by Joanne Pence
He headed for his bedroom to pack. But as he walked down the hall, he stopped and listened to the soft strains of a familiar sound from his boyhood. His mother had a music box that played the opening melody of Für Elise while a ballerina twirled, first in one direction, then in the other.
How could he be hearing it now?
He turned away from his bedroom to follow the sound. It led him to the opposite end of the hall and then up the stairs to the third floor. The music grew louder, but when he open the door to the tower room, his mother’s private retreat, it abruptly stopped.
He walked into the room slowly. As he did, memories assailed him. His mother had kept her books, her needlework, and everything she loved there. William Claude never entered it. But Michael had often joined her. After her death, the door was kept shut, and he rarely entered it again.
The room was as he remembered it, filled with her belongings in chaotic disarray just the way it had been when she was alive. Somehow, she always knew where everything was.
He could feel her presence all around him. Someone had kept the room dusted, Patience, most likely. But nothing else had been done to it.
He should leave, he told himself. The past was over. Finished. It was time to move on.
But he couldn’t. Not yet. He walked over to her bookshelf and glanced at the titles, a curious mixture of classics, romances, and murder mysteries. She seemed to have complete collections of Mary Stewart and Daphne DuMaurier. He remembered how, when he was very young, she would read children’s books to him there. In later years, he would sit with her while reading his own books as she read hers or worked on her needlepoint or quilts.
On the bottom shelf he saw a book with a green leather binding. With no title on the spine, the book looked like a journal. He didn’t remember ever seeing it before.
A glance at the flyleaf showed a young woman’s script, and “Property of …” gave her maiden name, Jane Addams. It was his mother’s diary. His fingers brushed over the cover, a cover that showed years of handling.
Michael knew little of her early life other than learning her father had struggled financially running a shop that sold dress material and sewing supplies, and that her parents had died in an accident. But he’d never been given any details about her. Now, with her diary, he could learn more.
He took the book, went over to the chair his mother had always sat in, and switched on the lamp. He hesitated. It was, after all, filled with her private thoughts.
Still, he had come here seeking answers. Given William Claude’s recalcitrance about the past, the diary might be Michael’s only means for any answers.
He couldn’t help but look around the room, and wonder what had caused him to spot this little diary now when he had never noticed it in all the years he had looked at that bookshelf as a boy.
He opened the book and read. It began simply enough, talking about a young woman, fresh out of high school and looking forward to college but needing to earn money by working at the local library.
But quickly the tenor of the diary changed.
* * *
June 5th—
I met the most fascinating man today, William Claude Rempart. He is quite a scholar of history and is often in the library doing research. As we talked, to my amazement, he seemed interested in me. He’s a few years older than me, but that couldn’t matter less. I keep telling myself he was just being polite, but in my heart, I think there was something more. I can't wait to see him again.
* * *
Michael skimmed through two months’ worth of such pages, feeling like some awful voyeur as he read of his mother’s growing fascination with William Claude—even their first kiss. She was only eighteen, and William Claude twenty-five.
Michael was beyond stunned to read that “Claude” as she called him, soon took her on a whirlwind of travel, and gave her many gifts, including clothes. A while passed before Jane confessed to the diary how angry her parents were at what they considered wanton behavior.
Through this period, Jane noticed a dark side to Claude. There were times he troubled her, and a few times, he scared her. But she always found a reason to excuse him, or to decide she had acted too “silly” or too “girlish” and that it was no surprise for a man of the world to grow peevish with her. She always did all she could to make amends for aggravating him.
* * *
August 15—
Today, I became Mrs. William Claude Rempart. We were married by a Justice of the Peace without any family present. It would have been a perfect day, except that my parents refused to give us their blessing. But I’ve made my choice. They are nothing to me now, just as I am nothing to them. Claude is my life, and I will make him the best wife ever. As we left the Justice of the Peace, I saw many women looking at me with envy.
* * *
August 20—
My parents died yesterday when their car careened off a cliff. No one seems to know why it happened. Brake failure? Speed? I know Dad was a cautious man. It remains a mystery. But now sadness fills my heart, particularly since, this side of Heaven, we will never be able to repair the rift that came between us due to my marriage.
* * *
Over the course of several days, Jane continued to write of her grief over the death of her parents. She went to Claude more than once seeking consolation, but he gave her only the slightest indulgence.
Michael skimmed many of the ensuing pages as Jane learned to become a lady of the manor. The size of Wintersgate and all that went into maintaining it were new to her, and Claude often chided her for things she didn’t know how to do, as well as those she had no idea she should be doing. Her greatest joy came when she learned she was pregnant. She was sure Claude was as thrilled as she was but simply didn’t know how to show it.
Seven months later, she wrote of giving birth. Michael’s eyes filled with tears as he read her anguish at learning the baby wasn’t healthy. He couldn’t bear to read about the baby girl’s sickness and eventual death. He remembered his mother far too well, and as he read, her pain became his.
