THREE
Miss Emma served brunch in the formal dining room. It was weird. I mean, only three people eating at a long banquet table heavy with silver and china and antlers of candelabra. I swear it could easily seat twenty-five.
“More tea, dear?” Aunt Monica asked in a breathy voice. “Your uncle left for Bradford earlier. Bradford is our county seat. He will be back late tonight. Some pressing business with the lawyer. It was simply not to be avoided.” She reached for an ornate, gleaming teapot, which rested on a large silver tray with matching cream and sugar containers. Raising an eyebrow, she asked again, “Tea?”
I tried not to stare at Aunt Monica’s arresting face. The long, slim neck, very white skin, and jet black hair curled up in an elaborate style made her look like a painting of a Greek goddess I’d seen in one of the New York galleries. Just as goddesses are ageless, so was Aunt Monica, though she was probably in her mid-thirties. Then, there was the way she used her hands, the gestures designed to show off her long, lacquered fingernails and jeweled rings. But it was her articulation that really got me. Had she been taking lessons to eradicate a Southern accent? She enunciated every syllable slowly and deliberately, the way somebody might speak to a non-native. I was reminded of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, trying to get rid of her cockney accent by saying, “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,” over and over.
My seven-year-old cousin Jefferson sat beside his mother. His little elf face was framed with copper-colored hair, streaked with sunny highlights. Freckles made a tiny footpath over his nose. Overton blue eyes, several shades darker than mine, hinted at a spirited and curious mind. Looking to be bubbling over with things to say, he was, instead, quiet as a turtle. Was this an exhibition of upper-class manners or something? Children should be seen and not heard? Jefferson fidgeted and kicked at the rungs of the chair, and once he opened his mouth to say something, but promptly closed it again, holding his lips in a barely-controlled line.
“Well, Jefferson,” Monica turned to him at last. “What plans do you have for your cousin on this glorious Saturday?”
He exhaled loudly and his eyes flickered with excitement. “We can swim in the lake and explore the woods and ride the horses…”
His mother sighed softly. “Now, now, Jefferson. You must stay off the horses. You know how your father feels about that.” She turned her languid gaze onto me. “While we want Jefferson to enjoy all the wonders of his world, we do have rules—life vests before jumping in the lake; don’t go into the woods alone, and stay off the horses without an experienced rider along.”
Jefferson made a face his mother could not see. “Aww. Jeez. We just wanna have fun.” He squirmed in his seat as his mother turned the conversation back to her own doings, something about a late luncheon at the club and how she hoped my uncle would be home in time to attend.
“By the way, Ashby. How are your parents? Are Helen and Madison enjoying their trip? Have you heard from them yet?”
“They only left yesterday, Aunt Monica,” I said, suppressing a nervous giggle.
“Yes, of course. You know, I only met them briefly, at our wedding in Charlottesville years ago. Still, your dear mother has been a wonderful correspondent. I can always count on hearing about you in her letters.” Delicately she patted her lips with her linen napkin. “Well, you two run along now. Get to know one another. I am so glad you are to be with us this summer, my dear. I’m quite sure we have a lot to learn from you.” Gracefully she pushed her chair back and rose from her seat.
What could my aunt possibly hope to learn from me? I found the woman totally baffling. As the tapping of her heels faded, my cousin’s smile broadened until the freckles jumped off his face. “Let’s go see the horses!” Slipping from the high-backed chair, he grabbed my hand.
I felt a thrill as the small, warm hand pressed into mine so trustingly. I’d always wanted a younger brother or sister, and, even though I was puzzled by his behavior at the table, I already liked him.
I tried to follow along as he zigzagged from one point of interest to another. He stopped to watch a butterfly on a bush and knelt down to divert an army of ants from attacking a dead grasshopper. Cocking his head, he observed, “I love Saturday!”
“Saturday? You have the whole summer to play, Jefferson. What’s so special about Saturday?”
“Call me Jeff, please. And I do not. I mean, I don’t have the whole summer to play. My mother’s got me planned…” He paused and searched for a word. “She’s got every minute programmed. It’s worse than school.”
“Programmed?”
