Monarch Manor

by Maureen Leurck

  They heard a creak in the hallway leading up to the kitchen and she widened her eyes. “Get ready. Alfred will be here soon to take you to the station.” She kissed her sister on the cheek quickly before slipping out the door.

  * * *

  As the train left the Williams Bay station, Amelia stared out the window, watching the town she had loved go farther and farther from her view. She held her gaze on the lake for as long as she could, the water sparkling in the brilliant sunlight until it faded like the spark off a match going out in the rain.

  She took several deep breaths, her body still shaking from seeing Georgina Lindemann on the train platform. Thankfully, she had seen her from behind and was able to quickly rush herself and John onto the train car before Georgina turned around.

  When Amelia could no longer see the water, she leaned back in her seat, John draped against her lap while clutching his toy horse, and closed her eyes. At her feet was the trunk of things Alfred had collected—a brown leather case that held her entire past and, she hoped, enough money to buy them a new future. She didn’t know what that future would look like, but she knew that she and John would be together in it, yet so much farther from home than she had ever imagined.

  She thought of how much Matthew wanted them to travel together, to explore new lands and different cities, and she couldn’t imagine leaving her home and family behind. And now, of course, she was the one slipping away into the unknown.

  She drifted off to sleep quickly. The rhythmic sounds of the tracks clicking underneath her and the white noise of the conversations of the passengers seated around her sounded like a lullaby. Even in her sleep, her arm never left John, her palm moving up and down with his breath.

  CHAPTER 36

  ERIN

  “This is it,” Gerry said as he pulled his Prius into the gravel driveway of a small brown cottage just outside of Lake Geneva. He put the car in Park and I studied the house. It was a story and a half, dark brown, with a small front porch. On the front porch lush pots spilled over with mums, and in a corner of the lawn were tall sunflowers, gently waving in the breeze.

  “The Hoppe gardening gene lives on,” I whispered to myself with a smile. Through a heavy line of trees, I could see the faintest glimmer of Lake Como. The sunlight filtered through what was left of the leaves, illuminating the yard in a kaleidoscope pattern. I didn’t doubt that the beloved monarch butterflies always found their way to the yard.

  I followed Gerry up the wooden steps to the front door, the sounds of wind chimes on the eaves tinkling with each breeze off the lake. I wrapped my cardigan sweater around my waist as a chill of anticipation ran through my body. The front door slowly opened, and a tall woman with striking red hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose gave us a wide smile.

  “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you,” she said as she held open the screen door.

  * * *

  The inside of the house smelled like chocolate chip cookies, although I didn’t see any in the kitchen, where Gerry and I sat around a small butcher-block island, cups of steaming coffee in front of us, as Susan and Greg Regan pulled black-and-white pictures out of a crumbling cardboard box marked Photos.

  “And this one here, this is a photo of my mother and father at their wedding,” Greg said as he carefully placed the photo on the table. I leaned over and smiled at the photo. The groom wore an early-1970s-style leisure suit and the bride a white dress that resembled a nightgown.

  “So, just to be clear, this is Kathy and Mike, correct?” Gerry said as he looked down at the picture. Greg nodded. “And Mike’s father—your grandfather—was . . .”

  “Brendan Regan,” Greg finished.

  Gerry and I exchanged a small smile. I leaned in closer and studied the groom’s face, John’s son. Even though he smiled, I recognized the downturned lips, and although his face was leaner than the pictures I had seen of John, I could make out the familiar roundness that dominated the family genes.

  “Or, from what you’ve told me, John . . .” Greg trailed off.

  “John Cartwright,” I said quietly.

  “It’s just such an unbelievable story. I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it,” Greg said as he shook his head. He glanced at Susan, who smiled.

  “I think it’s just the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard. Who would have guessed that there was so much intrigue, and so much love, and so much sacrifice in their past?” she said with a smile. She leaned forward and looked at me. “How incredible that you discovered all of this.”

