by Wendy Webb
I thought he was going to pull me into a kiss, but instead he pulled away and walked to the kitchen area, a grin on his face. He filled up the kettle and set it on the stove.
“Julia, Julia,” he said, looking at the kettle and shaking his head slightly. “Being alone with you has me thinking things I shouldn’t.”
I grasped around in my mind for a witty response to that, but all I could think of was the heat that was rushing to my face and the tingling in my hands. I wasn’t exactly prepared to jump into bed with a man I’d only known for a few days. And yet. There was a timelessness to my brand-new relationship with Andrew McCullough that I didn’t quite understand, but felt just the same, deep in my soul. And it made me want to be as close as possible with him. Yet I wasn’t sure why. I watched him as he stood over the kettle until it boiled.
“I didn’t agree to come down here to seduce you, you know.” I smiled as he handed me a cup of tea and slid down next to me on the sofa. “I thought we were just going to watch a movie.”
“Make no mistake, Julia,” he said, his voice low. “If I’m ever lucky enough to coax you into my bedroom, it will be for one reason and one reason only.”
“What’s that?”
“True love.”
The room seemed to shimmer and sway, then, my peripheral vision blurring. All I could see was Andrew’s face, his eyes gazing into mine. Tears began to sting around their edges, and the sheer force of what I felt for this man washed over me like a wave.
“I found the letter,” I whispered.
“What letter?” His voice was a rasp.
“The one from Seraphina to Andrew.”
“The one she wrote to him after what happened at that last séance?”
I nodded.
“Where did you find it?” he wanted to know.
“In her biography,” I told him. “That’s the reason I went into the library in the first place, to find that book. I wanted to learn more about her. The letter was there, in the back of the book.”
“So that’s where it got to,” he said, his expression far away, as though he were looking directly into the past. “Mrs. Sinclair must’ve put it there when she was doing her research.”
I leaned back against the sofa. “You’ve seen it before?”
“Aye,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a long sigh. “Andrew kept it with his private papers.”
“So you know that it’s true, all of it,” I said, my voice wavering. “Seraphina was my great-great-grandmother.”
“I know. The name might have been a coincidence, and the name of her sister and your great-great-great-aunt being the same might have been a coincidence. But when I took one look at you, I knew it was true.”
“So, you also know they were deeply in love, my great-great-grandmother and your great-great-grandfather.”
He ran a hand through my hair, letting it rest on my shoulder. “Oh, I know that, too.” He was looking deeply into my eyes.
“Did true love find them, I wonder?” I whispered.
“I think we can be altogether sure of that, Julia,” he said, pushing me deeper into the back of the sofa and kissing me with an urgency I had never before felt, as though he himself had been waiting for this moment for more than a century. We slid down until we were lying together on the couch, his hands reaching under my sweater and burning hot on my bare skin.
I fully expected we were going to give in to what was obviously happening between us, despite what we had said just moments before. But he pushed himself away and sat up.
“I think I need some water,” he said, his voice gravelly and rough. He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “You?”
“Okay,” I said, gathering myself and curling my legs up beneath me, my whole body shaking.
He handed me a glass and slid back down next to me. “I’m sorry, Julia.”
“What for?”
“I’ve not been altogether honest with you,” he said, his eyes crinkling.
Not him. Not now. I took a sip of the cool water and tensed for what was coming. “Okay.”
“I told you that I didn’t want to, ah, take advantage of our aloneness but I didn’t tell you why,” he said, clearing his throat.
My stomach seized up. These types of conversations didn’t tend to go well. “Okay,” I said again.
“You threatened to leave Havenwood,” he said, averting his eyes from mine. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But I’m not going anywhere. This is my home and I’m here for the duration. If you do decide to leave us, it’s going to be hard enough to lose you when I’ve well and truly fallen for you.” His voice was shredded with the emotion of it all.
My spine tingled. He’s well and truly fallen for me? While part of me liked that idea, I had just met this man a few days ago. It seemed a little soon for this kind of a declaration, didn’t it? Although… was it, really? Our feelings were obviously leading somewhere, given what nearly happened a few moments before. He struck me as an honest man who wouldn’t abide any game playing. Maybe he was the kind of man who would say what he felt when he felt it, chips fall where they may. Okay, I thought. That’s something new.
“So you see,” he said, moving a bit closer to me. “If we were to continue this conversation in my bedroom, and you decide later to leave, I couldn’t bear it. I just couldn’t lose you like that.” Tears were shimmering in his eyes and he cleared his throat and shook his head, willing them away.