“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday it’s day camp.” He ticked off the days on his fingers. “Tuesday is French lessons. Thursday’s piano.” He made a face. “I hate piano. I’m the only boy in the class.”
I tried to hide my surprise. Then what did they want me here for? It’s hard to be a companion for a kid who’s completely “programmed.”
Jeff continued on his way, chattering as naturally as he breathed. “But they only last till lunch time, all of my programs. Me and you can play afterwards.” He grinned widely. “I finally talked ole’ Emma out of afternoon naps.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “I’ll bet your mother wouldn’t like to hear you talk like that, Jeff.”
He made another face. “Yeah. She’s tryin’ to make a gentleman out of me. It stinks. You should see the kids at camp.” He rolled his eyes. “The way they act…my mother would freak out.”
Jeff didn’t talk; he emoted. After watching the way his mother operated with him, I figure he had to let it all out while he could. The idea endeared him to me on the spot. “So, who all goes to this camp of yours?”
“My friends.” He blew on a dandelion that had gone to seed and chased the flying debris with his hand. “Lake people.” He gestured in a wide circle.
“Lake people?”
“That’s what they call us. We’re the lake people. Then, there’s the locals.”
This got me thinking. Did somebody tell Jeff his world was divided up like this? Did he figure it out by himself? Maybe the camp counselors were “locals” and they let the kids know, either subtly or outright, that “lake people” are different.
It hit me then that my cousin and his friends were separated by acres of land and water. It was nothing like where I grew up, with the crowded row houses and bungalows crawling with kids. No wonder his parents sent him to day camp and lessons galore; otherwise, the kid would spend the summer in total isolation from his peers. On the other hand, maybe they were trying to get rid of him. You know, have somebody take him off their hands so they could be free to do whatever it is lake people do. My aunt seemed the type to have a lot of things going for herself.
“All the campers go to my school,” Jeff continued his stream of thought. “Lake Country Day School. Luke says they’re spoiled brats. He went to public school and he says he learned good enough for anybody.” Jeff shrugged. “Luke’s teaching some of ’em to ride. He’s a great riding teacher.”
And Luke’s a local, I thought, but I kept it to myself. “So, what do you play at camp?”
Jeff bent over and picked up a handful of stones, which he began throwing at fence posts. “Well, we take swimming lessons, archery, croquet, badminton. Stuff like that. We have a nature center where we learn about plants and birds and stuff. It’s okay, I guess.” He aimed a stone and hit the wooden post dead center. “There’s way too may girls,” he finished, as though that explained his lack of enthusiasm. “I’d rather ride my horse. And fish. Hey, Ashby, do you like horses?”
We had reached the stables. I looked for Luke Murley, but there was no sign of him. “You want to know the truth, Jeff?”
He looked at me from under his lashes, then nodded.
“Well, I took lessons a long time ago, but I never was very good. Actually, I did quite a lot of riding one summer at Girl Scout camp, but I had a bad fall—broke my arm. It left me—well, I guess it left me afraid of horses.”
Jeff snorted. “Oh no. Are you gonna be like my dad?”
“Your dad is afraid of horses?”
This got a good laugh. “Not for himself, silly. For me. He’s afraid I’ll get hurt.”
Because my uncle’s mother died in a riding accident, I thought. I mean, it made sense, but it didn’t seem possible to keep a free spirit like my cousin from doing what he wanted most. I hadn’t met Uncle Hunter yet, but I was already getting vibes about my role at Overhome. Did my uncle expect me to be the heavy with Jeff because Aunt Monica is a fluff-brain?
Suddenly, Luke rounded the corner of the stables. “Hey, Luke!” Jeff gave a delighted squeal and jumped up to give him a high five. “Can we go for a ride?”
“Sorry. Gotta take care of somethin’ right now.” Luke looked genuinely disappointed. When he saw Jeff’s young features fall, he reached out a hand to pat his shoulder. “Tell y’ what, Jeff. Wanna go with me to check th’ bridge? Abe found a broken board right in th’ middle of th’ bridge. Could be dangerous.”
