Gnarled Hollow

by Charlotte Greene

  She sighed and sat down again. “What’s even stranger to me right now is that I can’t find a single record of the one painting I can recognize—the Turner. It’s almost as if it never existed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. No one has any record that Turner even painted that scene—no one. It’s a complete enigma. For someone as famous as him, it’s almost impossible. We have his notebooks, his sales receipts, for God’s sake. We basically know every work he ever painted. But not this one—not the painting or the sale.” She shook her head. “I can’t explain it.”

  Emily glanced around the room at the other works of art, and a little shiver ran up and down her back. Ever since she’d started helping June, she’d been looking at the works in this house a little more closely. June was right. Every piece in the house was museum quality. Generally, when she’d visited stately homes in the past as a tourist, the quality of the artwork was mixed. The wealthy, like anyone, sometimes made poor choices when they bought things. But the artwork in Gnarled Hollow was, overall, impeccable.

  The only paintings she didn’t care for were the portraits, but even she could see that they were well done. Moreover, she had noticed that the portraits and landscapes were all of a type. To her eyes, anyway, they seemed to have been painted more or less in the same time period. This was also unusual, as it suggested that either they were all bought at the same time, or that the family had decided to keep buying paintings from the same era. This too was unlike any stately home she’d even visited. In most big houses, she’d seen a mix of eras, reflecting art trends over time. The art throughout Gnarled Hollow was uniform.

  “Do you have any theories?” she asked.

  “Yes, actually, though I don’t have a lot of evidence yet.”

  “What is it?”

  June grinned and stood up. “Come look at this painting first. It’s a lot like the Turner but with some obvious differences. I was eating breakfast this morning, thinking about all the paintings, and suddenly remembered something I saw in this one a few days ago but hadn’t really registered at the time. I got it down again to examine it up close, and I was right. See if you can spot it, too.”

  The painting showed the New York City harbor. The skyline was immediately recognizable, but the perspective of the piece put the city far in the background. Like Turner, this painter wanted, instead, to show the grand majesty of nature, primarily, and had focused almost entirely on the water and heavy storm clouds. A small boat threatened to wash under one of the turbulent waves, and the colors overall were dark and threatening. Emily peered at it closely for a long time and then at June for explanation.

  June pointed at the boat, the sky, and the water. “If I were giving a lecture on this painting in an art-history class, I would tell my students that this is a perfect rendition of what artists in the Romantic era called The Sublime. The notion of The Sublime came out of philosophy in the eighteenth century and eventually influenced artists, primarily in Germany and England. The Sublime is, to put it simply, grandeur on a scale that inspires awe. In art, this usually means scenes like this one—where mankind, or the evidence of mankind, is diminished in the face of nature. Here, the sky and the ocean are so powerful that this little boat has no chance—it’s miniscule and weak. When we look at a painting like this, we’re supposed see ourselves—our own insignificance in the face of this storm. We, like the boat, are nothing to the ocean and the heavens.”

  Emily smiled. “Yes—I see.”

  June pointed at the distant city. “But here’s where things get strange, and here’s where I think we see Turner’s influence in this painting most clearly. With some Romantics, we detect very little evidence of man. In fact, some of paintings don’t even depict human figures—we see only nature’s awesome force. But in this painting, we can see the city. If you look closely, you can see industry, smoke stacks from factories, that kind of thing. Turner did this a lot, especially in his later paintings, with London and other cities. Mankind, in this painting, has some power. For example, if this little boat can make it through the storm, it will be safe, because New York is safe. The storm hasn’t affected it at all. People are working despite the rain. And then there’s also this.” She held the magnifying glass up to the painting. “What do you see?”

  Emily bent down and peered at it closely before standing up again. “Is that the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  June smiled and rolled her hands for her to continue.

  “But wait,” she said, confused. “When was the Brooklyn Bridge built?”

  “The late nineteenth century.”

  “And when did Turner paint?”

  June was clearly pleased that she was catching on. “The first half of the nineteenth. He died in the 1850s.”

  She hesitated. “So you’re telling me that this painting is more recent than Turner?”

  June nodded vigorously. “More than that—I think it was painted, at most, about a hundred years ago.”

  She shook her head, still confused. “But that would put it, what, seventy, eighty years after Turner?”

  June smiled. “About that.”

  “But if the Brooklyn Bridge is built in what—the 1870s, 1880s?—that’s not really that long after Turner. But you’re saying this was painted later than that? How do you know?”

  “Two things tell me, actually. One—the paint. I’m sending a sample to have it analyzed, but I’m fairly certain this is modern paint—early twentieth-century paint. The other clue is both obvious and not.”

  “What?”

  “The skyline, of course!” June said.

  Emily took the magnifying glass from her again and scrutinized the city. Some taller buildings stood there—clearly none of the awesome skyscrapers from the later twentieth century, but one stood out in vast relief against the cloudy sky.

  “What building is that?” she asked.

