by Calia Read
A messenger bag hangs off the back of one of the chairs, and a dirty plate is still on the table. More papers scattered on the wood surface.
No curtains are flanking the windows, and the blinds are open, making the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen and granite countertops all but blind me.
Ian nudges his head in the direction of the small hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you to your new bedroom.”
The wood floors transition to plush ivory carpet as we walk down the hall. Ian gives me a brief tour, showing me where the laundry room, bathroom, his room, and office are located. “You weren’t here when I moved in, so I thought I should give you the full tour,” he explains with extra meaning as we stand outside the last closed door.
Translation: I moved in while you were losing your fucking mind.
“Ah, well thank you. It’s a nice place.”
“Not really,” Ian replies bluntly. “I can’t decorate for shit. But I don’t care.”
He opens the door to the guest bedroom. There’s not much to it. A queen bed with a navy blue comforter. Dresser against the wall with a TV and Ian’s signature design: no pictures on the wall. Nonetheless, it’s a place to stay. I’d sleep on his living room floor at this point. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Home sweet home,” I say underneath my breath.
Ian snorts and leans against the doorframe. “Mom and Dad give you a timeframe for how long you could stay here?”
Twisting around, I gape at him. “Yeah. Did they tell you that?”
“No. I’m just familiar with their work.” He crosses one ankle over the other. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less how long you stay here. A month, a year. It’s all the same to me.”
His voice is drained of any emotion, but it’s the closest I’ve come to seeing the old Ian. I smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
He looks away, appearing uncomfortable with my words. Quickly, he mutters an excuse about leaving to study at the library. I shut the door behind him.
Turning in a circle, I scan the room one last time before I drop my luggage. It lands with a heavy thud the same time the crown of my head hits the back of the door. I close my eyes and take deep breaths. The fall is brutal, but it’s getting back up that is the worst. I don’t think I can do this again. I don’t know if I’m capable of trying to untangle the confusion that is my life. I don’t have a lot of fight left in me.
Each time I go between the past and present, I discover something valuable about life.
In this journey, I’ve realized time is malleable. Far more than we recognize. However, that doesn’t mean we can bend it to our will, and that’s precisely what I’ve been doing. I’ve been given the opportunity—done the impossible—but I took the chance and ran with it to save the people I loved, and now I’m paying dearly.
If I stayed quiet when I time traveled in 1912, I could’ve stayed with Étienne forever. But he, along with his sister and staff, could’ve potentially died.
I rub my temples because this time around, I didn’t do irrevocable damage. No trigger was pulled. No documents were found. Hell, I never had the opportunity to speak with Asa or Emmeline, for that matter. I was packing for New Orleans when I was yanked back to the present, but my decision to leave Charleston wasn’t a radical choice. It wasn’t life-changing. At least I don’t think it was.
Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps I sat on my ass for so long, waiting for Asa to come to me, that time pulled me back to my own era. Maybe I didn’t do enough. That’s a possibility, but deep down, my gut is telling me that a drastic discovery or decision has been made. After all, that’s what brings me to and from the present and past.
So what happened?
Exhaling loudly, I open my eyes and lift my head. The answer won’t fall onto my lap while I feel sorry for myself. Just like every other time before, I have to find it.
The first step is looking up Langley Hall. There’s a reason I reached out to this Andrea woman in this new life of mine.
I don’t bother unpacking my bags and carry my laptop bag to the bed. As I do that, I text Ian and ask for his Wi-Fi password.
When my phone pings with a new text, I make myself comfortable on the bed and boot up my laptop. When the Google page appears, my first instinct is to search for Étienne’s family, but my gut twists at the thought. I’m afraid at what I’m going to find. Fearful to discover he went ahead and married Scarlett and they had hundreds of babies who carried on the Lacroix name.
It’s what should happen. However, I can’t stomach the thought.
Rather, I focus on the mail I received from Andrea Kepler. I type in Langley Hall and Champaign, Illinois.
About 205,000 results show up in 0.63 seconds. There are videos from local news stations of a beautiful mansion. The headers for some of the videos read Langley Deadline, Inside Langley Hall, Langley Hall, and other estates to be potentially demolished.
I’m tempted to click on the videos but scroll down the page and look at the available links. Quite a few are similar to the videos. All of them center around trying to save Langley Hall and its potential demolition. One link stands out from the rest. In caps, the link reads: SAVE LANGLEY.
Instantly, I click on the attachment and wait for the site to upload. A black and white photo of what I’m assuming is Langley Hall in the mid-1900s, judging from the vehicle parked in the driveway, appears. Snow caps the shrubbery around the home, coats the roof, and clings to the pine trees. My heart races when I see a small image of a little boy in the far-left corner. Is that Henry? It’s hard to say. The picture is blown up, causing the child to appear grainy.
On top of that, three other kids—a little girl and two boys—are kneeling next to him. Their happiness is palpable. I swear their cold breaths fog up my laptop screen, or maybe that’s my imagination.
I hover over the page options:
ABOUT LANGLEY HALL
WHY SAVE LANGLEY HALL?
