Spring House

by Taylor, Mary Ellen

  The jacket warmed her skin and chased away the chill. She slid her arms into the sleeves, clutched the front folds, and nestled closer to Oscar.

  Diane slipped into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of her mother and her sister Claire standing on the Virginia shore. She was on a boat that had been caught in a riptide, and she was being carried out farther to sea.

  “Mama, Claire! Save me!” she shouted.

  They both looked at her with their hands outstretched toward her. She called back to them and tried to grab hold, but they remained out of reach. They were all helpless, unable to reconnect.

  Suddenly a dog licked her face, nudging her fully awake. When she opened her eyes, she realized Oscar sat beside her, his ears perked. She scratched him between the ears as the late-day sun hung low on the horizon.

  Gilbert was standing before her with a small bit of cheese and bread. He handed half to her and half to the dog before turning back toward the wheel empty handed.

  Oscar gobbled up his food, and though she had not intended to devour her portion, Diane was starving and consumed the entire bit in a few bites. The boat engine chugged, and the bow turned west.

  “How much farther?” Diane asked.

  “A few hours.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “My home.”

  “Madame LeBlanc said you live in a castle.”

  His expression soured as if he now regretted her presence all the more. “How would she know? She has never been there.”

  “She said her husband was there many times and he spoke of it often,” Diane said.

  “My uncle was only at the estate once. He spent most of his time in Paris.”

  “And they fell in love, and he married her. Madame LeBlanc told this story many times.”

  “Madame LeBlanc was his third wife. I doubt love had anything to do with it. And my uncle is not related to me by blood but was married to my father’s sister.”

  They did not speak after that comment. The boat engine rumbled as the sun dipped below the western horizon. Without the sun’s warmth, an evening chill settled in and had her retreating back into her seat. He worked his way through the bay, which narrowed into a river that took them inland.

  The sun had vanished, leaving only the light of the full moon to help him steer down the river for several hours. Finally, he slowed the engines and slid alongside a small dock. He tied the boat off. Gilbert got up, stretched, and lifted the dog onto the dock. He climbed out of the boat and then extended a hand to Diane. She took it, climbing out while looking about.

  “Is this where you live?” she asked.

  “No. Inland. A carriage ride away.” He retrieved her bag from the boat.

  She followed him down the dock and along a darkened, narrow path along the river. Several times she had to hurry her pace to match his long strides, and as tempted as she was to complain, she did not dare for fear he would leave her alone along the side of the river.

  Soon, she spotted the spire of a church, and when they rounded the bend, she realized they had reached a small town. Gilbert kept walking past shops that were only just opening and toward what appeared to be stables.

  He paused at large wooden doors. “Stay here.”

  “Where are you going?” Panic cut through her as she realized he might very well be leaving her.

  “I’ll return.”

  “Are you coming back for me?”

  His brow wrinkled. “Yes, of course.”

  She did not trust him, but she had no choice but to hope he would help her.

  And then, as if sensing her worry, he added, “Oscar will stay with you.”

  She nestled closer to the dog as Gilbert vanished into the barn and minutes later appeared with a horse and carriage. He lifted the dog into the front seat and then helped her climb up beside the animal before taking his seat along with the reins.

  He maneuvered the carriage out of town, nodding to some of the residents, who watched him and her with blatant curiosity. She huddled closer to Oscar and focused on the gentle back-and-forth motion of the carriage.

  The road took them past moonlit, freshly harvested fields and then finally toward twin carved pillars. He drove the cart down the driveway lined with tall trees surrounded by fallen apples.

  “Mimi said you grew apples,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “I press them into juice and distill it.”

  Diane straightened stiff shoulders as a large brick-and-stone house ringed by a strip of water and a limestone wall came into view. The house was three stories high with over a dozen tall windows. Broad chimneys that stretched up to a high-pitched roof covered in slate tiles stood on both ends of the house. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys.

  “Is that your house?” Diane said.

