The Girl On Legare Street

by Karen White

  I slid into the passenger side of her brand-new sedan and leaned back into the leather seats, contemplating again how very much my life had changed in the relatively short time since I’d had the strange and unexpected inheritance of a historic home on Tradd Street.

  CHAPTER 22

  We rode mostly in silence. I was quiet because I knew if I said something, I’d be likely to break the tentative truce we had. I figured my mother was being silent for the same reason. She’d started out by asking me questions about my childhood, about dance lessons and best friends, but my clipped answers had probably hinted to her that she was approaching forbidden territory. To mask the silence, I’d found a satellite station playing all ABBA, but my mother quickly changed it to a classical station and we’d left it at that.

  I called Yvonne on my cell to ask her about the earthquake casualty lists and she promised to make it a priority and call me back as soon as she found—or didn’t find—anything, then returned to navigating our way to Ulmer from memory, making only one false turn.

  I called the McGowans, too, but I reached only an answering machine. I left a message, explaining who I was and that I was on my way to see them. My eyes started drifting closed, lulled by the sound of the tires against asphalt, but I was jolted awake by my mother’s voice.

  “You do realize that a lot of operas are written in German, correct?”

  I stared at her, wondering where this line of conversation was leading. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  She grimaced and didn’t look at me as she spoke. “I suppose that means you’re not a fan of opera.”

  I didn’t answer, not yet ready to tell her how when I was small, and my father wasn’t watching, I’d flip channels in the hope of finding her singing somewhere in the world, and that in all of the years of flipping channels, I’d only seen her twice; but I’d never stopped hoping.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me what Gefangener des Herzens means.”

  I sat up straight, fully awake now. I’d completely forgotten that I’d even told her about it. “I’ve been meaning to plug it into Babel Fish, but it keeps getting pushed farther and farther down on my to-do list. I figured Daddy would know and I’d ask him when he came to trim back Grandmother’s camellias tomorrow.”

  She turned to look at me. “What makes you think that your father would know?”

  I shrugged. “Despite being less than reliable, he was the only go-to person I had while growing up, and he always seemed to have an answer.”

  A corner of her mouth turned upward. “That may be, but I doubt he knows what it means.”

  “So, are you going to tell me?” I said, sounding slightly peeved and feeling protective of my father.

  “It means ‘prisoner of the heart.’ ”

  I rubbed the words over in my mind, like a thumb against a coin. “That’s interesting. Rebecca thinks he might have been a Hessian soldier who deserted the British Army following the end of the Revolution. He may have been kept there unwillingly, but I wonder what the other part means.”

  “You can ask him, you know.”

  I didn’t answer right away. Summoning spirits had been something my mother had done, but something I shied away from. I’d never wanted to call attention to my psychic ability, and had even hoped for a long time that if I ignored it, it would go away. Although I’d asked Wilhelm questions before, he’d avoided answering them, and I wondered if it was because I hadn’t initiated the contact. “He always seems to find me first.”

  “We’re running out of time, Mellie. I feel her in the house everywhere, not just in the back. We need to find out as much as we can now. But one thing you must be aware of before you summon Wilhelm: When you call him by name, you make him stronger.”

  I studied her profile for a long moment—the smooth curve of her chin and her long neck, the tight skin belying her age—then looked away. I’d wanted to ask her if she knew about Wilhelm from experience, and what else she knew but wasn’t telling me. But the moment passed, the lure of a peaceful truce and companionship with my mother too strong to give up so soon. I let the questions go, allowing myself to be lulled into a half sleep.

  As the miles slipped behind the car, I began to feel more and more unsettled, my skin prickling as if someone were blowing cold air on the nape of my neck. I twitched in my seat, and my mother glanced over at me before returning her attention to the road.

  When we turned onto the long gravel drive leading up to Mimosa Hall, my mother turned to me. “Do you feel it, too?”

  I nodded, again feeling the unfamiliar relief that I didn’t need to explain anything to her—or hide anything. “My skin’s burning with it,” I confessed.

  “Mine, too.

  I looked at her with surprise. “I would never have guessed.” She edged the car to the side of a large pothole. “That’s because I’ve lived with it longer than you have. My mother showed me how to hide it.”

  I looked straight ahead as we approached the house, feeling now as if ants were running under my skin. My mother parked the car in the same spot Jack had left his on our previous visit and turned off the ignition. Rebecca’s car was nowhere in sight.

  “She’s here,” my mother said. “She’s waiting for us.”

  I knew she wasn’t referring to Rebecca, and I flinched, remembering my last visit and knowing there’d be no alcohol and no Jack this time to act as a buffer. My mother surprised me by taking my hand with her gloved one. “Together, we are strong enough to fight her. Remember that.”

  I studied her for a moment. “Then why didn’t you stay? Before, when I was small. You keep telling me that you didn’t leave because of me. Was it because of her? Because you couldn’t fight her and I wasn’t strong enough to help?”

  She squeezed my hand. “There’s so much I still need to tell you, Mellie, and I will—soon. I just don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet.”

  I pulled my hand away. “I’m almost forty years old, Mother. How much older do I have to be before you can trust me with the truth?”

