* * *
I sought refuge in the sanctuary of the studio, but immediately regretted it. If I did turn the carriage house into a rentable space, I would have to face the prospect of packing up all my art supplies. Painting had become a refuge from my pain, and I credited it for getting me through these current tough times.
I took a quick inventory of the canvases, so many unfinished. What would I do with them all? I inspected my current work in progress, set up on the easel. It was a portrait of the Bartlett family, a Whale Rock institution, and I’d been lucky to get the work. Commissioned portraiture wasn’t exactly a booming business on the Cape. I’d best finish it up quickly so I could get paid. Every dollar counted these days.
Until my recent financial woes forced me to abandon my land- and seascapes, the only portraits I’d painted were of my own family. There were several of my parents, and two of Fiona, one each for Zoe and me. And, of course, several portraits of Ethan. Perhaps I’d ship them off to his snooty mother one day. If Brit were here, she’d probably suggest a symbolic gesture like taking them out on the sloop for a proper sea burial.
Granny Fi always told me my painting would never pay the bills. ‘Find a practical job,’ she’d said many a time. But then, she was a practical woman. How I’d hate for her to see the mess I’d gotten myself into now.
The sound of barking interrupted my dispirited reverie. I went out to investigate, and saw two twenty-something strangers and a dog sitting on the ledge of the sea cliffs overlooking Cape Cod Bay. The couple were spellbound by the stunning view and didn’t hear me approach. It was the striking black German shepherd who noticed me first and immediately assumed a defensive posture. The low growl was enough of a warning for me to halt.
“Whistler, down,” the young man commanded, and the dog promptly obeyed.
The woman offered a sheepish shrug. “He’s a bit overprotective.”
“Once he trusts you, he’ll be your forever friend.” The man patted the head of his devoted canine companion. “Right, boy?”
The dog maintained a wary stance, so I suggested, “Until then, maybe keep him on his leash?”
“I hope we’re not trespassing.” The woman leapt to her feet and dusted off the seat of her pants. “We seem to have gotten lost while hiking.”
“You wouldn’t be the first hikers to miss the trail turn.” I pointed toward where I assumed they’d made their mistake. “When you get back to the tree line, you’ll see a crumbling stone wall. A few yards beyond that is the trail marker.”
In no hurry to leave, the young woman looked toward the house and said, “I have to ask. Is this Battersea Bluffs?”
When I nodded, she turned to her companion. “I told you we were close.”
“Are these the famous Percy’s Bluffs?” He pointed toward the cliffs.
“That’s right.” I fought from rolling my eyes. More curious tourists. “Are you staying in town?”
A glance passed between them before they both nodded.
“The Hilliard House?”
They seemed a bit spooked by my guess. “How did you know?”
“Aside from the fact she has the only dog-friendly cottage rental in town, Evelyn Hilliard enjoys sharing all the juicy Whale Rock history with her guests. Did she send you out here?”
“Not exactly.” The young woman pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to me. “I wanted to see the haunted house.”
I glanced at the paper, recognizing a printout of a familiar article from over a decade ago.
~
October 31, 2005, Cape Cod Times, “Happenings at Battersea Bluffs”
Written by Edgar Faust, author of The Enduring Mysteries of Cape Cod
I was recently a lucky guest at Battersea Bluffs, the proud estate of the Mitchell family, which sits high on Lavender Hill at the north end of Whale Rock. When I walked through those stately doors into the grand entrance hall, I couldn’t deny feeling like a trespasser on a private history. Local legend claims the house is haunted by the spirits of the original owners, Percy and Celeste Mitchell. Does an evil curse continue to breathe its affliction through the genetic fiber of the Mitchell family? Celeste Mitchell alluded to said curse in a letter to her son, and when Percy arrived home to find the manse in flames, he damned the man who’d cast the wicked veil upon his family.
