heavily swagged velvet draperies, were the horrid rubber plants and the grim portraits of my stern New England ancestors that had hung, late-1800s fashion, tilted away from the cheerless walls on braided cords. Now, those funereal trappings had been replaced by expanses of creamy white plaster, simple sea green curtains and a few good nautical prints, all of which perfectly accentuated the wonderfully molded floral copings below the high ceilings and showed the busy lines of the sturdy old period furnishings to best advantage.
Compared to their former melancholy atmosphere the big rooms now felt positively airy. And I imagined how pleasant they must be on bright summer days, with puffs of soft sea air wafting in through the tall cased windows.
In the kitchen, a similarly pleasing transformation had been accomplished with new cabinet facings, retiled countertops and parquet flooring. The removal of decades’ worth of yellowing paint from the stamped tin ceiling, and the addition of plants along with modern appliances cleverly designed to replicate the antiques that they had replaced, had turned the room into a bright and cheerful space for work and living.
After peering briefly into cupboards and drawers stocked for the convenience of renters with adequate supplies of everyday utensils, I found some tea things. And while the kettle was coming to a boil I checked to be sure the gas and water were turned on and that the new refrigerator was working.
A few minutes later, with my little stock of groceries stashed in the fridge, and balancing a small tray in one hand and my overnight case in the other, I wearily climbed the narrow back stairs to the second floor.
Upstairs, Damon’s pleasing handiwork was everywhere evident. Each of the three formerly cheerless guest bedrooms was now pleasant and welcoming, with brightly colored comforters on the beds and light, attractive wall coverings setting off the natural tones of lovingly polished woodwork.
But my pleased smile faded as I reached the end of the hall and paused in the open doorway of Aunt Ellen’s room. For even the pleasant new floral wallpaper and the gaily colored patchwork coverlet could not disguise the massive four-poster bed in which the poor old dear had died so alone and lonely three years earlier.
As I stood there, tired and heartsick, I suddenly found the words that I had not been able to say at her funeral. “Thank you for all that you gave me, Auntie,” I whispered to the empty room.
As if in reply to my heartfelt words a few spatters of freezing rain from the approaching storm rattled like grains of shot against the windows. So I turned out the light and proceeded down the hall to the short stairway leading up to the turret.
My old bedroom, half a story higher than the rest of the upstairs, looked just as it always had. When I was fourteen, Aunt Ellen had allowed me to redecorate the small round space to my own taste.
I’d spent most of that delightful summer choosing the colors and fabrics and the wallpaper with its delicate pink cabbage rose pattern, then laboriously painting and papering the entire room myself.
When Damon had taken charge of the latest remodeling the turret room was the one place in the house that I had absolutely forbidden him to change. But, ignoring me as usual, he had pointed out that the room’s tiny closet was entirely inadequate for renters. And over my loud objections he had hauled up an old birdseye maple wardrobe from the basement where it had stood for decades gathering dust and old periodicals.
I had laughed out loud when I saw the huge piece of furniture he proposed moving into the small room. But to my great surprise the wardrobe had fit perfectly into a nook beside the windows. And, once relieved of its grime and gleaming with fresh beeswax, it looked as if it had always been there. So I had grudgingly allowed it to stay, secretly delighted to have the extra storage space.
The smile returned to my lips as I set the tea tray on the dresser and looked around my snug little space. The turret’s three tall, closely spaced windows overlooked an unimpeded vista o
f Maidenstone Island and the sea beyond. So that, late at night, with the lighthouse beacon flashing in the distance and moonlight sparkling on the water, it is possible to lie in the elaborately carved, feather-soft bed—salvaged from the captain’s cabin of a New Bedford whaler that had foundered off the point in 1889—and imagine that you are in the wheelhouse of a great tall ship.
At least that is what I used to do when I was a young girl, sailing away in my dreams to wildly romantic adventures in the East Indies, threading my way among the starlit islands of the Aegean or cruising the dangerous coasts of darkest Africa, always with a brave and handsome lover at my side.
I have never known such feelings of happiness and exhilaration as I experienced in those half-remembered girlhood dreams. And, deep inside, I suspect, by returning to Freedman’s Cove I was hoping to ease my grief and longing for Bobby by recapturing a bit of that dimly recalled childhood magic.
So, on my first night back in the home of my summers, I walked slowly around the wonderful old room, touching familiar objects and happily ignoring the fearsome sounds of the wind and the sea raging just outside my windows.
After a few minutes I took the old electric space heater from the tiny closet, for the house’s newly revamped central heating still does not include the turret room. I plugged in the heater and switched it to HIGH. And, as the glowing red coils drove the late-autumn chill from the air, I lifted my overnight case onto the bed.
Opening the lid, I took out the protective ball of underwear wedged between my hair dryer and shampoo bottles, and carefully unwrapped the soft package to expose the tiny, sky blue fairy lamp that I had brought back with me from New York. I placed the delicate antique object on my nightstand and touched a match to its slender wick. Then I turned out the room lights and stood back to admire the effect.
Maidenstone Lighthouse Page 3
