“This is ridiculous publicity. This is the kind of publicity that invites burglars and thieves. I do not believe in putting Winterhurst on the map, not on tours and not through newspaper articles. All the times that paper wanted to do articles on Winterhurst and its history and all the times I refused and this,” he said waving the paper emphatically in the air,” is what finally goes in there. It’s a disgrace!”
He flung the paper down at Twynne’s feet where it lapped open in the frosty breeze: “Wighte Ghost Moves to Winterhurst” blared the headline of The Rambler’s latest article.
Chapter 8
Crossett groped for the ringing telephone, vaguely aware that he had experienced a period of oblivion akin to sleep. It was more by instinct than anything else that he raised his arm heavily from beneath the wool blankets to knock around the bedside table until his hand found the receiver.
“Mr. Mainwaring?” a male voice inquired. It sounded to Crossett as if the man were speaking from the other end of a tunnel.
“Ye----e-e-s,” Crossett drawled as he slunk beneath the covers with the receiver, eyes still closed.
“Mr. Mainwaring, I’m calling from the Baltimore Herald. How are you, sir?”
“A little slee—“
“That’s good. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions, Mr. Mainwaring. We’ve been keeping an eye on your local papers there and it seems there’s something of a, uh, well, a mystery there in Barrow. I understand there are many prominent families in Barrow and I know many of them serve in the state legislature and even Congress—“
“Excuse me—“
“—in fact, the Mainwaring name is a very prominent one.”
“Thank you, but—“
“So naturally when it began cropping up in your local papers, we took note of it. I believe a Mainwaring was instrumentally involved in the defense of Baltimore in the War of 1812?”
“Yes, but–“
“We’d like to do a feature article on your family and the estate there.”
“No, I don’t—“
“The estate was part of the original 1632 charter to Lord Baltimore from Charles I, was it not? And many others in Barrow among them, including Wightefield? There has been some connection between the Mainwarings and the Wightefields, I believe. Wasn’t Christopher John Mainwaring IV reputed to be in love with Mrs. Robert Wighte and after her tragic demise at the hands of Union soldiers purchased a trusted slave of hers named Azzie?”
“Well, I believ—“
“This slave, Azzie—did he indeed buy her to find out where the Wighte family silver and emerald necklace had been hidden? I understand a trusted slave was often given the job of burying family silver. By the way, do the Mainwarings have any silver from Wightefield? You have a mantel from the front parlor, isn’t it? As a matter of fact, there are a lot of items from the older houses in the area at Winterhurst, aren’t there?”
“Who is this?”
“As I said, I work for the Baltimore Herald. So tell me, Mr. Mainwaring, is it true that your ancestor Christopher John Mainwaring IV found this Wighte necklace we’re hearing so much about and had it broken down into smaller pieces of jewelry? Mr. Mainwaring? Are you there, sir?”
“Who the hell are you? Where did you get this nonsense?”
“Mr. Mainwaring, I understand that you keep some of these smaller pieces from the original emerald necklace in a lock box at the Willard Bank.”
Crossett had his covers completely thrown off now and was sitting up on the edge of the bed, hovering over the telephone like the black cloud of a summer storm.
“I want your name—“
“I told you. I work for the Balti—”
“I don’t care who the hell you work for! If I see any of this garbage in print in any newspaper in the Washington/Baltimore area, I’ll sue you and your paper for every penny you’ve got! And I don’t need your name to do it—“ He heard the receiver on the other end rattle into its cradle, a brief silence followed, and then the hum of the disconnection began.
Ever since Twynne’s party, Crossett’s patience had worn so bare it covered his agitation like the thinnest of skins. Nearly everyone he knew was commenting on his ill humor these days, asking Anne if he had a medical complaint, speculating if their marriage was going awry. The gossip about him and Anne had fanned out with The Rambler’s newspaper article to include the estate at large and anyone that had once abided there. Nasty and long-forgotten tales of Mainwaring ancestry were surfacing at dinner parties and bridge parties and cocktail parties, in bank lines and in lawyers offices and in church pews, at weddings and at funerals. The gossip was fueling the conversation from beneath the hairdryers at Marie’s Country Coiffure and in the aisles of the local Safeway and Five-and-Dime. All facets of Barrow life had been successfully permeated as if by the tenacious vapor from a glowing cigarette.