  I looked down at the back of the electric bill that Gerry had used to map out the family tree, using the Regans to fill in the blanks. From what we knew, at some point Bridget and Brendan had returned to the United States. Brendan—John—mar-ried and had twins, Michael and Maelissa. Michael eventually had two children of his own: Greg and a daughter named Amelia. Amelia, my heart whispered when I heard the name. I wondered if he knew about Amelia or if the name was somehow in his subconscious, woven into the invisible strands of DNA.

  “I’m not sure who this is in the picture with Brendan, but they appear to be great friends,” Greg said as he slid a photo toward us.

  I looked at the face of the woman who had her arm around John’s shoulders, and recognized the sparkle in her eye and the upturned nose. “That’s my great-grandmother Emily.” I smiled at Greg. “Well, I guess it’s good to finally meet my distant cousins.”

  “I repeat: ‘This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever heard,’ ” Susan said with a sigh. She stood up and pulled the coffeepot out from the machine. “More? We have a lot to cover, it seems like.” She held the pot in the air, ready to pour. “Greg, did you grab that chest from your mom’s house? The one from the attic?”

  Greg shook his head and stood, the legs of his kitchen stool scraping against the linoleum floor. “I forgot. Let me go dig it out.”

  I accepted another cup of coffee and looked around the kitchen as I brought it to my nose. The house was adorable, with wood paneling in every room, and walking distance to Lake Como. I could smell the crisp lake air through the open windows. I thought of the distance to Monarch Manor, and I realized that Lake Como was the closest lake to the estate, other than Lake Geneva. I wondered if Amelia chose to live here so she could be as near as possible to her childhood home. To be as close as she ever could to the girl she once was. To the Before.

  “Found it!” Greg said as he walked into the kitchen, the linoleum squeaking under his feet. He placed a small leather-bound chest on the kitchen island, on top of the hastily drawn family tree. “This is one of those things we kind of moved around from house to house, without anyone really claiming it or taking special notice of it. But my father always told me it was a family heirloom, and that my great-grandmother had brought it over from Ireland with her.”

  Susan chuckled and placed her hands on the island, clasping them together. “Greg’s dad treated nearly everything as an heirloom, though. Ahem, Lake Delavan Fishing Derby trophy from 1987.”

  Greg nodded. “Sure did. If we revered everything he did, we would be out of a home.”

  I laughed. “Well, in addition to physical characteristics, it certainly sounds like the family tradition of never throwing anything away remained in the DNA,” I said as I thought of my grandmother’s Powers Lake house.

  “And for that, we preservationists thank you,” Gerry said.

  “May I?” I said as I gestured toward the chest. I ran a finger along the top of it, carefully avoiding the cracked places on the chest. It was old, probably more than a hundred years old, and so I carefully lifted the rusted metal latch and slowly opened it with a squeak. It released a cloud of dust from inside, as though it sighed in relief at finally breathing fresh air.

  Inside were only two items. The first was a small wooden toy rocking horse. The paint was worn around the edges, where it looked like tiny hands had loved it and gripped it close. I carefully placed it on the kitchen island, watching it rock back and
forth for a moment before I turned back to the chest.

  The second item was a book. I lifted it, running a finger along the familiar title.

  The Velveteen Rabbit. The pages were worn and yellowed with age, and the binding crackled as I opened to the first page and read the first few familiar lines. Tears began to prick at the corners of my eyes, and my nose tingled as I looked from the book to the toy horse.

  “This was John’s horse, and his book,” I said with a whisper. I ran a finger along the horse, watching it rock back and forth on the island. “Welcome home,” I said.

  * * *

  Long after I said good-bye to the Regans and Gerry headed back to his house, and to his life, I sat on the public beach in Williams Bay. The beach had long closed at the end of the summer season, so I was alone. The wind whipped across the lake and through my cardigan. I hugged my knees to my chest and stared out at the water, and at the empty space where Monarch Manor once stood.

