by L C Kincaide
She slowed and rolled to a stop in front of the stately Georgian manor house. Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Emma stepped out of the car and faced the deserted structure. To the untrained eye, it looked no more than a timeworn, abandoned building. To an Everdon, this was living history, much of it unpleasant.
Emma shivered in the cool, brisk air. A breeze ruffled her hair and sent withered leaves skittering up the gravelled drive toward the low wooden structure that was the garage. Glancing up, three rows of windows reflected the sky, giving up no secrets of what lay beyond them. All in all, the place didn’t look too bad, considering nobody gave a damn about it. The stonework in the pleasing pink granite was, for the most part, intact as were the window panes. A ponderous length of chain looped around the doorhandles suggesting to unsolicited visitors that venturing past the door was not recommended. But, she was here and there was no going back.
A year ago, she was spying through the dining room window with Ivy, pointing out the various Langstones and Ruskins as they pulled up in their expensive cars and Edwardian finery, who were all at a fair, if not altogether safe distance from here and wearing normal clothes. How excited Ivy had been to officially begin the Weekend. Neither had a clue about what was coming, especially Ivy, who arrived with a naïveté and high expectations. How could she have suspected the truth of what was taking place never having experienced Everdon ghosts, or any ghosts for that matter? But she had, and she never mentioned a thing. Why should she when she believed it was all real? Even for her, having been raised in the shadow of the family history, what had befallen her friend came as a shock.
A breeze rustled the dried grasses and brambles. Okay. No more putting it off! She stepped around and popped the trunk packed with everything she may need for a weekend getaway in a deserted mansion with no heat nor electricity.
Fun times ahead!
She pulled out her sleeping bag and one at a time lugged her belongings to the door with the unnerving sense of being watched. She dismissed the notion. Maybe if she thought of her stay as an adventure, it wouldn’t be too bad. Yes, camping with the pissed off Spirit of her friend! Bring out the S’mores!
She surveyed her pile and faced the door, reluctant to unlock it, imagining a hostile greeting from an enraged apparition screaming, “release me!” in her face. It had always been difficult for her to admit to being scared, and now, she was terrified, her hand holding the key actually trembling. The padlock in her other hand, she inserted the key into the keyhole, hoping for a moment it was too rusty and would stick, but it turned easily, and the chain unspooled from the handles and dropped to the stone steps with a clatter. She reached for the handle and turned it. With barely a push, the door opened, and the manor exhaled a stale breath.
Emma craned her neck and peered inside. Somewhere in there, the Spirit of her friend awaited liberation. How she was going to do that, she had no idea. Maybe she should have brought Rachel, who seemed more knowledgeable about such things. And here she was, dawdling on the doorstep, loath to go in.
Damn! She grabbed her sleeping bag, took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.
Matthew said the place looked as if no one had been there in years when he opened the doors for the police and their dog, yet the veined marble floor was reasonably clean in the bright light streaming through the skylight. She stepped further in and dropped the bag, the soft thud of it hitting the floor louder than it should have been. Nothing stirred around her, no beams creaked, nor did a draft wheeze in any chimney. Taking it as a good sign, and before she stalled for time again, Emma brought the rest of her clothes and supplies in. Now all she had to do was decide where she was going to spend the next two nights.
Her gaze roved across the vast central hall, up the sweep of the grand staircase and along the shadowed open gallery. To the left was her bedroom, probably as she had left it, a mess. They had been in a hurry to leave.
Had she thought this through? No. Her life had never been about thinking things through, more like flying by the seat of her pants. Just as well considering how it turned out. No amount of planning could have avoided this situation, nor what had been happening here for as long as she could remember.
Her mother’s obsession with past events and her obligations to the Trust had played a central role in her life, and throughout that time, she had never missed an opportunity to remind Emma that as the last Everdon, she was next in line for the duty. Funny, she never gave much thought to why it wasn’t her brother’s responsibility instead, he being the older sibling. At least that was clear to her now.
One day this will all be yours, she thought grimly.
Standing among her belongings in her ancestral home, she thought that she should say something, though, honey, I’m home, wasn’t quite right. It further occurred to her she ought to take a more serious approach to her quest, but if she stopped cracking silly jokes and started to think clearly, she may be sick all over the floor from nerves.
“Hello!” The greeting echoed hollowly. “Is anybody home?”
The door slammed shut behind her. Emma yelped and pressed a hand to her hammering heart.
“What the hell…” she muttered to herself. Better to calm down, especially if things were about to get more interesting. Anyone here already knew she had arrived though odds were good she would not find a fruit basket waiting for her in her room.
Still undecided, Emma crossed the hall to give the manor a cursory look. Pushing open the double door to the parlor where they had spent the rest of party night cowering in the firelight, she found it no different from the way it had always looked, dark, wainscoted with deep red drapes, though now it had a desolate air. She walked to the drinks cabinet and was surprised to find a number of bottles and partially filled decanters, all covered with a fine layer of dust. The fireplace was clean of ashes and firewood stacked beside it. With a fire going, this room may be a good option for camping in, and it was close to the main door, just in case she needed to make a quick getaway. Provided the house let her.