  Her eyes darkened. “It’s not the truth I don’t trust you with. It’s your fear. You can’t be afraid of what you don’t know.”

  I shivered inside my coat. “Now you’re scaring me. I’m not at all sure I want to do this.”

  “You must, Mellie. I’m here, and we will face this together, or we will never be free.”

  I noticed again how pale she looked, how tight her skin seemed to stretch over the fine bones of her face, realizing how she’d been that way since she’d touched the journal.When she put her hand on the door latch to open her car door, I placed my hand on her arm.

  “There’s something else that’s been bothering me.”

  She looked at me and I noticed the dark circles under her eyes.

  “I don’t think I put the journal in the kitchen. I’d been reading it in my room before I went to sleep, and I left it inside the drawer of my bedside table. I might have moved it, but I don’t think I did.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Why do you think it was moved?”

  “Rebecca told me that I shouldn’t let you touch it; she’d had a premonition and told me that it could be dangerous for you. I wasn’t sure I believed her, and besides I couldn’t see you willingly touching it again, but I kept it hidden from you and out of sight just in case. I wouldn’t have brought it to the kitchen.”

  She nodded. “This other entity wants to use the journal to reach me in a negative way. She saw how the journal writer used it to communicate with me, and she saw an opportunity. It’s a—portal of sorts. A way to communicate with those like us. But you have to make sure that you don’t get the wrong spirit on the other end.” She glanced toward the house. “Come on. Let’s see if anyone’s home.”

  I followed her out of the car and up to the steps leading to the wrap-around porch. After not receiving an answer when I’d called earlier, I didn’t expect anybody to be home. So I was surprised when I heard footsteps approaching the front door.
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  A plump woman in her late sixties with white hair and large blue eyes greeted us enthusiastically when she opened the door.

  She introduced herself as Mrs. McGowan, then said, “You must be Melanie and her mother. I got your message that you were on the way. Come in, come in! What a day it’s been for visitors!”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “A reporter from the Post & Courier was here. She left about an hour ago. We must have been in the attic when you called and left your message.”

  I shared a glance with my mother. “Was her name Rebecca Edgerton?”

  “Blond and perky?” Ginnette added.

  “Yes, that was definitely her. Sweet girl. Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Sort of. Yes, actually. We’re working on a project together. As you’ve already gathered, I’m Melanie Middleton and this is my mother, Ginnette. When I was here before with Jack Trenholm and spoke with your husband, he showed me the portrait of the girl with the locket and we’ve been trying to determine her identity. Jack mentioned that you’d discovered some information in your attic that might be useful to us.”

  She put her hand to her chest and actually fluttered her eyelashes. “That Jack. Such a charming man. We’ve spoken on the phone several times, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him in person. He’s promised to stop by and try some of my blueberry cobbler.”

  “He did mention that,” I said as I followed my mother over the threshold. She gripped my arm as we stood in the foyer, and I knew that she’d felt the icy wind at our backs, too.

  Mrs. McGowan shivered as she closed the door behind us. “Come on in. I’ve got a nice fire going in the family room. And I still have all the papers out that I was showing Rebecca, so no more trips up to the attic.” We followed her, staying close together, then shrugged out of our coats before sitting on the sofa Mrs. McGowan indicated. “I just put a kettle on to boil, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go make us a nice pot of hot tea.”

  “We don’t want to put you out,” my mother began.

  Mrs. McGowan waved away her protests. “I enjoy the company. And I just took out a batch of Scottish shortbread that I would love to share.” She patted her ample waist. “George and I certainly don’t need to be eating the whole thing.” She laughed as she walked out of the room. Calling back to us, she said, “Feel free to look around, if you like. The portrait you were talking about is in the dining room off the entrance hall.”

  My mother stood and held her hand out to me, but I didn’t stand immediately. “I’ve already seen it, and I don’t want to repeat the experience, thank you.”

  My mother squatted down in front of the sofa. “Mellie, it’s not going to go away just because you like to pretend it isn’t there. It will be worse for you if she senses your fear.” She stood again, and held out her hand. Not completely convinced that I was doing the right thing, I allowed her to pull me to my feet.

  I led the way to the familiar spot in the dining room where I’d last seen the portrait. I stared at the girl with the familiar features, focusing on the heart-shaped locket with the initial A engraved in the middle. It was clear that there had to be some relation to the two girls in the other portrait, but that only added to the confusion. She couldn’t be a Prioleau, but the family resemblance was there. And the other portrait had been found in my mother’s attic, adding to the assumption that they were family members. Not to mention the fact that I bore a strong resemblance to them as well. I hoped Mrs. McGowan could shed some light into the murky corners of my family’s past—and that Rebecca hadn’t made off with the evidence again.

  Ginnette. I startled at the sound of the voice that was now so familiar to me. But the relief that she hadn’t been saying my name quickly evaporated when I realized she was speaking to my mother.

  My mother reached for my hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear; it looked a lot more like determination. Her breaths were quick and shallow, and I looked at her with alarm. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “She’s trying to get inside my head, but I won’t let her. Don’t let go of my hand.” She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head, as if she were answering a question I couldn’t hear.