  “Yes.” He sat taller.

  “Is this what a castle looks like?” Diane wondered.

  He arched a brow. “No.”

  “It looks like a castle to me.” In truth, she had never seen a place so lovely.

  Gilbert extended a gloved hand to her, and she took it, wondering how it was possible to be so tired. He helped her to the ground and nodded toward a front door fashioned from wide planks and darkened iron.

  “Are you sure it’s not a castle?” Diane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Castles are too large and drafty.”

  Gilbert pounded on the door as the dog ran off into the woods barking. Another light flickered inside, and the knob twisted and then slowly opened to a small woman. She had gray hair braided into a thin plait, a pale face etched with deep lines, and gnarled hands that held a candle up. Images of Old Mother Hubbard from Diane’s mother’s nursery book came to mind.

  “Gilbert, I was becoming concerned.” The old woman’s gaze never left Diane. “Who is this?”

  “This is a girl,” he said. “Girl, this is Madame Herbert.”

  The old woman’s expression soured. “I can see this is a girl. Does she have a name? Is this the child Madame LeBlanc wrote about?”

  “I suppose she is.”

  The woman pulled Diane inside and closer to the warm fire. Madame Herbert inspected her with a critical eye that grew more concerned when she saw the thin fabric of her coat and the soiled edges of her white dress. “She does look a little like your aunt. Those eyes could be hers. Oh my, I never believed it, but perhaps that terrible woman was right, and this girl is your cousin.”

  “She’s not,” Gilbert insisted.

  “How old are you?” the woman asked.

  “Twelve.”

  “Not ten?” Madame Herbert asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of my age,” Diane said softly.

  “You’re so small,” the old woman said.

  “I think Madame LeBlanc did not feed her,” Gilbert said. “When I gave her bread, she ate it as if she were half-starved.”

  The old woman tugged Diane into the kitchen. In the center of the room was a long wooden table, nicked and scarred by what must have been years’ worth of meals. The scent of rising dough, cinnamon, and apples enveloped Diane as her stomach grumbled. There was a black metal oven with a teakettle on top, and several skinned chickens hung from a rafter over a worn slate floor.

  The woman placed her at a table in front of a large brick hearth with its fire glowing inside. She uncovered a loaf of bread wrapped in a red-and-white-checkered cloth. Using a large knife with a carved wooden handle, she sliced the bread in a quick sawing motion. She set it on a blue-and-white porcelain plate along with a thick piece of cheese in front of Diane.

  “You saw Max?” she asked Gilbert.

  “Yes.”

  Motioning her to eat, the old woman said, “How is dear Max?”

  “He’s well.” Gilbert walked toward the iron stove and reached for the kettle.

  The old woman nudged him away. She made him a hot cup of tea and then handed it to hi
m in a worn earthenware mug. “And where is that hateful Madame LeBlanc?”

  “Dead,” Gilbert said. “One of her own murdered her.”

  The old woman snorted as if she did not care, and then on second thought crossed herself. “How?”

  He sipped his tea. “Strangled.”

  Hearing the word spoken so casually sent a dart of sadness through Diane.

  “Girl, who was that man?” Gilbert asked.

  “Pierre Laurent. He has been with Madame LeBlanc since I arrived three years ago.”

  Gilbert reached for Diane’s wrist and pushed up the sleeve to reveal rings of bruises. The old woman gasped and cursed under her breath.

  “Evil,” she muttered.

  Gilbert released Diane’s wrist and closed his eyes as if the travel was finally catching up to him. “Do you know anything about Pierre?”

  Diane swallowed a bite of bread. “He helped Mimi, Madame LeBlanc.”

  “Doing what?” Gilbert asked.

  “Everything,” Diane said. “He was always there when Madame LeBlanc helped her visitors speak to their dead relatives.”

  “The dead?” The old woman crossed herself again. “Evil woman. No shame.”