My own grandfather spoke with some of the witnesses who were at The Bluffs to help douse the fire. One man claimed to have been physically forced back by a wall of heat that surrounded Percy Mitchell when he burst out of the house carrying his dead wife. Others believed Percy was in a state of delirium from the pain and could not have been in his right mind when he leapt from the cliffs.
But I must pose this question: How did a man who was literally on fire have the physical or mental capacity to leave his own personal footnote? “I am not finished!” was his declaration to the world. Perhaps he’s still not finished. Perhaps he is unable to rest until he can be sure the curse against his family has been lifted.
If his spirit lurks within the bones of that grand old Victorian, I say let him be. Let him leave on his own terms this time.
I’m not a clairvoyant or a spiritualist, nor do I go in search of otherworldly beings. But I must give my readers the account of one strange incident that occurred when touring the Mitchell home. As I ambled through those noble hallways, I swore I detected a faint whiff of crème bruleé, which, as it happens, is a favorite dessert of yours truly. If you don’t believe me, ask Chef Henri at Café Muse. (Wink!) Could it have been subliminal? A seed planted in my brain from long-ago newspaper accounts of the tragic fire I uncovered while doing my research for this story—that men who worked to put out the fire reported smelling the strong sweetness of burning sugar? Celeste’s talents as a baker were well known, and later it was surmised the smell came from the large stock of baking ingredients she’d just had delivered to her pantry. But the sweet caramel scent that followed me like a shadow from room to room, though mild, was persistent. I’ve given serious thought to the experience, having read about the phenomena of specters presenting themselves as aromas significant to their lives. And I had to wonder: Was the lingering scent a presence, perhaps even a means of communication? Was the ghost of Celeste Mitchell trying to send me a message? Then again, perhaps I was just hungry.
I’m sure once this article goes to press, I will be asked if I believe the house to be haunted. Some readers may think I’ve already answered the question. Others who know me well will not be so certain. I’m a romantic, and I love the idea of Celeste Mitchell’s essence reaching out to me with her ephemeral tentacles of sweetness. But truly, does it really matter? Unless, of course, you’re living there.
~
“That story follows me closer than my own shadow,” I said. “I’m Cassandra Mitchell. Cassie to my friends.”
“Vince Jacobson.” He offered his hand, then nodded toward the woman, who smiled broadly. “My wife, Ashley.”
“Is it really haunted? The house?”
The young woman was obviously intrigued by the possibility. Why not indulge her?
“You should read Edgar’s book.” I pointed to the byline as I handed back the article. “This was printed about the time the book came out, probably as a tease to get readers to buy it. Our story rates right up there with other local legends like Lady of the Dunes and The Black Flash of Provincetown.”
“For sure I’ll have to check it out.”
I gazed up at the sky, contemplating the wisdom of inviting them to the house. They seemed a pleasant young couple. What harm could come from it? Besides, I could use a healthier diversion from my miseries than responding to Billy Hughes.
“How long have you been out today?” I looked pointedly at the German shepherd, who was panting from the arduous hike.
“We started early. Probably around seven thirty.”
“Time for a break then. Let’s get you something cold to drink.” I gestured toward the dog. “And a fre
sh bowl of water for the devoted Whistler.”
By the time my guests were settled on the large open-air porch, I was already annoyed with myself. Never before had I invited wayward hikers to stop in for some Mitchell hospitality. Had I become so pathetically lonely that I was now seeking companionship from total strangers? I tried to assuage my misgivings while filling glasses with tea, the crackling ice cubes echoing the cacophony of conflict in my head. Seriously, what shame was there in offering a bit of rest to some hikers and their weary pooch?
During this internal argument, I became enveloped by the aroma of burnt sugar, always a reminder I wasn’t alone in the house. The spirits of my great-grandparents apparently felt the need to rouse themselves from a recent state of dormancy. I walked to the kitchen window and took a long, hard look at the strangers who’d found their way to my doorstep. But what message were Percy and Celeste trying to send?
Conversation was easy while we sipped our tea in the fresh bay breezes. My guests were enchanted by the Mitchell family history, and not at all timid with their questions.