“Cool! Do you think it’s the Night Riders?” Jeff’s cheeks flushed.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Luke looked at me. “Night Riders. It’s a gang of local guys. Bad boys with too much time on their hands. They get wasted an’ roam around th’ countryside at night playin’ pranks.”
“Oh man! Do they make Abe mad,” Jeff put in. “Hey, Ashby. Come with us.”
Over Jeff’s head my eyes locked with Luke’s. He gave a quick nod, telling me he would watch out for Jeff if I wanted to beg off.
“How about I join you after I change my shoes,” I said to Jeff. My new leather sandals were already showing signs of abuse from the day’s walking. Tromping around shopping malls at home could not compare to the stones and gravel and farmland I’d hoofed it over today. “I’ll meet you in a bit.”
Jeff waved, trotting off in the direction of the rustic bridge I’d seen earlier.
I ambled back to the house. My thoughts returned again to the idea that my uncle had invited me here for a purpose. Well, it was okay by me. It might surprise Uncle Hunter to know I had a purpose of my own. This summer was a perfect chance for me to find out more about my birth parents, and about Dad and the rest of my Overton ancestors, too. Not to mention the age-old mysteries lurking in the shadows of an authentic Southern estate. Why had Dad left me in the dark about his own past here?
All I knew was he had left Virginia over a disagreement with his father, something to do with Dad’s refusal to return to Overhome after college, which somehow led to his being disinherited. His father had left the entire estate to the youngest son, Hunter. Suppose Dad had inherited Overhome? Would I have grown up here? What would it be like to grow up wealthy in rural Virginia? To be a lake person?
In my room again, I rummaged through my suitcase for my well-worn Nike sneaks, when I spied a new bottle of sunscreen Mom had thrown in. “Don’t get too much sun on that fair skin of yours.” I heard her voice clear as day. I fished out my baseball cap and jammed it on my head. “I’m safe now, Mom,” I muttered, smoothing the SPF 30 on my cheeks and arms. My laptop rested beside my suitcase. I was in the habit of using my computer to keep a diary, my own log of memories to draw from for my writing.
These few hours I’d spent at Overhome were already full of promise. I reached for my laptop. It did not take long to realize that wireless would be a dream only for the distant future at Overhome. Finding an outlet beside the bed, I plugged in the computer, only to discover that the Net had not yet found its way to Overhome either. So much for Facebook for the summer. Icing the cake, my cell phone, for some reason, was a complete no-go in my room, though I had yet to test it elsewhere on the estate. Talk about a dead zone. No hope of any nearby cyber cafes, either. I was totally bummed.
At least my nifty remote control travel radio should work. I hit the scan button, searching for a decent station—a little rap, some alternative. “A.B.C. Anything but country,” I mumbled, as I scrolled past bluegrass, gospel, and some station that called itself, “the best country in the country.” Finally, settling for light rock, I propped myself against the ancient headboard and took to the keyboard.
Where to start? My experiences here could lay a solid foundation for a great historical romance. Already, I was writing settings and forming scenes in my writer’s mind. A mystery, perhaps. A romantic masterpiece. An American version of a Victoria Holt novel or a Mary Stewart trilogy, two writers whose styles I fell for in middle school and tried, without much success, to imitate. How I admired their vast vocabularies and sweeping sentences and remote, exotic settings. I had read every novel Mary Stewart ever wrote. The Crystal Cave blew me away. Of course, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte was like my Bible. I’d brought it with me for my annual re-read. The same for her sister Emily’s Wuthering Heights. I am a sucker for gothics.
Dear Diary, Believe it or not, there’s a hottie down in the Boondocks! His name is Luke, and he looks to be in his early twenties. Tall, dark, and handsome, he’s not, but pretty hunky, nonetheless. We didn’t exactly get off to a great start. In fact, he shows no interest in me at all. Luke talks and acts like a redneck, but I detect some deep currents beneath that macho surface. Could be interesting, eh?
Technology is in the Dark Ages here. What irony! I mean, I wrote “Ashby is going dark,” on the Wall of my Facebook before I left NJ. Little did I know HOW dark! It looks like I’ll have to depend on local color for fun. Stay tuned. I think it’s gonna be a long, long summer.