Returning to the central hall, she paused under the skylight and squinted against the brightness of the blue sky, finding it eerie. On either side, a set of four granite pillars soared upward, standing guard and separating the vast space from the darkened hallways that stretched toward the back of the house into the north wings.
How was she going to find being here after dark on her own? If she wanted to scout around, she’d better get a move on because the night promised to be a long one huddled by the fire with the door firmly shut.
She hastened through the sunny patch on the carpet — she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever was going to happen, it would be here — and climbed the many steps with trepidation. Once on the landing, she turned left and hurried to her bedroom, a haven of sorts.
A shaft of sunlight beamed through the gap of her partially drawn drapes revealing it neatly made up. She had no recollection of making her bed, but then, her memories of that day were not exactly reliable. Still, it was good to see something familiar and comforting.
Returning to the open gallery, Emma continued to the other end. At the staircase, she glanced down. Her pile was where she had left it, just at the edge of the bright rectangle beneath the skylight. The short corridor connecting this gallery to the portrait gallery lay just ahead to her left, and the thought of nearing it unnerved her, even as she felt herself drawn to it. Squaring her shoulders, Emma hurried past it and didn’t slow down until she was at Ivy’s door. For an absurd moment, she considered knocking on it and almost laughed out loud. Did she really expect to find Ivy sitting on the bed waiting for her to have a little chat? Were it that simple, she sighed and eased the door open.
It was a nice room in pastels and delicate florals, very spring-like in décor. Ivy had liked it. The dressing table still had some of her things laid out — a silver brush and mirror set. Emma picked up t
he brush and peered closer at the engraved monogram — AE. She furrowed her brow. Who was AE? Amelia Everdon? Why were her belongings in this room? She set it down and crossed to the armoire dreading what she may find inside — Ivy’s tote, her clothes? If the cops had come up here and found those things, all hell would have broken loose, but when she opened the door, the armoire was empty, and for some reason, a tightness formed in her chest and tears burned her eyes. No trace of Ivy remained. It’s as if she had never existed.
Overwhelmed with grief, Emma dropped onto the bed. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right she should be so completely forgotten. Ivy had been so looking forward to the weekend, and she was enjoying herself, and then the ghosts started chatting with mum, and the weirdness began. She should have tried harder to get her friend out, drank less and hurried more. Then the ballroom was trashed by the storm and maybe by something else when the iron candelabrum toppled in front of Ivy, just barely missing her. Not even mum had offered an explanation for that. And now, it’s as if nothing happened, and all the Everdons and Langstones and Ruskins had moved on.
Emma vowed to keep her friend’s memory alive. Someone needed to.
“I’m sorry, Ivy.” She sobbed. “It’s all my fault!”
Ivy should be with her, offering a tissue and refilling her wineglass, but Emma cried alone in the silent, dusky room.
Dabbing at the tears with the backs of her hands, she rose from the bed and closed the door behind her. Drained of emotion for the time being, she crossed the gallery, turned into the connecting corridor and stopped at the junction to the portrait gallery. She had expected it to be cast in darkness and gloom, but the sconces were flickering softly, as they always had. Why start questioning it now?
Here they were. Emma passed under the gazes of assorted Everdons and Langstones, Martha Everdon’s branch when she married Sir Nathaniel Langstone. Emma paused before Amelia’s portrait. How she had teased Ivy about the resemblance, but it was there, strikingly so. A love story for the ages was playing out between her portrait and Mason Everdon’s beside hers. He had never accepted the loss of his wife, not for a day, not in life nor in death. He meant to have her back no matter how long the wait and regardless of the toll on his descendants. Then he took Ivy, and all their problems should have been over.
“Thanks, great-great uncle! So happy to have been cursed by your romantic ideals!” She muttered bitterly.
He met Emma’s gaze unaffected by her scorn. Beside him, Amelia smiled serenely. Nothing had changed here either, and she turned to go seeing no point in exploring the unused wing. It had never held any interest for her before. Maybe tomorrow when she was bored, providing something terrible didn’t befall her, she may venture further into the manor. Locating the kitchen would be a better use of her time for now. Thinking of which, was the water running? She was not a prissy kind of girl, but there were things she preferred to do indoors.
She was halfway down the stairs when the grandfather clock chimed the hour, the wall clock in the dining room a beat behind it. Clutching the bannister, Emma gasped out loud. The clocks! How could she have forgotten? At least they weren’t timing down to some portentous event. She resumed her descent at a quicker pace.
To her right, the door to the dining room stood partly ajar, the room where all those lavish meals were served, the scene of the awkward last dinner. Emma shuddered remembering the bizarre toast to Ivy, their wine glasses raised, all — well, the elders chanting — Welcome to Everdon Manor. She knew then with a ferocious gnawing in her gut that time was short, and the most she could do was steal her mother’s car keys and try to persuade Ivy to take the SUV. Then the storm happened, and it was too late for anything.