  Amelia had given everything up for John: her family, her childhood, her home. Even her name. The power of love changed everything.

  I let a handful of coarse sand run through my fingers, the cold, damp grains chilling my fingers. I realized it was often how I felt about being a mother. Grasping at things, never quite reaching them. Sand between my fingers, the days escaping my palm. I set my hand back down into the sand and looked back out at the water.

  My children had transformed me, too. Not just in the obvious physical and mental changes that parenthood brings, but something deeper. Something more powerful. The things I was most proud of: my dedication to Will and Charlotte, my willingness to keep going, my tenacity . . . those were things I had gathered on our sometimes-challenging path, like a twisted scavenger hunt. And it was a journey that led me to become an even better version of myself. A better mother. A better person.

  Like the butterflies of Monarch Manor, and the Velveteen Rabbit, I had transformed.

  Into something Real.

  CHAPTER 37

  AMELIA

  “Is this really good-bye?” Eleanor said as she pulled Amelia tightly to her.

  “For now. Just for now,” Amelia said.

  They stood in the entryway of Eleanor’s apartment in New York City, Amelia’s trunks scattered around them. John sat on the smallest one, the leather-bound one that held his books and his toys.

  Amelia breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of her sister’s lilac perfume, and tried not to think of when she might smell it again. She hadn’t slept much the night before and had lain awake next to a sleeping John as she tried to calm her fears about leaving everything she knew behind. There was no other choice; that much she knew. Yet the thought of traveling to a country she’d seen only once before kept her awake as the moon rose high in the sky and then fell back down below the horizon. When she heard the birds outside begin to chirp, it was time to rise and prepare for the long journey ahead.

  “And you have all of the papers I gave you, yes?” Eleanor said as she clasped her hands in front of her stomach and pressed them inward.

  Amelia nodded. “Of course.” Eleanor had arranged for Amelia and John to travel to Ireland via a steamship. It would take them weeks to arrive there, and Eleanor had secretly sold some of her jewelry to pay for the best accommodations available for them. Once Amelia was there, her mother’s relatives from Adare would meet them at the dock and help them settle into their new lives. Far away from home. But together, forever.

  It had been one week since the wedding, a week since the boat accident. Mary, of course, knew of the plan, but their father did not. Mary thought it was best for Amelia and John to land in Ireland before she told him, because he would have tried to stop her. And it was best to let the Cartwrights believe the story they had concocted.

  Jane didn’t know the truth, either, but Eleanor also promised she would tell her when the time was right. She had vacillated between happiness at her new marriage and dramatic displays of grief for her sister, another performance that helped the Cartwrights believe that Amelia had drowned.

  Eleanor bent down and brushed John’s hair from his eyes. She cupped a hand under his chin and let the tears spill down her cheeks before she pulled him close. “Sweet angel,” she whispered to herself, and she swayed back and forth in the embrace. When they parted, she looked in his eyes and smiled, tweaking his nose.

  He laughed and signed, “More.”

  Eleanor was about to do it again when there was a knock on the door. She turned her head in surprise and looked at the grandfather clock against the wall. “He’s early,” she said as she slowly stood.

  “Who?” Amelia said. She took a step toward John in alarm, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Eleanor gave her a small smile and then walked toward the large wood and glass front door and opened it herself, her staff still on vacation. And there, on the front step of the apartment, was Matthew.

  The early-morning light behind him illuminated his figure, making him look like he emerged from a sunbeam. He stepped inside, and took off his hat, and held it nervously in front of him. He didn’t say anything as he looked from Amelia to Eleanor to John.

  Amelia’s head felt light, and she blinked twice, expecting Matthew’s figure to fade away and go back to the past where she had said good-bye. But he stood there, flesh and blood. She took a step toward him and lifted her palms.

  “How?” she said.

  “I told him,” Eleanor said from behind her. “After the accident, he commissioned his own boat to search for you, all night long. He said he would never give up looking for you.”