Oh, apologies to Victoria Holt and Mary Stewart and my dear Bronte sisters for the hormone-induced entry. Remember, I am gathering raw material here. There’s plenty of time to write my masterpiece! Muse, stay with me!
I closed my laptop with a snap and a silent promise to write more soon and went to search for Jeff. With any luck, he and Luke would still be tracking down the bad guys and I could join the both of them. I definitely wanted more face time with the stable boy.
FOUR
The music woke me; it was a song I’d heard long ago. Da-Dum Dum, Da-Da Dum Dum. I couldn’t tell where it came from. Low, melodious strains drifted around my head, like somebody above me sprinkling notes on the air. I looked up, but saw only stucco walls and wood moldings. A piano? No, it didn’t sound like piano. It didn’t sound like any instrument. It was more of a voice. A hollow, haunting voice without any words. Eerie as it was, the music didn’t frighten me. The melody was so pleasant, and that warm, protective feeling I’d experienced my first night in this room wrapped around me like a muffler. While I dressed, the song wafted its melody, but not until I stood before the oval mirror brushing my hair did the words come to me.
“Flow gently sweet Afton, Amang thy green braes.” That was all I could remember of the lyrics. Dad used to sing the song as a bedtime lullaby when I was very young. “Flow gently, sweet Afton.” Softly I sang the words, lilting over the Scottish accents as Dad used to do. The old tune made me smile at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t thought of it for years. What had brought it back to me?
“It’s this room!” I startled myself by saying aloud.
I began to think up all sorts of romantic plots. Somebody named Rosabelle had lived here and she’d sung the song to her children as she rocked them in an old oak chair. Or maybe a woebegone young suitor standing below on the lawn had serenaded a teen-aged Rosabelle standing at the French doors. Or, perhaps someone named Rosabelle had died in this room and her loved ones had sung the song at her wake. The last was too morbid, even for my writer’s imagination, and I shivered. Suddenly, I was in a hurry to get out of the room.
Memories never die in a place like Overhome. They just swirl around in the molecules until somebody breathes them in and they live again. The thought pushed into my mind as involuntarily as the music.
Still thinking about the music that drifted down from the sky like snowflakes, I headed for the dining room for breakfast, my mind moving over yesterday’s events. Jeff and I had spent the afternoon swimming and paddle-boating
in the lake, and then, since Uncle Hunter had not appeared, my aunt had gone to their club alone. Miss Emma had thoughtfully let Jeff and me barbecue and scarf down our dinner on the flagstone porch instead of subjecting us to that mausoleum of a dining room again. Then we’d played Chinese checkers until we both nodded off over the board. I never did get to the stables to see the horses, but Jeff seemed to be having such a good time, he didn’t notice.
“Well, well,” a modulated voice broke into my thoughts as I entered the dining room. A tall, slim man stood up from his chair, smiling. He looked nautical in a crisp blue polo shirt and khaki chinos.
“Ashby, so nice to meet you, at last.” He reached out his arms and drew me to him in a hug. “I’m your Uncle Hunter. Welcome to Overhome. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to welcome you. First a charity ball, then a boring meeting with my attorney. Boring but necessary. These days man cannot live by horses alone.”
My uncle looked so much like Dad that I felt I already knew him. I’d seen some old photos, but they hadn’t shown such an amazing similarity. Dad’s youngest brother could have been his twin. They both had the same lofty forehead and cheekbones riding high and prominent in the narrow face. Even their dark hair was similar, curling a bit at the temples and the neck. Despite the seven years difference in their ages, they were startlingly alike. Except for the eyes. Uncle Hunter’s eyes were dark blue and deep-set. Overton eyes, yes, but Dad’s eyes crinkled and danced with subtle humor. My uncle’s glittered, hard as diamonds.
“Hi,” I said when I got my voice under control. I tried not to stare. “You and Dad look so much alike.”
My uncle smiled. “People have always said so. How nice it is to have you with us, Ashby.” He reached for the teapot and poured a cup for me and then for himself.
A Red Red Rose Page 3