A thin stream of afternoon sun stretched over the shrouded table and chairs. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing sinister revealed itself. Emma closed the door.
So, where was the kitchen anyway? She crossed the central hall skirting the edge of the rug and turned left down the hallway leading to the library and the service hall that also led outside. How strange, she had been coming here forever, yet she had not once visited the kitchen nor shown any interest in it. But why should she when the meals appeared like magic on the dining room sideboard? She had assumed mum called ahead and had the whole thing catered when she hired the household help for the Weekends. Now that she was on her own, it became clear how much she had taken all the conveniences for granted. How had her mother managed living here for months at a time, year after year?
She entered the service hall and opened a door to a stairwell soaring high up, likely to the roof and another a short flight down. At the bottom, she found herself in another hallway, one side of which had a glass partition from waist-height rather than a solid wall to the ceiling.
Peeking through the series of panes, she discovered an enormous wood stove hunkering in an alcove. The rest of the kitchen was more modern, including a large fridge, a double range with ovens, and a ceramic sink big enough to bathe a Lab in under a high, narrow window beyond which yellowed weeds bristled. The plaster walls were lined with shelves though not much was on display. That didn’t bother her, she had not planned on eating baked beans from Staffordshire china plates.
On further investigation, she discovered the pantry, the shelves stocked with glass jars of preserves, their contents marked on labels in neat script. She took a jar of pears for dessert. Good. No danger of starving. If only… she glanced around, then her heart leapt when she discovered the microwave oven, an older model with a dial, but if it worked, who cared how it looked? She plugged it in, and to her disappointment nothing happened when she turned the dial. Oh, well. Cold canned beans it would have to be, after she found a can opener, which she did on a first try. She had luck at the sink when water flowed from the tap. All was not lost. In fact, it was actually fun exploring the kitchen. No memories existed in this region of the house, and she was sure the high-born Everdons never visited here. For all she knew, she could be the first. A sudden smile curved her lips at the thought of John. He would have enjoyed this exploration, and she wondered how his research into his clan was going. Whatever he found would have to wait until she returned. With no cellphone signal, she was completely cut off from the world.
~*~
“Poor Emma.” Rachel shook her head. “She really was the last to know.”
They went home soon after Emma, who, after hearing the new revelations, became eerily quiet and left with barely a goodbye.
Matt had said little after that either. Whatever his feelings on the subject, he would eventually share them with her. Rachel knew better than to push him.
“Would you happen to have a cassette tape recorder?”
“What do you want with one of those?” He asked wondering what brought about this strange request.
“I have a tape I’d like to play.”
“A tape? It’s been a while since I’ve seen one.”
“I know. Can you believe that’s what people had to listen to back then? It must have been near impossible to find your favorite track.”
“That’s for sure.” He furrowed his brow. “I remember seeing a box in the basement with some old tech inside.”
“Did you? That would be awesome!” She beamed and gave him a peck on the cheek which improved his mood. Luckily, he hadn’t asked her what was on the tape.
~*~
John hadn’t planned on ransacking his father’s desk, but time was of the essence. Fortunately, the older man had always kept meticulous records of all his dealings, personal and business, and John was also delighted to find an entire bookshelf dedicated to Ruskin genealogy. Knowing the particular Ruskin he wanted to research should have made the search a quicker one until he discovered a dozen diaries, all written in flowery script and coded with initials. He dared not hope they had been scanned into easily searchable digital files. He rolled up his sleeves and started wit
h what his father had on the hard drive.
The earliest mention of an Everdon had to do with business. Mason Everdon had travelled to America seeking to broaden his horizons both financially and culturally. A digital scan of a yellowed and rather tattered letter spoke of looking forward to future social functions and perhaps strengthening the Ruskin-Everdon bond. So far, nothing indicated more than a business relationship.
Next, John discovered a copy of the bill of sale of the parcel of land Everdon Manor occupied, a sizeable plot surrounded on two sides by fields and forests, a sloping meadow with a small tributary flowing at its southern border, and at the back, the Hudson River. The investment was sound, but that seemed to be all as far as business transactions with the family went, and John was fairly certain that Realestate was not at the heart of the matter where the two families were concerned. That left the diaries. Not one to go prying into personal matters, never mind a woman’s private journal, John settled himself on the leather couch with the first six, and reluctantly opened the oldest one.
Two hours later, he had three of the dozen journals stacked to his right on the coffee table and half a page on a yellow legal pad printed with two columns, one for initials, the other for the person they represented. He hoped he got those correct, or all the research would be meaningless.
The first mention of ME (Mason Everdon) came in 1895, and great-great aunt Victoria was terribly impressed. The entry contained numerous effusive references to the dashing and debonaire and darkly handsome and charming ME. John was hard pressed to continue reading these many exaltations from his aunt, who would have been twenty-four. Scanning the pages with his attention focused on ME, he noted numerous references, though they changed in tone as time went on. She was growing increasingly frustrated at not garnering the dashing ME’s affections. Over the course of only a few months, Victoria Ruskin had an entire dynasty planned in her mind with the two families united by marriage — her and ME, naturally.