  Amelia didn’t turn around and took another step toward Matthew. He looked at her, the fear and uncertainty in his eyes reflecting back to her, and she realized he was worried she would reject him. Again.

  “I’m sorry, Em,” Matthew said. He put his hands to his sides. “I just had to see you. I couldn’t imagine you traveling so far away without saying good-bye.”

  Her hands shaking, she took two more steps until she was right in front of him. She could see her dress vibrating against her chest, her heart ready to explode. She put one hand on his chest, and he slowly covered it with his. He took his other hand and placed it on the small of her back, and drew her near. She closed her eyes and rested against his chest, the first moment of true respite that she had in months.

  “He said he would travel anywhere to see you,” Eleanor said.

  Amelia opened her eyes and smiled, and pulled away from Matthew. “You always did say you wanted to explore the world.”

  Matthew looked down, still holding her hand. His thumb brushed against the top of her hand. “I still would. Go anywhere, I mean. With you.” He looked over her shoulder. “And with John.”

  She shook her head. “I would never let you. You have choices, a life to live; we don’t anymore.” She turned and walked over to John and put an arm around his shoulders.

  “I’ve made my choice,” he said. Eleanor walked over and handed him a piece of paper. Amelia recognized it as a steamer ticket. He held it in the air. “If you’ll have me.”

  She let her hand drop from John’s shoulder and again crossed the foyer over to Matthew. For a moment, she paused. She was prepared to go overseas on her own with John, and it had never crossed her mind that anyone would come with them. It had always been that way: She and John. A team. A unit.

  She walked over, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed Matthew, and her entire body woke up as though out of a coma. She wanted more than anything to take him with her, to sail across the ocean and start a life together. But she had done the unthinkable and walked away from her life, and she knew that she would forever feel the pain of that choice and question it every day. She couldn’t let him suffer in the same way, not when he still had a chance to do everything he wanted in life.

  So she said, “Good-bye, Matthew.”

  CHAPTER 38

  ERIN

  “Another year gone. The time flies so fast, doesn’t it?” my mother asked as she
leaned back in her chair. On my dining room table in front of us were the remnants of the twins’ birthday cake, the 6 still barely showing on top. My mother had brought it to my house, strapped to the back of her motorcycle, from a bakery in East Troy. A princess cake, she called it. A Danish dessert of green marzipan, custard, raspberry, and chocolate chips. My father followed behind in their car, just in case the snow got heavy and they would need to ferry the dessert away to safety in the backseat.

  I ran a finger through the whipped cream border on the plate, the tiny amount left after Will and Charlotte slashed their fingers across it before we even had a chance to sing “Happy Birthday.” “Strange, I guess. Every day is so long, but I don’t know how they all add up so quickly. How on earth are they six?”

  I craned my neck around the corner of the dining room for a view of the family room, where Luke and my dad sat sleepily staring at the television, with Charlotte and Will bookending them. Charlotte had a new doll on her lap, a present from my parents, and Will held fiercely on to his new Thomas the Train figure. In the big picture window behind the couch, snow lightly fell, adding another couple of inches to the already-tall snowpack on the ground. We had a blizzard two weeks earlier, just after Christmas, and each day Mother Nature had decided to add a few more sprinkles from her snow shaker.

  “Oh, kiddo, when you get to be my age, you stop wondering where the time went and start worrying about how you’re going to spend what’s left of it.” My mother ran a hand through her gray hair.

  “Speaking of the passage of time, Gerry said the preview party will likely be next month,” I said as I tapped the worn wooden table.

  “Perfect. Send me the date when you have it. That’s going to be the neatest thing, to see all of that in one place,” she said.

  After we had unraveled the mystery of what happened to Amelia and John, I donated everything to the Geneva Lake Museum, so that Gerry could make a special exhibit on them. Well, I donated almost everything. I kept the antique copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, as a reminder that it is the messiest, worn things in life that are truly special.