The favorite topic was the sleeping habits of Christopher John Mainwaring IV, whose lordly impertinent gaze met Crossett every morning on his way to breakfast as if to challenge the scandal mongering. Christopher John’s handwritten list of slaves hovered like a specter over the deteriorating cellar highboy, the designated and official repository of all Mainwaring papers and, therefore, history. The sheet was in great demand: Two local papers had asked to photograph it for articles. The fireworks from Crossett the requests engendered had been so breathtaking and this reminder of the eminence of the Mainwaring name so blistering that no article appeared in either paper. Even Twynne had expressed a desire to see the indicting document, a request that sent Crossett into such exquisite paroxysms of rage, even he withdrew the petition.
And that ridiculous death bed proclamation concerning his excesses—Crossett winced to think of it, so outlandish was it, so unbecoming of one from as noble and prominent a family as Mainwaring. He had stood before the oiled portrait that morning, staring into the liquid brown eyes he knew he had inherited, the full lips that matched his own, remembering vaguely Anne’s exclamation when first she came to visit at Winterhurst—
“My goodness! You look exactly like him, Crossett! Isn’t it amazing how traits can be passed down like that from generations before…”
He had felt only exasperation at being compared to so tarnished an ancestor.
Now everyone wanted to know if Christopher John had made good on his promise to hover in the middle ground between life and death long enough to reclaim what he had considered his property. Christopher John’s propensity for his female slaves was so well known that at times everyone had assumed he was speaking of a runaway named Azzie, who had once belonged to the Wightes, had co-habited with Christopher John in a gray and questionable position and appeared on the coveted list of slaves. Azzie herself swore Christopher John meant her former mistress, Lamerie Tailler Wighte, but all of Barrow then and now was inclined to believe Christopher John was referring to the escaped slave.
Oh, the fireworks, the pacing rages up and down the halls of Winterhurst! It threw into question his own integrity. It was as if he had to answer for Christopher John’s indiscretions and transgressions, as if he were Christopher John himself who was tolerated in life but indicted in death, as if as his descendant he was to take the stand in his stead. Crossett knew nothing of his ancestor’s amors except the rumors all of Barrow knew. There was certainly no information on them in the family archives, just the blotted thinning piece of paper bearing Azzie’s name in Christopher John’s handwriting. As if that were enough to prosecute them all!
The contents of Winterhurst were becoming a source of intense interest in Walsall and Barrow. Someone had even tried to get a list of the separately insured items at Winterhurst from Crossett’s insurance company and the number of his safe deposit box from the bank. The countryside fairly hummed with speculation on any unmonogrammed silver at Winterhurst that belonged at Wightefield.
It was both shameless and shameful. He could only hope at this point that the novelty of it would eventually wear off, thus removing the spot
light from Winterhurst, at least by the time Maude and Sophie were of marriageable age. A groan escaped his clamped mouth. This was just the kind of thing that could lead to social ostracism spanning the generations. How well he knew! Would not Lamerie have been his wife except for the misfortune of her past, which made her unsuitable as the mistress of Winterhurst?
“Take the whole damn thing off!” he bellowed at Jake Hawkins several hours later as the two of them stood at the top of Winterhurst’s handsome front staircase. “Never mind the damn stairs now! Remove the mantel, the whole blasted thing!”