Her relationship with William Claude took a dangerous turn after baby Catherine’s death. Claude stayed away for long periods of time, and when he was home, he locked himself away in his laboratory. Jane believed he had become obsessed with alchemy. He told her about his family history, that he came from a long line of alchemists, but she refused to believe in anything supernatural. She found his belief in alchemy incomprehensible.
Five years passed with few but the most trivial annotations in the diary, almost as if life had become meaningless, until Jane wrote that she was once again expecting a child. She was frightened throughout this pregnancy that she would again deliver a sickly child. But a healthy baby boy was born, and they named him Lionel.
Claude was ecstatic over Lionel, and hired a nurse to take care of the baby full-time, saying he didn’t believe Jane knew anything about childcare. She told him she could learn, just as women from the dawn of time had learned to raise their children, but that wasn’t good enough for Claude.
A few pages noted Lionel’s first, second, and third birthdays, which were happy occasions that saw Claude in a good mood and willing to take part in the festivities with his wife. Jane scarcely mentioned Lionel’s fourth and fifth birthdays, and she did nothing but annotate the day for later ones.
It was clear to Michael that by the time they sent Lionel to boarding school, he preferred Claude’s company and his nurse’s to that of his own mother. It sounded as if Claude had done all he could to turn Lionel against her. Also, Jane's unhappiness grew as Claude’s dark side struck more often. There were times she couldn’t break through his acrimony at all, and as the years went by, his dark periods became more prevalent until she concluded that he wasn’t completely sane.
Ten years after Lionel’s birth, Jane learned she was again expecting. This child, she determined Claude would not take from her.
* * *
April 8th—
I have
given birth to a fine boy. When Claude came in to see him, I told him that the doctor hadn’t been truthful with him, as he had been fearful of Claude’s reaction. I said the boy was sickly, far too small to have been born yet. He probably wouldn’t survive more than a year, if that. I said I would take care of him. No sense hiring a nurse—that would throw good money after bad. Claude turned away in disgust and said to do with the child as I pleased. I pleased to name him Michael.
* * *
Michael learned that he was, in fact, a smaller, more delicate infant than Lionel had been. Claude was surprised when the baby continued to live, but Jane assured him the damage had been done, and the boy would never see the inside of a schoolroom. By the time Michael was five, and it was clear he was robust and healthy, Claude found that his second son scarcely knew him, and seemed to fear him. Claude berated Jane for this, and said her constant pampering of the boy had “ruined” him, and had “spoiled” him beyond repair.
When Michael saw how harsh and mean Claude was to his beloved mother, he grew even more frightened of his father, which disgusted Claude all the more.
For Jane, Michael was her only joy.
* * *
August 30—
I’m not sure what to think. I expected to celebrate Claude’s forty-fifth birthday, but he informed me he was actually fifty years old, that he had believed I would find him too old when we met, and had lied all these years about his age. I assured him his age made no difference.
But then he said age was very important to him. He had developed an elixir made with a quantity of gold dust that would slow the aging process and prolong his life. He then told me I, too, must take it. After all, I was thirty-eight years old, and soon would look aged.
I’m sure the man has gone quite insane.
* * *
She wrote nothing in the diary for some time before returning to it to express her unhappiness with William Claude over sending Michael away to boarding school. She didn’t want to do it, and fought with William Claude about his decision.
There, the diary ended. Michael didn’t need a diary entry to know what happened. He went away to school and spent some of the most miserable years of his life there.
Michael left the tower room to step out onto its private deck, then walked to the stone railing and stared out at the ocean. He remembered his mother well and thought he had never seen anyone as lovely or as loving. Her words about William Claude’s dark side and his increasing descent into madness confirmed Michael’s own feelings.
“What happened to you, Mom?” he whispered.
He doubted he would ever know. He was too young when she died to understand what was going on in her life. After her death, as he grew up in this house, he spent years searching Wintersgate, but found nothing to explain her death—if there even was a “reason” to be found. It was odd that during those searches he had overlooked this diary.
What he would do with this new knowledge was unclear, his thoughts troubled and contradictory. He had a sense that a reckoning was meant to happen. But what, and when?
He kept the diary with him as he left the turret, his heart heavy. There were ghosts here, and he could all but feel their tears.
Chapter 12
Ceinwen wished she could confess to Rachel that she wanted to write a magazine article or possibly a book about all that happened when the university group vanished in Idaho’s wilderness. But she knew that would cause Rachel to put up a barrier she couldn’t overcome. So, she had lied, and continued to do so.
And now this liar was on her way to meet Rachel’s big Mormon family. Ceinwen felt guilty—although not guilty enough to stop her investigation.
Ceinwen found them red-eye tickets at a decent price, and Rachel had handled the flights well except for a brief trance at Heathrow Airport. Just before boarding the Newark to Salt Lake City final leg of the flight, Rachel called her parents to let them know she was coming home, and that her college roommate was with her.