  Gilbert walked to the hearth and stretched out his hands. “I couldn’t leave the girl in Le Havre.”

  “No, the city would have eaten her whole. It’s good you brought her here.” The old woman beckoned Diane forward. “Once she has eaten her fill, I’ll put her to bed. We can figure out the rest in the morning.”

  “Can you send me up a cold plate?” Gilbert asked. “I’ve not slept in days.”

  The old woman helped him shrug off his coat. “Yes, of course. Get yourself into bed. I’ll send up a warming pan to ease the chill in your sheets.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he turned to leave, Diane grabbed hold of his hand. “Are you going to leave?”

  “For now, I’m going to sleep.” And then softening his tone, he said, “I live here. This is my home. You will stay here for the time being until we can find your papa.”

  “My papa doesn’t want me back,” Diane said. “I’ve written him many times asking and he never writes back.”

  “Is there other family?” Gilbert’s frown deepened.

  “A sister. She lives in New York now, I think.”

  “Then we’ll figure it out after I’ve had sleep.” He gently pried her fingers from his hand and managed what passed as a smile. “Madame Herbert is kind. She’ll take care of you.”

  As tempted as Diane was to follow Gilbert, she stood her ground. She might not know the man, but he at least had kept her safe and had fed her.

  Madame Herbert lit several lanterns around the room.

  “You must be hungry.” The woman poured a small glass of cider before motioning again for Diane to sit at the table. “Didn’t that woman feed you?”

  “Mimi gave me bread and wine once a day.”

  The old woman poured hot water into a cup and dropped in some tea wrapped in cheesecloth. “Why did you call her Mimi?”

  “Because she said it sounded like a nickname a child would have for a mother, and she said she was going to be a mother to me.”

  “Was she?” She sat at the table, her eyes alight with curiosity.

  “Not always,” she stammered.

  Madame Herbert humphed. “When it suited her, no doubt.”

  Diane bit into the bread, which was as soft and warm as the bread her mother used to bake. “Did you ever meet Madame LeBlanc?”

  “No. After Gilbert’s aunt married Mr. LeBlanc a dozen years ago, they left for Paris. Two years would pass before he wrote and told us she had given birth to a girl and that his wife had died.” Madame Herbert arranged her lace collar over her full bosom. “He wrote nine years ago and said he’d married Madame Louise Girard, your Mimi, and announced he was moving to America. We heard nothing for years, and then Madame LeBlanc began to write about the girl child.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” She sniffed. “Hateful woman.” Madame Herbert sat across from her, eyeing her closely. “That woman has no shame. She’d have been in for a real surprise when she realized the pot of gold was an apple farm. Your Mimi no doubt ran through her husband’s money and needed more. She eats everything in her path.”

  Diane tore off a piece of bread and put a big slice of cheese on it. “Oh, she never ate.”

  “Child, I mean she uses people.”

  Diane knew this to be true. “What is this place? And why wouldn’t Mimi like it? It’s beautiful.”

  The old woman looked pleased by the question. “It’s an apple orchard. We also make Calvados.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stay more than a day, and you will learn.” The old woman regarded her. “When I look at you, I think of my sweet little Émilie. She was Gilbert’s aunt, and I knew her since she was a little girl. Very striking violet eyes like yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You speak French well.”

  “Mimi taught me. She said she wanted to show me the world.”

  “Humph.” She sliced another piece of cheese for Diane. “You have no family other than the sister you mentioned?”

  “I have brothers and sisters, but they’re all scattered.” She took another sip of cider, wanting nothing more right now than to close her eyes and get some sleep.

  The old woman shook her head. “It’s the way sometimes. I’ll speak to Gilbert. He’ll find someone who will take you back.”

  April 8, 1939

  From the Journal of Samuel Jessup

  I found Mrs. Garrison alone today. She was sitting on the deck in a chair with her feet propped up. Dressed in her furs and covered with a blanket, she had her eyes closed, and her face was tipped toward the sun. I was nervous about speaking to her, but Miss Claire had been clear that I give her the letter.

