by Jade Astor
“Tacky, aren’t they?” Justin leaned in the open doorway, his ankles crossed. “One of my great-great something or others must have liked them, so there they remain. Totally not my thing.” He winked. “That includes the mermaids, by the way.”
So his gaydar really had been pinging for a reason. Stephen smiled at him with new appreciation. Ugly as the figures were, a simple flick of his window shade would hide them from view, but that didn’t concern him. For now, he enjoyed gazing at Justin. “Mermaids aren’t my thing, either. Still, they don’t bother me.”
“Glad to hear it. And I hope the babbling of the water doesn’t keep you up at night. I don’t think I could stand to listen to it.”
“I’m sure it will be fine. It might even be relaxing. Kind of like camping beside a brook.” Stephen had never actually done that, not being fond of lumpy sleeping bags and bugs, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
“I suppose. Personally, I’d prefer a swimming pool, but my father always said no. He said it would disrupt tradition, but I thought he just didn’t want to pay for the upkeep. I assume Roark agrees with him. My brother, like my father before him, can be a real cheapskate at times.”
Unsure how to respond without sounding disrespectful, Stephen decided to change the subject. The sweet odor drifting through the open window suggested a less provocative direction. “The lilacs smell good, too.”
Justin sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “If you go for sickly sweet. You’ll probably dream about getting locked inside a flower shop.”
Stephen laughed. “There are worse dreams.”
“No doubt about that.” Justin eyed him thoughtfully. “So do you really think you’ll have fun mucking around in all that clutter in the library? I can see that your uncle’s into it, but what about you? No way you could be looking forward to this weekend as much as he is.”
“Sure I am,” Stephen protested, though he failed even to convince himself.
“Yeah? Well, sorry to say it, but I’m not interested in books at all. I got enough of books in school. Private school, of course. Stuffy, pretentious English teachers by the dozen. Reading feels like a punishment to me. Never went to college. Why bother? It would just be more of the same.”
“I never thought of it like that, maybe because I took practical courses in college—business administration and stuff like that. I thought I’d eventually help out in my father’s restaurant, but that didn’t work out.”
“Was that a problem for you?”
“No. Not really. My uncle needed the help, and it’s not a bad job. I don’t spend much time reading the books in the store. When I’m there, I’m mostly putting things away or filling online orders.”
“Glad to hear you’re into computers. I told you, I like modern things. That probably won’t change. On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind hearing about what some of your favorite books are. Maybe you’ll exert a positive influence on me, Stephen. You strike me as a highly motivated and intelligent young man. And I’m definitely open to new experiences.”
His smile suddenly turned inviting. Stephen’s heart sang when he realized that Justin wasn’t really asking about books. “Sure,” he said, trying not to stammer. “My pleasure.”
“Pleasure is exactly what I had in mind. Why don’t I drop by the library this weekend while you’re working? I promise not to disturb you. I’d just like to watch—and maybe learn a little about what my ancestors liked to read and write. There’s a lot of Fairbourne history stuffed in those dust-caked shelves, after all.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” The words brought up a troubling thought that instantly crowded out the more promising ones. “Justin…did you hear what Roark said back at the house? He said the library contained reminders of terrible things that happened in this house in the past. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“I have no idea, but that sounds like Roark. He sees darkness in everything—always has.”
“But what was he referring to? He described people and events as evil.” Nervously he glanced back at the statue, noting the two cupids’ malicious expressions and the mermaid’s defensively raised arm. “That seemed a bit extreme to me, unless he had something specific in mind.”
“Who knows with him? He’s always fantasizing about everyone plotting against him or doing him wrong. Paranoid, if you ask me. I thought he would grow out of it by now, but apparently not. Most likely he was just trying to scare you. Or at least sound interesting.”
“You think so? Funny way to go about it.”
“He’s not good with people. And our house is no more terrible than any other with a history stretching as far back as ours does. Human beings haven’t changed much over the centuries, in my opinion. They just got away with more back then. What we consider evil acts they considered business as usual. I don’t think we’re in any position to judge.”
Stephen nodded uncertainly. Justin’s answer wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear. “But what about…Istharios?” He blushed as he said the name, fearing Justin would laugh at him. “Did your ancestors really think a giant snake guarded the house?”
“I’m sure they did—but people believed in all kinds of weird stuff back in the day. Ever hear of the Salem Witch Trials? Yeah? Well, there you go. I say we should let the past rest. Good or bad, it’s over with now. All we can do is move forward.”
Justin’s confidence and rational outlook made Stephen feel better. Getting the upper hand was apparently Roark’s favorite pastime, no matter what the context. He could safely be ignored.
“Well, thank you for coming down here with us, Justin. I feel more comfortable with you than I would with Leo.”
“Good instincts. You don’t want Leo around you, trust me.” Justin tapped his forehead. “I’m sure you noticed he’s a little…different.”
“His mother works as your housekeeper, Roark said. That must make it easier for her to keep an eye on him.”
“She tries. Fails, mostly.”
“Stephen?” Uncle Vernon’s voice intruded, and a moment later he appeared in the doorway behind Justin. “We need to unpack and fix our lunch so we can get back to the house. We have quite a bit of work to do this afternoon, don’t forget.”