LETTERS OF SUPPORT
EXTERIOR DETAILS
FABLE OR FACT: THE TRUE STORY OF LANGLEY
The last page immediately captures my attention. But before I click on the page, I head to exterior details.
Thumbnail pictures of the house pop up below the description. I fight the urge to click on the black and white photo and read about this elusive house.
“To fight for history, one has to understand history. Langley Hall’s history began in 1871 when it was built by acclaimed architects, Patrick Kresicher and Charles Pike, for Dr. Herbert and Doris Sherman. At first glance, the design appears Italianate, but on closer inspection, it’s clear to see many styles are blended together. It was the sheer size of the home that drew everyone’s eye to the property. With the carriage house, the square footage totaled 13,000 feet. Each Christmas, Dr. Sherman and his wife would open their doors and host a charity event to benefit the local hospital. In 1927, Langley Hall found itself under the care of new owners. Uriah Langley, the founder of Hambleton’s department store, moved into the spacious mansion with his son, Henry. For the next ninety years, Langley Hall would remarkably stay in possession of one family, until 2017, when plans to demolish the home to expand the local junior high were announced during a school board meeting.
A petition was created for Langley Hall to be considered a historic landmark, and within hours, over six thousand signatures poured in from all over the country. City commissioner and school board members said a referendum was passed, allowing the school district to proceed with demolition of Langley Hall for a ‘progressive and positive learning environment for our youth.’ They also argued Langley Hall was beyond repair with asbestos, burst water pipes, and lead paint that tallied the renovation cost to nearly a million dollars, a claim local historians strenuously deny.
Lines have been divided. People claiming that it’s education over preservation. Why can’t we have both, though? The fight for preserving this mansion continues, but one thing remains clear. Langley Hall is the shining example of how pow
er and money can thrive anywhere. Including an innocuous Midwestern city.”
This tidbit of information explains Andrea’s brief yet terse letter addressed to me. She was part of the fight to stop the house from being torn down. There are still some pieces of information I’m missing.
I scroll down the page and click on the picture of the house when it was first built. The detail is incredible and makes my heart race. I find myself leaning closer to my laptop screen. I love the signature eaves that come with a low hanging roof and the ornamental cornices. Tall, narrow windows are trimmed in white. Is it my imagination or is the Stick style heavily interspersed throughout the trim? Gothic Revival is mixed in with the cupola. I can imagine trekking up the stairs to the third floor and the windows all around you affording a clear view of the oak trees and street below. Gingerbread trim lines the tip of the cupola and the edge of the porch roof. Even though the photo is black and white, it’s clear to see the siding is wood. With one glance at the thumbnail photos from the present day, it’s obvious the house exterior was preserved an ivory shade. A porch wraps around the front of the house.
With so many architectural designs, the house should border on eclectic. The trim and color of the house neutralize everything, making it cozy and inviting. This is where I would want to live or grow up. No wonder people are fighting to keep this home from being demolished.
The next photo is of Langley Hall in the present day. Even so, it’s hard to believe this mansion is beyond repair. The windows aren’t boarded up. The roof is okay. Sure, the paint is chipping in a few places, but I’ve come across other plantations or homes in derelict condition. Again, I’m missing pieces of information.
I move over to the FABLE OR FACT page, anxious to see what waits for me there.
“In 1913, a hardworking, intelligent man named Uriah Langley opened a store called Hambleton’s. What began as one store grew into the large corporation it’s known as today. You’ll be hard pressed to find any woman West of the Mississippi who doesn’t own an item purchased from Hambleton’s, making the department store a staple of America’s heartland.
But how does one person build such an empire? Was it a stroke of luck for Mr. Langley or merely sheer determination and skill? If you choose to believe what you hear, it’s the latter. But if you dig deeper and look closer, you’ll see a third option buried six feet under. You’ll discover the answer could possibly be his wife, Emmeline Hambleton.
Little information can be found on her. Some people believe it’s because she tragically passed away at a young age, while others are convinced it’s not a coincidence. One thing remains certain: the store Hambleton’s was named in honor of her. Was the store a brainchild of hers, or another successful business venture for her first husband, Uriah? We’ll honestly never know. Journals and letters from Ms. Hambleton have never been unearthed. Remarkably, neither have any pictures. Which is nearly impossible, considering she was married to such a successful man.
In all my hours of speaking to local historians, reaching out to historians in Chicago, past employees who worked at Hambleton’s during the 1900s, and even attempting contact with the Langley family (although every relative of Emmeline’s son, Henry, refused to speak with me) I came to one conclusion. There’s no single link tracing back to Emmeline.
It raises the question, was she blotted from history by tragedy or merely by accident? It’s happened to us all. We’re cleaning out the attic or a spare bedroom, determined to clear up some space. Perhaps personal letters and photos became lost in the shuffle or destroyed in the trash.
If you believe in history, then you will consider giving Langley Hall a second glance. If you believe in preserving the truth, then you will consider justice for Emmeline because no one merely dies. They leave behind a surviving trace worth of words, pictures, and dreams.”
Article written by Andrea Kepler, December 2017.