Jake stood in bewilderment at he top of the stairs, a state of mind foreign to him. He had been hired by Mrs. Mainwaring to look at the stairs, but no sooner had he arrived at the top of them than Mr. Mainwaring had ordered him to yank the mantel off the fireplace in the library, not necessarily a peculiar request for the ever-remodeling denizens of Barrow, but Jake was not accustomed to being ordered about in quite that manner. Jake Hawkins was more or less a fixture in Barrow. If anyone wanted any work done on the home at their family estate, they called Walsall Home Improvement and requested Jake. Thirty years ago they called for his father, George Hawkins. Now they called for him. George had known every inch of some of the finest houses in Barrow and had passed that knowledge on to his son, wherein lay a large percentage of Walsall Home Improvment’s profits: It had learned to cater to the whims of Barrow’s offspring in exchange for their patronage. Assorted jobs in Barrow kept Jake busy full-time, year-round.
He was not, however, fond of doing work for Crossett Mainwaring, so he was always relieved when it was Mrs. Mainwaring who called. She was polite and patient, but Crossett had an edge to him that only rankled Jake and so he walked on thin ice with Crossett because the Mainwaring name was the most honored of all. Simply put, he did not want to lose Crossett’s business and he certainly didn’t want to tarnish his own name as being ill-humored. Crossett was too peremptory in his requests and so they bordered on orders. He cut checks rather than wrote them. He was sparing in his verbal praises, and so sometimes Jake did wonder with a leap of his stomach what Crossett might report about him to his neighbors on whose business he relied.
Crossett had little love for Jake as well. He had seen on Lamerie the marks of struggle and defense. He had seen the miserable little apartment in which she and he lived, so small she was forced always to be in his company. And Jake watched her like a hawk.
But he held a trump card: his own wife born and bred Barrowonian with the papers to prove it, who elevated his own position considerably. Actually, the idea had come to him rather suddenly. It was not something he had mulled over for some time, not something engendered from thought and study. It had bowled him over one spring afternoon right there at Winterhurst as he was papering a bedroom with wallpaper Mr. Mainwaring had brought from another old house in the area. Why not? He had thought. Why not, indeed? He knew of her, had passed by the ruins of Wightefield like everyone else as he traveled the narrow, paved roads of the perimeters of Barrow, snaking in his truck through the sprawling tobacco fields of Barrow’s many estates. Wightefield. An emblem of ruin. A symbol of the dissipation of an old family. But still useful. It was also, ironically, a totem of wealth and position even in its consumption. Not only that, it was accessible through the daughter to whom the house would inevitably go in due time as the last living relative. It was perfect, it was easy, and before even he knew it, it was done. Lamerie proved as vulnerable as the final and singular genealogical link that passed the house at Wightefield along to her.
“I want to see what’s behind it,” Crossett was saying as he bounded down the stairs, leaving Jake standing uncertainly at the top.
It was just as Crossett’s foot settled on the centermost step of the staircase that he felt it. Instinctively, he turned to look up at Jake as he stepped on the second step and had time only to hold his hand up like a policeman at a stop light. And indeed it was as if they were at a stop light, as if it were not the appropriate moment to ascend the stairs from that particular step upon which Jake’s foot rested. It was not, it occurred to Crossett, the first step about which they should have worried, but the second, guarded by the impressive painting of Christopher Mainwaring and somehow compromised. It was, in effect, Christopher’s step to do with as he pleased. He was accustomed to that, doing as he pleased, and the bargain was that, even though he had passed into ancestorship, he had dominion over this one step in all of Winterhurst.
Crossett’s flailing was, however, enough to catch Jake, despite Christopher who for once had been robbed of his dominion over the second step.
“I shall have to look into this,” Christopher said repositioning himself slightly on the red settee.
Jake’s arms began to flail objectless in front of him and his sense of balance to dissipate. Crossett moved faster than he would ever have thought he could, but he had the notion that something was too soon and that his placement at the center of the staircase was contrived at some expense so that he would be within reachable distance of Jake. Even if he could not reach him, he realized he could certainly break what had all the potential of a fatal fall.
The two men locked arms, embracing each other like brothers after a long separation, finally grunting from the impact of each of their bodies against the other. Backward they stepped down almost dance-like in the flowering of a second before Crossett regained a sense of balance and held Jake in place for a long enough time to grab the corner of Christopher John Mainwaring IV’s gilded fame. The heavy portrait swung aside as if disgruntled at being pressed into the role of savior a second time but held its wire singing along the nail that kept Christopher John pinned to the staircase with his long-deceased relatives.