Sure, things were heating up between us, but tears? I didn’t quite understand the depth of his emotion. Maybe he was just a guy who fell hard and fast?
But, perplexing intensity aside, I knew he was right. If I did decide to leave Havenwood, it would be hard enough to leave him as it was. I was beginning to have feelings for this man. And I wasn’t at all sure how long I’d be staying.
And so, with the fire crackling in the fireplace and snow lightly falling outside, we snuggled down onto the sofa and put our feet up on the ottoman. We spent the afternoon watching movies. I sunk into the soft leather and exhaled, wrapped in the blissful normalcy of it all.
THIRTY-SIX
As the afternoon faded into twilight, I knew our perfect day was coming to an end.
I stretched and pushed myself up off the couch. “I should probably head back to the house and get ready for dinner.”
“I suppose you should,” he said, putting his arms behind his head and leaning back.
I smiled at him. “It has been wonderful to just kick back and do nothing at all. I can’t remember when I’ve been so relaxed. It has literally been months.”
“The first time you were here I told you that you’d need to get out of the main house from time to time,” he said. “Now you see why I had this place renovated.”
“I do,” I said, pulling on my boots. He jumped up and grabbed my jacket from the hook by the fireplace and held it as I slipped my arms inside. “It really is a little island of tranquillity on this strange and otherworldly estate.”
I thought about that as I trudged through the snow back to the main house, wondering what sort of “strange and otherworldly” things awaited me on the inside.
I had some time before dinner, so I hopped into the shower. After my long nap and day of lounging with Drew, I relished the warm cascade for as long as I could. After drying off, I wrapped my robe around me and sunk into the armchair by the window and watched the twilight turn into evening, wondering what my evening would bring.
As six thirty neared, I pulled on a black turtleneck and jeans—Mrs. Sinclair had said tonight would be an informal dinner—and closed my bedroom door behind me, descending the stairs one by one, my heart seeming to pound harder the closer I got to the main floor.
I found everyone waiting for me in the drawing room.
“Hello, darling!” Mrs. Sinclair sang out as I appeared in the archway. “What can I get you to drink? Wine? A cocktail?”
“Just water for me tonight,” I said. “My stomach is still a littl
e queasy.” This was a lie, but I had no wish to be dulled by alcohol. And, I hated to think of it, but one of them might have slipped something into my coffee that morning. Best to be on my guard.
“How was your film festival this afternoon?” she asked, handing me a glass.
“It was nice,” I said, smiling shyly at Drew. “I can’t remember the last time I was so relaxed.”
“Wonderful!” she said. “I’m glad you had a chance to rest.”
I took a seat by the fireplace and the evening began. We had our drinks, and after a bit of small talk, Marion materialized to let us know she was about to serve dinner in the dining room.
“Roast chicken and mashed potatoes tonight,” Marion said to me, uncovering her serving trays. “I didn’t want to do anything too adventurous, what with you not feeling well and all.”
I thanked her and she smiled a warm smile. Looking around the room, I saw that everyone was smiling at me. But their smiles didn’t extend to their eyes, not really. It seemed to me that they were being a bit too nice, a bit too caring. That was always it with these people—too familiar, too intense, too caring. I began to squirm, my skin itching.
We lingered a bit longer than usual over the dessert, but soon enough the time had come. Mrs. Sinclair pushed her chair away from the table and cleared her throat.
“All right, children,” she said. “Let us reconvene to the east salon, shall we?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
I avoided looking at the library altogether, and peeked around the east salon’s doorframe before following the others inside. I saw candles placed here and there, along with a roaring fire in the fireplace and drinks set up on the sideboard. Standard fare at Havenwood, I was coming to learn. It was what I didn’t see that caused me to exhale and step through the door. No hovering spirits floating from the painting, no lurking demons, only a room that looked warm and welcoming.
“Well, let’s get our drinks and get settled, shall we?” Mrs. Sinclair said.
Tension floated in the air while Drew poured drinks for everyone. The clinking of glasses and bottles was the only noise in the room apart from the crackling fire. I supposed the others were as lost in their own thoughts as I was. Adrian kept stealing glances at me and at his mother, his face a mask of worry and concern.
Mrs. Sinclair took a seat in one of the wing chairs next to the fireplace; Adrian slid into the other. I sunk onto the sofa facing them, while Drew hovered at the sideboard, clinking the ice cubes in his ample glass of Scotch. I finally let my eyes drift up to the painting above the fireplace—my mirror image, surrounded by unspeakable horror. I wondered if life was imitating art at that moment as I glanced at Mrs. Sinclair, whose face had become so dear and familiar to me in just a few days, and yet, as I learned in the library the night before, also harbored something monstrous and—dare I think it?—insane.