  “It’s the Woolworth building. Completed in 1912, opened in 1913.”

  “Wow,” she said. “That’s incredible.”

  June laughed. “I almost missed it. I had to look it up. Some of the buildings in the late nineteenth century were pretty tall, but nothing like the Woolworth. It was the tallest in the city until the 1930s.”

  “So this painting was created between what, 1913 and 1930 or so?”

  “About that, I’d say. And yet, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was painted around 1840 or 1850. I’ve never seen anything like it. The 1910s and 20s were the first heyday of Post-Impressionism and Abstraction. No one was painting like this then.”

  “No one paints in an older style?”

  June shrugged. “I mean sure, people try to do it all the time, I guess. Especially students. But it’s one thing to try to paint your own Turner, and another to fill a whole house with them.”

  “So do you have any ideas who painted this?”

  “A couple of them. The Lewis family could have hired people to do all of these. That would make the most sense. Maybe the Lewises that lived here originally bought the real Turner. That would have been about the right time to buy one, a couple of decades after he died. Even then, it would have been difficult to buy one. And then maybe they wanted more but couldn’t afford them or couldn’t get them for some other reason. He was and is very popular. Even if you wanted fifty Turners, you wouldn’t be able to buy that many. Some of the paintings in here are definitely older than this one with the Woolworth. The portraits and at least some of the land and seascapes are more like 1880s or 1890s. And like I said, I think different artists did them, so they might have kept hiring people to paint this way over the decades after they moved in.”

  “What’s your second theory?”

  June paused, suddenly seeming strangely reluctant. “I don’t have any evidence of it, so I can’t really say.”

  Emily laughed. “Oh, come on. I don’t care about evidence. What is it?”

  June averted her eyes. “I think, except for the Turner, the family painted all of
these on their own.”

  The air rushed out of Emily’s lungs, almost as if it had been sucked out, and she turned slowly around in place, taking in the paintings here in the sitting room. At least ten works hung in this room alone, all of them masterpieces. She had several like them in her bedroom, and she’d seen paintings in every room except the attic, library, and kitchen. The house was like an art museum.

  “You’re right,” she finally said, meeting June’s eyes. “I know you’re right. They did it themselves.”

  June smiled and then looked uncertain again. “Of course, there’s no way to prove it yet. It’s just a…feeling, I guess.”

  Emily thought for a moment. “Now that you’ve said it, I feel it, too.”

  “Imagine! A whole family of artists. I mean, maybe not everyone, but at least a few of them were. Just in here, I’ve found evidence of at least four different styles. That means, at the very least, four different people schooled in this technique.”

  “Incredible.”

  “I’ll need more evidence, of course. I’m going to keep looking at the paintings, but maybe you’ll find something when you and Mark start researching the family a little more. I’ve never heard of anything so crazy. If we can prove it, it’ll be a sensation when I get the news out.”

  Her eyes were already locked onto the painting she’d been examining, and Emily decided to excuse herself and leave her to it. June kissed her briefly, clearly distracted, and Emily turned to leave. She stood for a moment in the doorway to watch June work. There’s nothing sexier than a smart woman, she thought.

  She tore her eyes away and then paused in the foyer by the front door. She should go upstairs and get back to work on the papers with Jim, but she couldn’t make herself do it. She was about to go outside and find Mark when he came inside. He was holding his notebook and the measuring wheel, his face pale.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He shook his head and then sighed, his expression changing from one of fear to resignation. He glanced quickly into the sitting room, held up a finger to his lips when he saw June, and indicated the dining room. Confused, Emily followed him, and he was careful to close the door after them. They both sat down at the far end of the enormous table, where the original house plans were still laid out.

  Appearing grim, he drummed his fingers on the table before speaking. “Before we begin, I have a favor to ask. I want to keep this between you and me for a while, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “You’re more open to hearing it. And, well, I don’t want to frighten the others unnecessarily.”

  She gave him a wry grin. “But you don’t mind scaring me?”

  He looked at her evenly. “But you’re not, are you? I mean, not like the rest of us. Some of this has spooked you, at least for a while, but you’re okay right now, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  He smiled. “That’s what makes you different, Emily. The rest of us are terrified. I don’t know how the others are managing to keep up appearances, but if they’re anything like me, they’re hanging on by a thread. Most of the time I’m here, I want to run screaming from this house, drive away, and never come back.”

  She considered what he’d said. She’d obviously spent more time with June than anyone, and she knew he was right about her, at least. Last night, for example, June had been jumping at shadows, flinching at the tiniest sounds. When they’d finally gotten into bed, she’d been trembling. Emily had held her long enough for her to fall asleep, but it had taken a while. In retrospect, she’d thought at the time that she was being brave for June, but now she realized that she was genuinely not frightened—not then and not now. She’d been terrified plenty of times since she came to Gnarled Hollow, but Mark was right—she wasn’t always scared.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll keep it to myself for now.”

