A Stranger in Alcott Manor

by Alyssa Richards

  Her line of sight fell on the edge of the torn flyer that stuck out from her purse. She bit her bottom lip, paused as if she could have stopped herself. She remembered deleting the photos from her phone once she moved to Boston. She had to because she used to sneak peeks at them throughout the day and when missing him became unbearable. Back then she compared herself to a drug addict, her fix looking at photos of Beau, re-reading his love letters and thinking of what their life together would have been like. She resisted, trying not to think about the flyer and the tintype she had within her reach.

  His presence from the photo was palpable, as if he stood in the same room with her. She felt his gentle touch moving along her belly, awakening her. “Pey,” she heard his voice, using the same low, sweet tone as he did when he nuzzled her neck and said, “Promise me something...”

  She dug her nails into her palms, fighting temptation that held the strength of an underwater current. When the tidal force finally pulled her under, she snatched her phone. She enlarged the photo she had taken of the tintype and looked closely.

  The image was grainy and she squinted to examine the details. The likeness was undeniable. His hair was styled differently, his attire was different, too. His expression was also dissimilar. When she knew him, his smile was welcoming and gracious enough to sweep you into his world from the first hello.

  In this 1850s tintype his lips were a straight line, his emotions hard to read. But the defined angles of his face were exactly the same and his eyes were pale and striking as she had always known them to be. It was as if the house had absorbed him right into its story.

  She pictured him trapped somehow, stuck in the memories the manor held onto. Living in the dimension she could feel in the manor but not quite see.

  She propped her phone against a small box on the table to keep his image in her view. Then she dug through one container after another until she found several other wedding photos that had to have been taken on that same day. If he were really here, there would be more tintypes of him.

  In one tintype a woman wore the exact dress that Peyton had on, the one she had taken from the mannequin. She held the tintype close to her eyes, searching each face in the gathering to find Beau. When she didn’t find him she opened another box and flipped through the tintypes more quickly. Metal upon metal clacked against one another in fast succession.

  Her frustration intensified with each passing image that wasn’t him, as if he were being hidden from her. She caught sight of her reflection in the long mirror. Her eyes narrow and focused, her jaw set and hardened, she looked obsessed.

  Her diamond engagement ring reflected the overhead light and sparkled. Her heart clenched. She leaned away from the box, sat on her heels.

  The therapist had warned her about living in the past. “Going over and over what didn’t work out is a form of self-punishment,” she said. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda have become your self-flogging tools of choice. Best to eliminate those from your vocabulary before you sabotage your future with Ira. This is a good man who is here with you now and who loves you. Live in the present. Live in today.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to follow that direction, tried to cut the emotional cords that linked her to the past.

  When she opened her eyes again she hoped to find centered peace. But the memories were still there, stronger than echoes, less real than actual people, and tangible all the same. She glanced at the grand stairway, turned to face the opposite direction. She drew in a deep breath to clear her mind and shift her focus, then she faced the gracious room around her.

  Okay.

  Most Alcott weddings had taken place in the ballroom. She could replicate that setting as an exhibit. Maybe she would have a display entitled Alcott weddings. Or A Wedding at Alcott Manor with a sampling of the various wedding photos, guest books and bridal bouquet ribbons.

  Peyton tugged one of the end tables closer to the window to match its placement in the photo. Mrs. Miller returned and together they set up the camera on its stand and waited for Jayne Ella to make her way into the ballroom.

  “Is this the picture we’re recreating?” Mrs. Miller pointed to the tintype that Peyton propped up on the table.

  “No, I—”

  “Do we have that wedding dress on a mannequin somewhere? It would be pretty to shoot that. Oh my. Look at him.”

  Mrs. Miller hovered over the tintype, lifted her glasses such that she was looking through the bottom half of them. “Well, glory be. What do you make of that?” She tapped the image that resembled Beau, then squinted slightly as if she expected to see him move.

  Peyton stared, mesmerized. Unable to move. She twirled her engagement ring around her finger.