The two men let go of one another in embarrassment as Christopher John gently swayed back and forth along the wall with a soft brushing sound. Crossett carefully straightened the picture so that he stood eye to eye with his ancestor whose usual expression of mild disgust he now found particularly aggravating.
“I guess you see the problem now with the stairs,” he said gruffly to Jake. “A little first hand experience helps in pinpointing a problem.” It was an experience he would not care to repeat, Jake thought to himself as he reluctantly followed Crossett to the bottom of the steps.
“You be careful next time. There won’t be anyone there to catch you,” Crossett said as he turned to Jake in the hall. It was a fact of which he felt Jake should be made verbally aware.
“Come along,” Crossett said softly as he turned to go into the library. “I want this mantel off.”
The experience on the stairs had chastened Crossett. He stopped his bellowing behavior—at least for a time.
The events of the last several days, especially the telephone call that morning from the Baltimore Herald, had prompted Crossett to take this measure regarding the mantel. It was the last thing he could think of. Once inside the library, Crossett began carefully removing the Dresden tea cups, candelabras, and luster ware from the mantel shelf, placing them gingerly on a Chippendale pedestal table nearby as Jake stepped closer to examine the mantel itself. Somewhere in a more recessed part of the house, a brass handle hit the wooden floor with a dent as the tongs rolled from the brass jamb hook next to a fireplace. Its reverberating sound echoed with fearful familiarity as Crossett raised his head from his work. How many times had he heard that? He could hear it again in the depths of his mind as the dull thud of the tongs faded away.
The night before he had been asleep for what must have been a very short while when he felt himself dragged up from the depths of slumber as if a dark hand were squeezing the muscle of his heart. It pounded in bewilderment at the restriction and he suddenly awoke with a gasping breath. The banging filled the room, sourceless, echoing through the chamber with a ferocity only the slips of time could conjure. Yet when he raised his head from the pillow, the room was as empty as an unattended church pew. He glanced over at Anne, who slept peacefully and deeply, undisturbed by wha
tever ethereal noises Winterhurst bred for Crossett to hear. Slipping quietly from bed, he began the familiar journey though the house in search of the banging’s source. Unafraid of the stairs even after his recent experience on them, he trudged to the lower level of Winterhurst, disregarding the hazy light cast by the reflecting moon on the snow, whose precarious luminescence peered through the long, rectangular windows and examined with elongated shadows the many objects before it. Two strips of whiteness lay like runners on either side of the hall, cast by the narrow windows on either side of the front door. Quietly, he padded toward the library, with watery eyes and little sense of direction as he pursued his habitual round in search of Winterhurst’s nocturnal sounds. There in the paneled doorway he stopped, stunned that on this night there should be something there to see.
She stood in wait before the mantel until their eyes met; then she turned her back to him, her luminescent skirts leaving a shadow of their trail through the air, devoid of a noise of any kind. Her cloudy, wispy hands struggled to grasp the mantel shelf, passing through it time and time again as the tea cups and lutz bowls and candelabra lutzes all did a trembling, tinkering dance on the cream-enameled shelf. The sonorous banging began again with a clap like thunder that involuntarily turned Crossett’s head toward the upper story. When he looked back into the library fireplace, he saw nothing.
Skipping steps in his bound toward the bedrooms above he ran lithely up the staircase. Down the hallway he went, glancing into rooms as he followed the sound as it grew and grew reaching its crescendo at the very back bedroom where Maude slept. His breath gasped as he strove to keep up with the racing of his heart when he stopped like a statue at the door of Maude’s room. The unearthly banging filled the room from ceiling to baseboard, vibrating nothing, leaving Maude undisturbed, her little face slack in the immersion of sleep, utterly vulnerable to slumber’s distortion of time and space.
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