When I finish, I lean away from my laptop. Scanning the rest of the site takes a matter of minutes. Any page that has a lengthy article is written by Andrea. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Andrea Kepler helps run this site. Her passion for Langley Hall speaks volumes. More than that, her skepticism about Emmeline’s abrupt disappearance from history is palpable and identical to mine.
I slam my laptop shut. Whether Ms. Kepler likes it or not, she’s going to see me. She wants to speak to a Langley relative? Here’s her chance.
I should feel relieved to have a plan in motion, yet all I feel is empty. I hate how I left everything with Étienne. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but the guilt is eating at me. Draping my arm across my eyes, I block out the room and imagine all the moments I had with Étienne. I envision us without the fighting and arguing and my stubbornness.
They say you shouldn’t focus on the past, but when your past bleeds into your present, it’s pretty unavoidable.
Every secret whispered, every scream released, every tear shed, every smile spread across a person’s lips cannot be held by a mortal. But homes keep secrets.
Homes hold the master key to it all.
As I look up at Langley Hall, I can’t help but feel a pull. It’s not as strong as the one I have for Belgrave, but it’s there because this beautiful home is a landmark. A part of history. And this history is in jeopardy of being torn down. The irony is Langley Hall isn’t close to the disrepair Belgrave was when I saw it in my time. Yet Étienne’s home was open to the public to bring in revenue while the rest of the plantation was under renovation. The overwhelming devastation of Belgrave didn’t deter anyone. Everyone wanted to see it brought to its former glory.
Langley Hall needed some repairs, there’s no denying that. Blue tarps cover sections of the roof. Scaffolding lines the back of the massive structure, traveling all the way up to the third floor, but it’s not falling apart. Not even close. I’m desperate to see what it looks like inside.
Checking my watch for the hundredth time, I step out of the car and slam the door. I park near the carriage house, away from the front door so anyone in the house won’t see me approaching. But that’s probably unavoidable thanks to the multitude of windows without blinds. At least parked here, my presence is sheltered by a mass of trees and overgrown shrubbery.
Snowflakes begin to fall from the sky and cling to the wet ground. It’s cold enough to make the flakes stick. The scene reminds me of the black and white photo on SaveLangley’s home page.
When I left Ian’s condo this morning, Ian was asleep on the couch with the TV on. The news was on, talking about an impending snowstorm.
Tucking my hands into my pockets and dipping my chin into my coat, I carefully walk toward the front of the house. Flecks of snow stick to my lashes and strands of my hair as I turn the corner. The uneven pathway leading up to the front porch has a gated entryway. Similar to the house, the fence needs a paint job. However, years of being weather-beaten and neglected cannot take away from the whimsy and allure lingering around this mansion. I push the gate open. The hinges creak in protest.
Compared to the opulent design of the home, the front porch is anticlimactic. It tilts slightly to the right. The steps are simple wooden beams that appear more unreliable than the porch itself. I have a white-knuckled grip on the banister as I walk up them, and my heart pounds as the porch groans beneath me. Worry causes me to cast a surreptitious glance around the porch. The extent of the wear and tear in the pictures doesn’t look severe. From a distance, it doesn’t look bad either. However, up close, it’s not the best. It’s what I get for going in with expectations. At least with Belgrave, I was ready to see the devastation.
I search for a doorbell, and when I find it, I wonder if it even works. I press it once and take a deep breath. I’m tempted to peer through the glass panels around the door, but sheer white curtains are up, making that impossible.
I rock back on my heels, turn toward the street, and watch as the snow begins to fall more heavily. If someone answers the door and I do get the chance to speak to s
omeone, I’m willing to bet that by the time I walk out of these doors, a thick layer of snow will be beneath my feet.
I count to ten in my head, forgo the doorbell, and knock on the mahogany door. My inner antique buff tries to ignore the scrapes along the lower portion of the double doors. Both doors are in need of a good cleaning to bring them back to life. And the brass lock, with an intricate design on the doorknob, needs to be taken apart and dumped in a bowl of vinegar and baking soda.
What if no one answers?
I believe answers reside in this home. What I’m not sure of is whether those answers will lead me back to Étienne. Will anything lead me back to him? Goose bumps break out across my skin, making me shiver. When I arrived in Greensburg only to discover my family in a completely different state with a new last name, I questioned why I was there to begin with. The only answer that made sense to me was I needed to see what my actions were causing me to lose. Perhaps, and this was a big perhaps, I went to Étienne’s era one last time, not to revise a great injustice or to save a life, but to see what my actions were causing me to lose in the past and present.
I knock one more time, this time a bit harder. Inside, I can hear movement. I stand a bit straighter and tuck my hands in my pockets.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” a female voice says.
At the last second, I take my hands out of my jacket. Why do I feel like a little girl making the rounds selling Girl Scout cookies?
The deadbolt turns, and the door opens. A woman with gray hair styled in a pixie cut and blue eyes looks at me. “Ma’am, we don’t open for another thirty minutes.”
Her remark makes me want to arch a brow. Didn’t her letter tell me I couldn’t tour Langley Hall due to its “future closing”? That right there shows some built-up animosity toward my family.