  Mrs. Miller quickly straightened, as if she had just remembered something important that she had to tell Peyton. “Do you ever think about my Ruby? Do you remember the night she disappeared? Earlier, when you remembered something, I thought maybe…”

  Breathe.

  She was silent for a long moment, the quiet stretching between them like a rubber band, getting thinner until she knew something would snap. Peyton didn’t want to share just how often she thought about Mrs. Miller’s daughter, and she didn’t want to tell her how Ruby’s abrupt disappearance had haunted her for the last two decades. Not to mention the fact that she thought she had something to do with it.

  The same old argument began in the back of her mind. That Beau might have been right—she might not have been involved. Ruby could have been kidnapped, Peyton might have fallen. It just didn’t feel that way to her. And the blood on her dress flashed brightly as if she had just seen it the night before.

  “I don’t remember anything about that night. I’m sorry.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Miller pursed her lips, searched Peyton’s face like she knew she was lying. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She pretended to work.

  Mrs. Miller turned and fluffed a pillow from the couch. “Did I ever tell you that I was the last person to see Beau alive?”

  Peyton’s head spun. Her stomach tightened. “No, ma’am.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I was still here after the family wedding social, making sure the caterers cleaned up well. Your mother had asked that he shoot the manor’s progress. You know, the house had been in such an awful state and restoration was really starting to take off. At least we thought so back then. Your mother wanted him to take those before and after photos, and he was behind on actually getting them done.”

  Peyton had heard from family members and police about Beau’s last day, but never Mrs. Miller. Not like this. She wondered why the woman had never spoken up.

  “I went with him to watch. He was such a good photographer. I asked him about traveling with the magazine, he told me about working with his father’s bank. I just never saw it as a fit for him to work with his dad. Austin always was terribly self-centered, controlling. Beau had that wild side, his independent streak. He needed that travel. Of course, your mother told me that you never really wanted to travel the world like that. She said you were just following Beau, following his dream.” Mrs. Miller grinned as if she had just told Peyton that she had spinach between her front two teeth. “Young love, I guess.”

  Peyton ground her teeth together. She had been following Beau and his dreams, but she didn’t like hearing it aloud. She would have liked to think that, given some time, she would have found a path to her own dreams.

  “I know I must be touching on painful memories, dear.”

  Peyton considered saying something polite like “that’s okay.” Then she thought that might open a door too wide where Mrs. Miller was concerned. “No, he didn’t want to work in his father’s bank. He would have preferred roaming faraway places, taking pictures with that camera of his. I found my passion. My career is doing well.”

  “I always thought the two of you made such a striking couple. Of course, as pretty and smart as you are, I guess it didn’t take you long to find another.”

  Peyt
on studied her engagement ring. “Ira’s a great guy.”

  “Ira…” Mrs. Miller took Peyton’s hand and held it a little too tight. She eyed the diamond closely. Peyton had the sense that Mrs. Miller was thinking of her own daughter, and what this engagement ring would have looked like on Ruby Lee’s hand, had she not disappeared. Guilt grabbed her gut with a mouthful of teeth.

  “You’re very lucky, you know, to have found someone else. Do you love him?” Her tone lilted with fake sweetness.

  “Yes. Very much.” Peyton tugged her hand from Mrs. Miller’s grip, but she held on.

  “My Ruby would be your age now. Probably married. She would have had a child or two, I suspect. She always wanted a little girl.” Mrs. Miller tilted her head. “You know, the manor could help you remember that night if you would let it. Maybe you would remember something useful. If not something about Ruby, maybe something else about that night. Maybe your mother was with you?”

  “There’s nothing for me to remember,” Peyton said too sharply.

  A groan sounded from deep within the manor’s walls, as if it disagreed with her, as if it responded to the old woman’s command, as if unsettled memories stirred. The house became full with a swirling of stories, Alcott history. Voices that Peyton could almost hear, movement she could almost see. They seemed to reach for her with the same possessiveness she’d felt when she first entered the house, demanding that she know them, begging her to be a part of them.