  I walked up to stand beside her, and when she didn’t open her eyes, I cleared my throat.

  She started awake and looked up at me. For a moment she appeared confused and called me Jimmy.

  “No, Mrs. Garrison. I’m Samuel.” My throat felt dry. Though I never had a case of nerves in my life, that moment felt like I was staring into the eye of a hurricane.

  Mrs. Garrison sat up quickly and then stood. She regarded me for a long moment and then said, “Yes, of course, Samuel. What can I do for you?”

  I’d almost forgotten about the letter, now crushed in the grip of my fingers. I thrust the letter toward her. “From Mrs. Claire Buchanan.”

  Mrs. Garrison’s face paled, and she hesitated before finally, raising her chin, she took it. “Thank you, young man.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Megan

  Tuesday, March 6, 2018

  Cape Hudson, Virginia

  4:30 p.m.

  Natasha’s wide, excited smile crumpled when she saw the so-called treasure, which amounted to a leather-bound journal and a stack of letters. “Oh, man. That’s just letters.”

  Excitement exploded in Megan at the prospect of reading the pages. “Not just a book or just letters, I think. Otherwise, why hide them?”

  “Where’s the gold?” Natasha leaned past Megan and peered into the tiny alcove, searching for anything that glittered. “Where are the diamonds?”

  Megan’s heart skipped a beat as she held the heavy stack of envelopes yellowed around the edges. They were bound together by a length of thin rope, carefully fastened into a seaman’s knot. The first letter on top of the stack read Miss Claire Hedrick and was postmarked Baltimore, Maryland, 1902. As she riffled through the stack, she realized they were all addressed to Claire.

  Rick reached behind the letters and pulled out another box. “Maybe your treasure is in here.”

  “What do you think is inside?” Natasha asked.

  “Let’s open it,” he said.

  “It’s locked,” Natasha said, frowning at the small padlock.

  Megan’s energy soared as she stared at the box. As mu
ch as she had tried to piece together the history of the Buchanan and Jessup families, there had been so many missing pieces. These were two families who guarded their secrets.

  Rick wedged his pocketknife under the lock. It took a firm twist, but the lock popped open.

  He hesitated before opening the box. “Are you sure you want to see what’s inside?”

  Natasha tried to look indifferent, but there was no missing the excitement in her eyes that frankly mirrored exactly what Megan felt.

  “Yes!” Megan said. “Open it.”

  Rick glanced up at her, clearly enjoying himself. He pried open the lid and held up the box so that Megan could see. Folded up inside were what looked like identity papers. Megan reached for cloth gloves in her pocket and slid them on.

  She laid the two sets of papers out on the desk. They were written in German. One was a set of papers for a young woman by the name of Elise Mandel. Her black-and-white picture featured a young woman with soft, blonde curls arranged about an oval-shaped face. Her skin was flawless, and she had striking, dark eyes and high cheekbones. Elise Mandel had been born in Le Havre in 1909.

  The other set of papers was for Alexander Fontaine Mandel, born in 1938 in Edenkoben, Germany. He was a towhead with chubby cheeks.

  “What are these doing here?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Megan said. “But clearly they were important to Samuel, because he hid them with great care.”

  “Why hide them?” Natasha asked. “Why not just burn them or throw them out?”

  “Because he recognized their importance,” Rick said.

  “I can get on my computer tonight,” Megan said. “If these papers are official, then we might have a chance of finding out more about them.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be correct?” Lucy asked.

  Megan turned the pages until she found the final travel stamp with Denied over top of it. Beside it was the boldly written letter J.

  “Why does it say denied?” Natasha asked.

  “Edenkoben, Germany, is not far from the border of France and Germany. Before the war, people traveled back and forth between countries regularly. But by 1939 the Germans had severely tightened their hold on the Jews. See this J?”