Justin held up his hands in surrender. “Blame me, not Stephen. He was trying to convince me of the wonders of book collecting. Unfortunately, I’m kind of a hard sell.”
“I told him he could drop in while we were sorting the books, Uncle Vernon. I’m sure we could get him interested in what we’re doing.”
“No doubt,” Uncle Vernon agreed. “We can explain our methods to you, Justin, but I’m afraid it must be a brief introduction. Interests of time, and all that.”
“I understand, and I’ll leave you to it for now.” Justin started to slip past Uncle Vernon, but changed his mind and turned back around. “You’re going to have an amazing experience here. I just hope you don’t hate us too much by the end.”
“Why would you say that?” Stephen asked.
“Oh, you’ll see. We’re not exactly normal. I’m sure that’s not a polite thing to say, but it’s true. When you’re poor and nutty, you’re just crazy. When you’re rich and nutty, you’re charmingly eccentric. Way of the world…and especially the way of the Fairbournes. Best to remember that.”
With that, he was gone.
“I’m sorry to send him away, Stephen, but we’re not paying a social call. You’d best keep your mind on your work while you’re here,” Uncle Vernon cautioned.
Through the window, Stephen watched Justin stroll toward the burbling fountain. On his way past, he leaned over and trailed his fingers through the lily pads and across the mermaid’s outstretched tail. Then he cut across the lawn and headed back to the house.
“I will,” Stephen fibbed.
Chapter 5
After a quick and uneventful lunch at the cottage, Stephen and his uncle returned to the library, set up Stephen’s laptop and a kit of archivist’s tools, and beg
an their preliminary inventory. Stephen realized that even preparing an estimate for the job would be no simple task. Every shelf was packed with books of all kinds. Though most of the books were relatively modern by collectors’ standards, some dated back a century or more to judge from the handmade covers and linen-fiber paper. Uncle Vernon suggested they start by pulling all the older editions from the shelves and listing them in a spreadsheet on Stephen’s laptop. Tomorrow they would work on the newer items, which would be more numerous but also easier to value. By the time they left on Monday morning, he believed, they would have a reasonably accurate list to present to Roark Fairbourne.
“If he decides to hire us, we’ll have to come back every weekend for the rest of the summer.” Uncle Vernon could hardly contain his excitement as he pulled on the white cotton gloves required to handle the rare volumes. Stephen followed with somewhat less enthusiasm. “Perhaps even into the fall.”
Stephen started to protest that he hadn’t planned to work at the shop past summer, but decided the prospect didn’t seem so bad as long as Justin would be around. With any luck, Roark would get bored hanging around the estate and move on to greener pastures. He decided not to argue.
As Uncle Vernon had instructed, he moved along the shelf methodically, taking down any items of interest and stacking them on his side of the long center table. Most of the older books were either long-forgotten novels or featured dull subjects like agriculture, history, and nature. He experienced a brief surge of excitement when he found a small blue book resembling a diary, but a brief foray through the handwritten pages confirmed that it was actually a record of household accounts, possibly kept by a housemaid or some long-dead Fairbourne lady. Rows of entries in faded brown ink recorded the names of goods beside numbers most likely representing prices.
Charmed by the quaint artifact, Stephen flipped through it, trying to decipher the old-fashioned cursive. He made out a few words that appeared to be “tea,” “flour,” and possibly “petticoat.” The single-digit numbers suggested the outrageously low prices of goods in the last century, but as Uncle Vernon had recently reminded him, even respectable jobs paid only pennies a day back then.
“Be careful with that,” Uncle Vernon cautioned from across the room. “We don’t want to cause any damage. Some of these pages are brittle.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “I know how to handle them. You taught me yourself, remember?”
“Just making sure.”
The hours dragged on until he came across a hefty tome recounting the joys of fly fishing. Stephen flipped through it, amused by drawings of gentlemen in powdered wigs and tailcoats casting modern-looking lines over scenic streams.
In the center of the book, he found a tiny wad of folded paper, yellowed with age and covered with smeared print. Setting the book aside, he cautiously spread open what turned out to be several newspaper clippings.
The top one, dated July 15, 1894, featured a Victorian-style drawing of a wide-faced young woman with pinned-up hair and a high, lace-trimmed collar. Though the acidic paper had aged to a deep bronze color, Stephen could still make out the letters. The caption beneath read “Olive Simmons.” The accompanying article described what the reporter called, with a touch of nineteenth-century sensationalism, “A Most Disturbing Disappearance.”
Four days ago, Constable Withers called at Fairbourne House at the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Silas Fairbourne, who informed him that an upstairs maid, Miss Olive Simmons, had apparently abandoned her duties without notice. A thorough search of the servants’ quarters confirmed that the young lady and her belongings had been removed in their entirety, with none of the staff members able to clarify when she had left or where she may have alighted.
Beneath the fold, another drawing depicted the same white-bearded man Stephen had seen in the portrait Mr. Fairbourne kept in the study.