“I love the widow’s walk.” The young woman shielded her eyes and gazed upward. “It gives a romantic touch.”
“I’m told it was the one detail my great-grandmother had insisted on. She fancied the notion of being able to look out to sea where her husband and sons were out in their sailing vessels, to wave them home at the end of the day. However, it was also said that after her two eldest sons died in a tragic boating accident, she never returned to her beloved widow’s walk.”
“So you’re a descendent of the original owners?” Vince asked.
“Yes, Percy and Celeste Mitchell were my great-grandparents.”
“It’s both horrible and romantic, isn’t it? Percy leaping off the cliffs like that, holding Celeste in his arms, both of them in flames.” Ashley closed her eyes as if trying to envision the scene.
“The legend of Percy and Celeste is woven into Whale Rock’s history. People still come out here every December to toss wreaths of flowers down into the surf.”
“Do you mind?”
I shook my head. “They’ll never be forgotten. Nor should they be.”
“So your family has lived here in this house for almost a hundred years?” Vince relaxed into the cushions of the porch chair, prepared for a story.
“Actually, no. A wealthy architect was first to take ownership after the fire. Thankfully, he was painstaking in his goal to restore the Victorian to its original grandeur.”
“It seems he accomplished that goal.” Ashley stepped off the porch to admire the house. “She’s an eccentric old lady, isn’t she?”
“The architect apparently spent a good deal of time interviewing people who’d visited the house about specific details. Later, he sold it to a family who only used it during summers, and then it was sold twice more to other out-of-towners.”
Vince now leaned forward with a searching look. “So how did you end up back here?”
“It’s a bit convoluted and way too long a story for today.” I didn’t even want to think about how close I was to having to give up my home.
They were both visibly disappointed, but Ashley cheerfully suggested, “Another time?”
“Sure.” I returned her smile, finding the hopeful feeling sprouting within me both comforting and worrisome.
They helped me gather the glasses and cart the dog’s water bowl into the kitchen.
“At any rate,” Ashley quickly added, “we need to make the most of our last days of leisure.”
“Heading back home?” I asked.
They shared an uncertain look then, and as Vince began rinsing out the glasses, he told me their plight. “We’d actually love to hang out here for the rest of summer, but we’d need to find jobs and a cheap place to live.”
I didn’t want to discourage them, but most seasonal jobs in Whale Rock and surrounds were secured months in advance by college students looking for a Cape experience during their summer breaks. As for inexpensive dog-friendly rentals? Forget it.
“If you know anyone who needs a carpenter, Vince is quite handy,” Ashley mentioned casually, picking up a dish towel to wipe off the splashes from the countertop. “He once helped his grandfather build a cottage.”
“It was a small cottage.” Vince shrugged off the compliment. “But I learned a bunch about construction.”
Before I knew it, we were touring the carriage house as I explained my visions for converting it from art studio to income-producing rental.
“Wow, Cassie, you’re really talented.” Vince held up a painting of Whale Rock Harbor and pointed to a Mitchell Whale Watcher tour boat. “I think we went cruising on that boat.”
“It was once my family’s business.” I held up my hands to fend off questions. “Another story for another time.”
“I love your portrait work.” Ashley was checking out the Bartlett painting. She added in a joking tone, “Maybe you could paint us?”
I considered the suggestion. Vince and Ashley would make excellent subjects: Ashley, with her wholesome farmer’s daughter face, and Vince, who was just short of handsome with a shade of inscrutability. Now that she’d mentioned it, I itched to paint them.
Vince brought the conversation round to the renovation. He was generous with design ideas, and his enthusiasm for the project convinced me that my plan had substance. When he suggested that he and Ashley do the work in exchange for room and board, the combination of their eagerness and the persistent sweet scent of Percy and Celeste was so compelling, I found myself readily agreeing.
Now all I had to do was convince Zoe to come through on that loan.