  A cold wind circled us, slicing the air between us like a steel knife, sliding between our joined hands. I thought I heard a voice telling me to let go, but I couldn’t be sure. Nausea rose in my throat as the putrid smell of dead things from the sea flooded my nose. Panic strangled the words I struggled to say. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what to do.”

  Her voice was firm, calming me. “Just be strong. Don’t listen to the voice, and keep telling yourself that you’re stronger than she is. That we’re stronger than she is—but only if we work together.You’re not alone anymore, Mellie. I’m here.”

  Our eyes met, and I knew she was talking about way more than the mere matter of evil spirits. I looked away quickly, feeling the encircling cold as it continued to search for a way in. My mother’s gloved fingers lifted from my hand, one by one as if being forced by unseen fingers, and for the first time I saw the fear in my mother’s eyes.

  “I’m stronger than you,” I said out loud, grabbing my mother’s hand with both of mine. But my grip was weak—my fingers boneless—and I felt her hand slipping from my grasp.

  “We are stronger than you,” I shouted and my grasp tightened.

  “We are stronger than you,” we shouted together, then stood still as the cold dissipated like a whisper, leaving only the faint scent of the ocean to remind us that she’d been there at all.

  “Tea’s ready.” We both turned with a start to see Mrs. McGowan holding a tea tray brimming with mugs, spoons, and a plate of shortbread cookies.

  “Let me take that,” I said, taking the tray and feeling my mouth start to water at the sight of the cookies. My shaking hands were the only reminder of what I’d just experienced, and I tightened my grip on the tray to keep the mugs from jostling against each other.

  We sat down and waited for Mrs. McGowan to add lemon and sugar to the tea. My mother and I each took four cookies, making our hostess regard us with a raised eyebrow. “I could go get more from the kitchen,” she suggested.

  “No, but thank you,” I said, washing down my last bite with a sip of tea. “We must have both missed lunch.” Or fighting spirits burns a lot of calories. I smiled. “And I must apologize again for showing up on such short notice. We were just, um, trying to show up at the same time as Miss Edgerton to make it easier on you.”

  “It’s really no problem, dear. I love to help other people who are as interested in history as I am, and I don’t get enough company as it is, seeing as how we live so far off the beaten path.”

  My mother leaned forward. “Melanie mentioned that you’ve been searching through the old documents of the Crandall family, who owned this house before your husband’s family acquired it during the 1930s. We were hoping that you’d discovered the identity of the girl in the portrait.”

  “I have actually, and that’s just what I was discussing with Miss Edgerton.”

  My heart beat a little faster. “That’s wonderful. Could we please see what you found?”

  “It would be my pleasure. I believe I mentioned to Jack on the phone that I remembered about some sort of family tragedy that occurred in the late 1800s, but I couldn’t recall what it was. Most of what I have is in letters between Crandall family members in Connecticut and the branch who migrated down here to the coast of South Carolina.”

  She stood and began to rummage through a neat pile of yellowed envelopes stacked on the coffee table. “I’ve read through all of these so I’m fairly familiar with them. It’s a bit like eavesdropping on history.” Mrs. McGowan looked up at us with a wide smile. I stole a glance at my mother and wondered if I was wearing the same tight-lipped grimace she was in an attempt not to appear impatient. I glanced down at her crossed leg and watched as her foot bounced up and down.


  I made a point to still my own. “It must be fascinating,” I said. “So what did you find?”

  Mrs. McGowan finally pulled out an envelope and carefully slid a fragile letter from it. “The letter is from William Crandall, of Mimosa Hall, to a Mrs. Suzanne Crandall of Darien, Connecticut, sister-in-law of Josiah mentioned in the letter and aunt to the girl in the portrait. I’ve gathered from other correspondence that William is the cousin of Suzanne’s husband. It’s rather sad, I’m afraid.” She slipped a pair of reading glasses out of her pocket and put them on. “I’d rather it not be handled too much, at least not until I can get it into an archival album, so I’ll read it aloud to you.”

  At our nods, Mrs. McGowan cleared her throat and began to read.

  September 29, 1870

  Dearest Suzanne,

  It is with great sadness that I must tell you the news that weighs heavy on my heart. The ship carrying Josiah and your sister Mary, along with their daughter, Nora, has been lost at sea. We were hoping that their delay was for other reasons, but when a week went by past their expected arrival, we made enquiries into the whereabouts of their ship. The last contact with the captain and crew was when they dropped anchor at Wilmington, North Carolina, before heading down the coast. The captain was advised to delay his departure as a terrible storm was being predicted, but he felt confident that he could get ahead of it. Alas, it does not appear to be so as no sight has been made of the ship, its captain, crew, or twenty passengers. The only sign of the ship’s fate is the discovery of the ship’s figurehead on the beach at Edisto Island.

  My heart breaks over the loss of your sister and her husband, and their little Nora, just an infant, lost forever in the clutches of the sea. I have taken the liberty of having a memorial service said for them, and have placed a marker in the family cemetery here.