  A memory flashed in bits and pieces and in full color, as if the manor handed it to her: A much younger Mrs. Miller standing in the middle of the very same ballroom where they stood today. Peyton and Ruby, ten years of age, spinning around with their arms stretched wide.

  Peyton wore the red hoop dress and Ruby Lee wore the gold one. There were party noises outside—chattering, music and laughter.

  “Now don’t tell anyone that I let you do this,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’m going to get all the equipment and we’ll get started. This will be so much fun!” She tweaked Ruby Lee’s cheek and the little girl beamed with a special satisfaction. The kind where she knew her mother would do anything for her.

  Peyton finally pulled her hand from Mrs. Miller’s grip and held it to her stomach. She turned away, studying the partial images that flickered in her mind.

  This was the first time she had remembered anything from the last time she had seen Ruby.

  When Peyton faced her again, she said, “The night that Ruby Lee disappeared. We were here?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Miller said. She drew the word out long and slow, coaxing Peyton. Her eyes narrowed, searching. “What else do you remember from that night, dear?”

  Peyton held her breath.

  “Oh my goodness, look at you in that dress!” Jayne Ella breezed in the room with two plastic grocery bags of supplies. A black cord dangled to the side of one bag. “You’re gorgeous! You look like a spring flower.”

  The spell was broken. The manor released its hold on Peyton and its memories quieted. She exhaled hard.

  “I’m going to sensitize the glass plates for the picture. I’ve set up a make-shift dark room in the pantry.” Mrs. Miller stepped away.

  When she was gone from the room, Jayne Ella held up the curling iron as if she asked a question and Peyton nodded. Her mother plugged it in and organized a selection of brushes and hairpins.

  “What was that about?” her mother asked. “Seems like I walked in on something.”

  A strange energy crackled in the air. Peyton shivered.

  “She was asking me some questions about Ruby,” Peyton said.

  Jayne Ella nodded once, as if Peyton had just told her the temperature or had said that the library was closed on Wednesdays. She didn’t like to talk about Mrs. Miller’s missing daughter.

  “Did you sleep last night? You’ve got the beginnings of some dark circles there,” her mother asked.

  Peyton situated herself in a chair and in front of her mother. “Oh.” She pressed her fingertips beneath her eyes as if she could feel the dark areas. “Not much. I’ve been working a lot. Trying to get everything done before the wedding.”

  Peyton chose not to tell her that she hadn’t slept well for a long time. Not since she knew she would have to spend several days in the manor near Mrs. Miller.

  “So, what do you think of the renovation?” Jayne Ella waved to the rest of the room. “Turned out well, didn’t she?”

  A chill shot down Peyton’s back at referring to the manor in the feminine. It was a female energy that inhabited the house.

  Peyton’s glass fell to the floor and shattered.

  “Oh! Peyton! Be careful!” Jayne Ella took a paper napkin and soaked up the liquid.

  “I—I never touched my glass.” She looked around.

  “The house did it,” Mrs. Miller said when she walked in the room.

  “What?” Jayne Ella looked at Mrs. Miller as if she had lost her mind.

  “Could be Bertha Mae, I guess. Makes sense that she would make herself known now,” Mrs. Miller said. “The manor was hers first. Maybe she’s not happy about this new era, Jayne Ella. Maybe she doesn’t want to give it up.” Mrs. Miller raised one eyebrow at Peyton’s mother.

  Peyton didn’t know if Bertha Mae’s spirit inhabited the manor. But she did wonder if Ruby’s spirit did. Wondered if Ruby wanted to hurt her.

  When her hair was finished and the dress was buttoned, Peyton organized the furniture according to how it was set up in the wedding photo. She tried to focus on the exact position of the side table and the couch. But her attention drifted to Beau in the photo.