Her father, Stan, was waiting for them when they arrived in Salt Lake City. He was a large man with a bulbous nose, heavy jowls, and small blue eyes.
He caught Rachel up in a bear hug and then greeted Ceinwen warmly. Soon, they got into his monstrous Dodge Ram and headed into Idaho. The land quickly became flat and empty, and the dry ground looked like gravel broken up by an occasional sage or other spindly brush.
Not until they reached Idaho Falls did the countryside turn green. They were in a farming community. Before long, Stan turned onto a driveway that led to a large wood-framed farmhouse. He honked the horn, and people poured from the house to greet them.
Rachel introduced Ceinwen to her mother, five brothers, four sisters, their spouses, and children. Ceinwen had read that Latter-day Saints, as Mormons call themselves, believe large families are a blessing. If so, the Gooding family was truly blessed.
Everyone was interested in hearing about life in Oxford and had questions about everything from steak-and-kidney pie to driving on the “wrong” side of the road. The younger Gooding grandchildren liked listening to Ceinwen’s accent, and found it hilarious that she was from Wales, which they thought had something to do with fish.
Rachel kept apologizing for all the questions, but Ceinwen loved them. Also, she could tell that Rachel was glad she was there to draw away attention from her sudden reappearance. It wasn’t until Ceinwen saw Stan corner his daughter away from the others that she heard his worry that she might have flunked out. Rachel assured him the school year was over, her studies were fine, and she had come home because she missed him and her mother.
He seemed touched to hear it. Rachel gave the family no hint of her nightmares or that anything was troubling her, and Ceinwen had to wonder if any of them knew the extent of what had happened to her two years earlier.
After dinner, Ceinwen joined the women in the kitchen to help clean up.
Rachel’s mother had only one interest: did Rachel have a boyfriend, and if so, was he LDS, or at least someone open to conversion? Her biggest fear was that Rachel would marry an Englishman and live far from home. Rachel did her best to put her mother’s mind at rest about that.
Before long, her mother and sisters started plotting how they could find both Rachel and Ceinwen nice men in the area to marry so they could forget about going back to Oxford. From the way they talked, they believed—as Brigham Young had proclaimed some hundred-seventy years earlier—that he had led his people to the Promised Land, and if so, why would any sane person want to live anywhere else?
Chapter 13
His mother’s diary confirmed Michael’s resolve not to spend any more time in that house. He packed his bag and went in search of his father, only to learn from Patience that William Claude and Stedman were gone for the day. “Do you think they’ll return tonight?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”
Michael knew it would be pointless to wait. It wasn’t as if he and William Claude would have a heartfelt farewell. “Tell him goodbye for me. I’m leaving now.”
“And where will you be headed, sir?” Patience asked
Good question. But then an idea came to him. “If my father asks, tell him I’m going to Matsue, Japan. And that I’m bringing Cousin Lafcadio’s unpublished papers with me. I’ll return them to the library when I’m through studying them.” His expression turned wry. “Tell him I have a sudden interest in family matters.”
Jianjun hunted for something unique and interesting about Japanese archeology or alchemy. If he could interest Michael in spending time in Japan, he could join him. But so far, he’d found no such material.
His phone buzzed and to his surprise the caller was Michael.
“I’ve left Wintersgate,” Michael said. “I’m at the airport now.”
“I’m shocked you stayed this long,” Jianjun said. “Where are you going?”
“Have you ever heard of an author named Lafcadio Hearn?” Michael asked. “He’s most famous for his Japanese ghost stories.”
/> “Ghost stories? Nope. Never heard of him.”
“You aren’t alone in that,” Michael admitted. “Anyway, I’ve been reading his books. A number of them are in my father’s library, as well as letters Hearn wrote to my great-grandfather, Victor Rempart.”
“So, this Hearn guy is dead?”
“Quite.”
“Do I want to know why you’re reading ghost stories by some dead guy no one has ever heard of?”
“He has his fans,” Michael said. “A small group perhaps, but they exist. I learned Hearn might be a relative, and he lived in Matsue, Japan.”
Jianjun was finding this conversation odd. “So… you want to learn more about this relative, I take it.”
“Exactly. I’ve never spent much time in Japan—just a few quick trips to Tokyo. I think it’s time to change that. Also, Hearn had an interest in alchemy. It shows up in his writings. I’d like to learn more about Japanese alchemy. I don’t believe the Japanese ever took it seriously.”
“With good reason,” Jianjun muttered.
Michael ignored the comment. “I’ve always wondered if, when the Chinese alchemists talked about some special islands in the East, they meant Japan. Anyway, Matsue is just across the sea from China. And didn’t you say that’s where the guy who phoned you about the daimyo artifacts was calling from?”
“I did. Yamato Toru. But I called him and said you were too busy for him.”
“Maybe I’m no longer so busy.”
“He told me to call back if you change your mind,” Jianjun said. “But don't you find it weird that out of the blue he calls you and now you decide to go out there? It’s a strange coincidence. A troubling coincidence, if you ask me.”