  He slid his notebook over to her, and she saw sketches with the outside measurements of the house, greenhouse, and pool house. “I noticed it first when we were in the attic. I couldn’t be sure last night, but then we measured the rooms on this floor and the bedroom floor, and I was pretty certain I was right.”

  “What is it?”

  He took the notebook back and opened it to his drawing of the attic. He’d put the room measurements she’d gathered into it in tiny letters and numbers inside the drawing of every room.

  “What am I supposed to notice?” she asked.

  “Just take a look those measurements.” He pointed to the long and short length of the house.

  “Okay.”

  “Now look at this,” he said, turning back to the page with the measurements taken from outside the house.

  “They’re the same,” she said.

  He took the notebook from her and flipped it to his sketch of the ground floor before sliding it back to her. She examined it closely and saw the difference in the measurements immediately. She looked up at Mark, her stomach dropping with fright.

  “They’re different,” she finally said.

  He nodded, his face ashen and grave. He opened his notebook to his rendition of the attic. “The attic is the only part of the house that’s right. It matches what I found outside when I measured it. The rest of house, however…”

  “Is much smaller,” she said. He stared at her levelly without saying anything, and she broke out in a cold sweat.

  “But how can that be?” she asked.

  Mark stood up, setting his notebook to the side, revealing the large, blueprint-sized plans of the house, still unrolled and pinned by glasses and saucers. “The original plans here match the measurements I took outside and those in the attic from last night. Even the windows on the attic floor are exactly the same as the plans. I should have seen that yesterday, but I overlooked it.” He moved the outside plans and the attic plans under those for the ground floor. “But, as you can see, these original plans are very different from the actual measurements we took inside the house.” He moved them and replaced them with the plans for the bedrooms. “And these are wildly different. In fact, the floor with our bedrooms measures even smaller inside than the ground floor.”

  “But how is it possible?” she asked.

  He laughed. “If the walls were thicker in some places—and I’m talking much thicker, feet and feet thicker—we might have an explanation, but they aren’t, of course.”

  “But how?”

  Mark shook his head. “It isn’t possible, Emily. There’s no explanation. I’ll need to go through it more carefully later when I get to Plattsburgh, but we’re talking tens of square feet missing here on the ground floor, and even more on the floor above us.”

  The clock started chiming, startling them both, and Mark cursed. “I have to get going. I’m meeting the professor in Plattsburgh for dinner and need time to check into my hotel and get settled.”

  He starting putting things away, and she helped him roll up the plans and get organized. Then she helped him carry the plans, his notes, and the large leather builders’ notebooks out to his car.

  “How much are you going to tell him?” she asked. “The professor, I mean.”

  Mark shrugged. “As little as possible. I need a relatively local contact, but I’m starting to think we should keep all of this to ourselves for now. We’ll need proof—lots of proof—before or if we decide to go public with what we’re finding here, especially the more unusual things.”

  “Agreed.”

  He moved to get in his car and then turned back to squeeze her shoulder. “Be careful this weekend, would you? Call me if things get bad again.” He glanced at the house briefly and looked away again. She saw a flash of fear in his face, but it was gone a moment later when he smiled, gave her a brief hug, and got inside his car.

  She waved as he drove off, and after he disappeared around a corner, she rubbed her arms despite the warmth of the day. She had her back to the house, and when she turned toward it, a feeling of foreboding so deep and pow
erful swept through her she almost moaned. She had to reach out to steady herself on the wall of the carriage house, certain she would fall over.

  But the feeling passed and she walked inside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emily was dozing in bed. She’d gone up to her room early, too tired to play cards with the others. They’d all agreed to avoid being alone in the house, but they tended to do this only when it was convenient. Call it sloppiness or call it forgetfulness, but each of them spent time alone. Further, she had decided long ago that being together wouldn’t help anyone. Things happened even in pairs and groups. The house would do whatever it wanted to do to them whenever it decided to. She hadn’t shared this insight with the others, however, as she wanted them to have the illusion of control and safety.

  She hadn’t been getting enough sleep lately. Part of it was, of course, June. Last night, for example, after June had finally dozed off, Emily had lain there fully awake for at least a couple of hours. What she’d told Mark was right—she wasn’t scared. She was excited to be here—curious to the point of distraction. She knew she should never tell anyone about this feeling of exhilaration. They would think something was wrong with her.

  Now, lying in bed, her book on her lap, she was fighting sleep. She’d planned simply to lie down and rest, read a little before June came up, but though it was barely nine in the evening, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. This far north, the sun had only recently set, and the room was still bathed in pale light.

  She must have fallen asleep, as the next time she opened her eyes the room had sunk into utter darkness. She could see moonlight outside, but it barely penetrated the room. The other side of the bed was still empty, so it couldn’t be too late, or June would be there. But perhaps June had decided to sleep in her own room tonight, maybe to avoid disturbing her.

  She was about to sit up and investigate when the hallway door opened. She saw June’s silhouette for a moment, and then she came in and closed the door after herself, plunging the room back into darkness.