  The manor seemed to reach for her. She thought if she leaned against the wall she might just fall into the manor’s own world. She glanced at the photo. Like flipping through a photo album, she saw one of the more memorable times they shared: Beau on one knee at the late night picnic he organized for them. The warm breezes, the cool sand around the plaid blanket, the fragrant scent of magnolias on the breeze.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. She needed to get some fresh air.

  “Are we ready?” Mrs. Miller asked.

  “How many pictures are we planning?” Jayne Ella asked.

  “I think we just do one to start. Make sure it turns out the way we want.” Mrs. Miller stood poised behind the camera and appeared ready to go as if she had a plan she hadn’t disclosed.

  Peyton didn’t like the idea of Mrs. Miller controlling things. But she didn’t let on. “Sounds good. We’ll start with this one. Now, I’m going to sit over there, on the end cushion of the couch. Check it but I think the camera is already pointing in the right direction. Mom, once I’m in position, Mrs. Miller is going to remove this cap and leave it off for five seconds. I won’t be able to talk or move during that time. After she replaces the cap, I’m going to develop the plate.”

  Mrs. Miller put the sensitized plate into the holder.

  Peyton positioned herself on the couch at the front of the living room, just as the other women had in the photo. Her posture was straight, her dress was fluffed, as if she sat at an Alcott Manor gathering in 1860. “Okay…now.” She gave Mrs. Miller the cue.

  She removed the lens cap.

  “We’re doing a dry run on the ceremony set up tomorrow. This wedding is going to be fantastic!” Jayne Ella said.

  Peyton tried not to grimace through her closed-lip smile. Fantastic was the word her mother used when she was most interested in impressing someone. And when she was most insincere.

  “I’m also having the photographer come out so she can take a look at the manor and the great lawn ahead of time. That way we can plan some of her shots.”

  Mrs. Miller finally replaced the cap.

  “Okay,” Peyton said. “I’m going to develop this now, then I have to get to work on that proposal. I’ll see you later tonight?”

  Mrs. Miller handed her the glass plate and nodded. “Good night, dear. We’ll shoot more tomorrow. I left an apron in the darkroom.”

  “Pey
ton, I’ve got to dash to the salon and get some more hairpins for tomorrow. How late are you going to be tonight?” Jayne Ella asked.

  “I’m going to walk the main areas of the house to get some good ideas for the tour plan. Then I’ll get a good draft of the marketing and PR plan in place. I’ll be home after that.”

  “You’ll have the manor’s plan ready by tomorrow when Austin and his henchmen come by?”

  “It will be bullet points but I’ll have the basic framework done. Do you think they’ll give us a week to finalize everything?”

  “Probably, we’ll see. I’ve left a refrigerator full of healthy meals and snacks. There are also some less healthy snacks on the counter. You have a microwave and the coffee maker is on. I’ll see you in a few hours,” her mother said.

  In the small pantry, her makeshift darkroom, Peyton put on a pair of large rubber gloves. She poured the thick chemical solution over the plate and tilted it back and forth until the glass was covered.

  Peyton moved the glass plate to the next tray, confused by some of the darkened images that were emerging. “Thanks, I’ll see you later tonight.”

  The click of Jayne Ella’s high heeled shoes faded. The kitchen door shut, the locks turned and almost immediately Peyton wished she weren’t in the old family manse alone.

  It was probably the fact that she was standing in a dark closet and surrounded by too many fumes. She had plenty of work to keep her company and well distracted. She’d pour herself a huge cup of coffee as soon as she got out.

  Tonight, she would get the proposal done for Sweet Chocolate, as well as the prospectus and a draft of the marketing plan for the manor. All of her ideas were organized in her head, she just needed to document them on paper. It would only take a few hours.

  She would show the bank that the revenue potential was real and imminent. That’s all they needed to see in order to keep the loan in place. She hoped, anyway. If they saw the right ideas on paper and they saw an accomplished professional was in charge, that should be enough to give them confidence that they would get paid back on schedule and with interest. She just hoped Austin Spencer would stay out of the process.