3
Present day ~ Whale Rock
The next day, my new lodgers showed up with loaded backpacks and a duffel bag crammed with Whistler’s necessities. We started right in on the carriage house, with Vince hauling down dusty boxes from the attic to sort through.
My breath caught after prying the top from a crate of paintings only to find Ethan’s once-irresistible bedroom eyes gazing back at me.
Ashley sidled up and observed in an admiring tone, “Nice-looking guy.”
I glided my hand across the surface, clearing away dust and recalling the day when I’d hastily tossed all his portraits into this crate and nailed it shut.
“Sad memory?” Ashley asked, intuiting this from my silence.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Here, let me.” In a fluid movement, she replaced the top and began tapping the nails back into place.
Vince had descended carrying another stack of boxes and, with a quick read of the scene, heaved the crate aside. “To the barn for this one?”
I don’t know what affected me more: the sudden and unexpected longing for Ethan or the swift and compassionate intervention of these relative strangers who so easily grasped my despair.
They hovered like protective mama birds over a wounded fledgling, Ashley gently draping an arm across my shoulders and murmuring, “Just toss those troubles off the bridge, and watch them float far down the river.”
She sounded so much like my grandmother, for an instant I thought it was a memory of Fiona’s voice echoing in my head.
“At least you’re smiling.” Vince handed me a tissue.
“My Granny Fi used to say things like that.” I wiped away the wetness. “And she was always right.”
“Funny how that goes.” Vince winked, then hefted the crate and left to stow it out of sight in the barn.
Ashley gave me a squeeze, then let go and walked over to a box marked “Fiona Patrick.” She dragged it over to me and opened it. “These were her things?”
“Mm-hm.” I lifted out a feathery-soft afghan and held it to my cheek while Ashley flipped through an old photo album, stopping at a faded color image of a man posing in front of a sailboat. “That’s the only photograph I have of my grandfather, Ambrose Mitchell.”
“Anyone could see where you got those stunning green eyes.” She look
ed up from the album. “But where did that gorgeous hair come from?”
My thick mane with its rich russet tones was my one vanity, and yet still I was flustered by the compliment. Vince entered with the save, appearing with a block of cheese and a loaf of bread. “Time for a break. I raided your kitchen.”
Vince poured us each a glass of wine, glancing first at his wife and then at me. “Maybe you’ll tell us now how your family returned to The Bluffs?”
“Yes, please.” Ashley leaned in eagerly
A smile played on my lips as I recalled Granny Fi frequently recounting the tale during my curious youth. If not for her, I’d never have learned anything about my family’s history.
I smoothed my hand over the afghan as if to connect with her spirit. “My Granny was the only daughter of the local grocers, an overly protective father and a pious mother. To hear her tell it, a mere glance in the direction of a boy brought out her mother’s rosary beads and her father’s threatening scowl. My grandfather, Ambrose Mitchell, had been the only boy in town brave enough to risk the wrath of both God and Mr. Patrick to pursue Fiona’s attentions.”
“Here’s to Ambrose.” Vince lifted his glass in salute, provoking a playful rebuke from Ashley.
“Shh. Don’t interrupt.”
“Anyhow, my father was conceived just days before my grandfather left for the Navy. As Granny Fi liked to tell it, when Ambrose shipped out, she’d sent him off with a taste of her womanhood, and he left behind his planted seed.” I made a face.
Ashley giggled. “What a character she must have been.”
“Oh yeah.” I had to chuckle. “But people respected her, which was unusual for an unwed teen mother in those days.”
“What happened to Ambrose?” asked Vince.
“He was killed while serving on a US patrol boat in China that was mistakenly bombed just days before the tragic deaths of his parents.”
“A freak accident?”
No accident. The lighterman’s curse.
~
Eighty-five years ago ~ Cape Cod Bay
“Untie her, Ambrose, me boy,” Percy instructed his youngest son, and then glanced with concern at Celeste. Wearing a mask of sorrow, she clutched tightly to her breast the urns holding the ashes of her two older boys.
House of Ashes Page 3