Silas Fairbourne, master of the house, stated that he had never spoken directly to the girl, leaving the administration of servants to his housekeeper and other ladies of the household. His son, Bartholomew Fairbourne, likewise denied any knowledge of Miss Simmons’ whereabouts. Both gentlemen affirmed that over the years, a number of young servants in their employ had abandoned their posts, generally in order to abscond with a sweetheart or to seek more lucrative employment in Albany or New York City. One persistent rumor among the staff is that Miss Simmons desired a career on the stage, necessitating her removal to more urban environs. However, no one has yet come forward to substantiate such a claim. Apparently, Miss Simmons had no surviving family members to whom she may have confided her intentions or with whom she would seek refuge.
The article ended there, with no further speculation offered on the fate of Olive Simmons. Stephen found himself intrigued. Had the maid really run off to join the theater, or eloped with a dashing but unsuitable man—an aspiring actor, perhaps? He hoped one of the other scraps would solve the mystery. Gingerly Stephen refolded the clipping and picked up the next one. The date at the top revealed that a full year had passed, with July of 1895 shading into early August. This one featured a crude but serviceable drawing of a thin young man with a row of dark ringlets over his forehead.
Earlier this week, Constable Withers presented himself at Fairbourne House to inquire after Mr. Lucas Hodge, who disappeared last week, less than a year after he began employment as a footman with the family there. Mr. Hodge’s uncle became concerned when he did not arrive for his normal Sunday activities with his family, nor did he proffer any excuse regarding his absence at religious services or dinner.
The constable intends to continue his inquiries until a satisfactory explanation may be constructed. Mr. Hodge’s disappearance invites comparison to that of Miss Olive Simmons, who was thought to have left Fairbourne House with an unidentified suitor exactly one year ago. Her whereabouts have never been determined. The two young servants were not acquainted with one another.
“So Olive never turned up after all,” Stephen mused. He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until the creak of wood signaled Uncle Vernon’s descent from the ladder.
“What is that?” He crossed the room to peer over Stephen’s shoulder. “Have you found something of interest?”
“Not really. A couple of news stories tucked inside the fishing book.”
Uncle Vernon clucked his tongue as he examined them. “Not one, but two missing servants. Must have provoked quite a scandal at the time.”
“What do you think happened to them?”
“Oh, nothing sinister, I’m sure. They probably grew tired of waiting on the Fairbournes and went looking for other work. Times were different then. Young women had to be furtive if they were to claim any independence at all. They often ran off with their suitors—or wanted to hide a certain physical condition that would have destroyed their reputations.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I wouldn’t mention it to the Fairbournes, either. If Olive left to give birth to a child, it’s entirely possible that the father was either Silas or Bartholomew Fairbourne.”
“You don’t think one of them…you know…got rid of the problem in a more permanent way?”
“Possible, I suppose, but it’s more likely the family simply paid her off. Again, not uncommon in those days. As for the young man, he left to seek his fortune elsewhere, no doubt. Or absconded with some of the family silver and didn’t dare to show his face after that.”
“I hope they ended up okay.” Both Olive and Lucas would be almost a hundred and fifty years old now. Knowing they might have once stood in this very room, or swept and scrubbed the same floors he’d just walked on, made their fates matter to him. “Do you think the constable ever found them?”
“Not unless they returned on their own. Identities were more fluid then, and tracking methods primitive at best. A name change and relocation to another city or state and all traces of them would be lost.”
“You’d think Lucas would have let his family know, at least. They must have b
een worried sick.”
“Perhaps he did,” Uncle Vernon said. “He may have written later and sworn them to secrecy. But then, it’s possible that none of them could read or write. That would make things more difficult. I’m sure they worked it out somehow.”
“If he was still alive to send them a message.” Stephen felt a pang of sadness for the missing servants, considered expendable to everybody but their loved ones. Silas Fairbourne and his family seemed unconcerned with anything beyond the inconvenience of losing two servants—if he and his son Bartholomew had told the truth, at least.
“Well, nothing we can do about it now,” Uncle Vernon said, hinting that he had spent long enough on a trifle. The rest of the collection awaited their attention.
“I guess not.” Stephen refolded the clippings and forced himself to move on to the next book on the shelf. And then the next. He’d gone through four or five when he found the drawing.
Someone had doodled it on the endpaper of a particularly dull-looking collection of some long-forgotten theologian’s sermons. In this case, too, the ink had grown pale and faint over the centuries, leaving a tangle of reddish-brown lines. Stephen could still make out what the unknown artist had attempted to sketch, though—a muscular snake with its spade-shaped head resting on top of its tightly wound coils.
He gasped. “Uncle Vernon, look. It’s the same as the gate.”
Uncle Vernon wandered over, adjusted his glasses, and bent down. “So it is.”
“Why would someone have drawn this? Here?”
“I’m sure they had their reasons.” He flipped back to a random page and read for a moment. “Boredom, most likely.”
Something about the way the image had glared out at him made it seem far more than a whimsical scribble. “Uncle Vernon…you don’t think Olive and Lucas ran away because they were afraid of Istharios…do you?”
Vernon raised his thick white brows. “If they did, they were foolish young people indeed.”