“All right, my darling,” she began, crossing her legs and holding my gaze, “you know I’m a master storyteller, adept at telling dark and macabre tales.”
“You certainly are.” I smiled at her and took a sip of water.
“Well, this is the darkest of them all.” She took a deep breath and turned her eyes to her son. “I suppose it’s best to just get on with it.”
A pang sizzled through my stomach, just as it had earlier in the day. I shifted in my seat and hoped it would go away. I had no wish for a repeat performance of what had happened that morning.
“Are you ready to hear it?” she asked.
I wanted to know the story behind the horror of the previous night—please let there be a rational explanation—but I had the feeling it had something to do with what happened ten years prior, when she was sent to the mental hospital. Suddenly, I was afraid to hear what she had to say.
“Mrs. Sinclair, you don’t owe me any explanations,” I said.
She smiled sadly. “Oh, but I do, darling,” she said. “I do.”
“Well, in that case, maybe I should have a brandy,” I said, crossing the room to the sideboard. Drew poured a generous shot into a glass, and I carried it with me as I settled into an armchair and crossed my legs, knowing I was going to hear a story by the great Amaris Sinclair.
“It all started one cold winter’s night, not too different from this one, when Seraphina held a séance in this very room,” Mrs. Sinclair said, her voice low and melodious.
As she spoke, retelling the story of the psychic and the Devil’s Toy Box, how opening it had unleashed evil here at Havenwood, how one man died and several other people were injured, the room seemed to fall away. I could see the events of that night, the frightened faces of the bereaved who simply wanted a word from a departed loved one and were confronted with evil instead; I could hear their screams and even smell the oil from the lamps placed around the room.
By now, I knew the story so well it felt like I’d lived it. A chill shuddered through me and I wondered if, combined with the stomach cramps, it signaled I was coming down with something. I took another sip of my brandy, hoping it would settle my stomach as it always had when I was younger.
“I knew nothing about that event before I came to Havenwood,” Mrs. Sinclair went on. “I had had some success as a writer at that time and was thrilled to move into this home with the agreement that I’d be presiding over Havenwood for my lifetime”—she winked at Drew—“until the rightful heir took the reins once again. In any case, once I got here and got settled, Havenwood began to work its magic on me.”
“I can understand that,” I said, savoring the heat as the brandy began to warm me from the inside out.
“I imagine you can, my dear,” she said. “I imagine you can. I was a young woman in those days, as young as you are now. And I was filled with excitement about where my life was heading. I had a successful novel, the house of my dreams, the best son anyone could ask for.” She smiled at Adrian and then gazed into the fire. “I had it all.”
“It sounds wonderful,” I said to her.
“Oh, it was,” she said, a wistful tone in her voice. “It was wonderful for many years. I wrote some of my best work here, enjoyed great success, and was so proud of my boy as he made his way through school, and then to university.” She sighed. “But then I got greedy, and I threw it all away.”
Adrian was staring intently at his mother, while Drew seemed to be absorbed in his drink. It was as though he wanted to be as far away from this conversation as possible.
It seemed that Mrs. Sinclair was waiting for me to prompt her, but I couldn’t seem to get the words out. Finally, she continued.
“It all began with this painting,” she said, gesturing upward. “I was entranced by it. And when I learned it depicted a real event in this house and a real person, Seraphina, I became ensnared. I had had no idea a famous psychic had ever been to Havenwood! The more I learned about her, the more interested I became. ‘Obsession’ wouldn’t have been too strong a word for it, Julia. I’ll admit that. I was obsessed with her story, and even with Seraphina herself. The fact that this exotic woman had been at Havenwood and attracted the likes of Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle and people from all walks of life who wanted to touch the spirit world… it was a story that enthralled the novelist in me.”
“Of course it did,” I said, imagining how excited she must have been to have discovered this mystery.
“I dug up all the information I could about her,” Mrs. Sinclair went on. “When I was on my book tours, visiting various cities around the country, I’d make it a point to stop at antiquarian bookstores to see if I could find a biography, or a book on Spiritualism that had her in it. I came upon plenty of information—she was famous and well regarded in Spiritualist circles—but I wanted more. Finally, as I was browsing the occult section of a dusty used bookstore in Baltimore, I found what I was looking for—the biography that we now have here at Havenwood.”
She sighed and took a sip of her drink, gazing into the fire. The flames crackled and danced.
“And that’s when I learned
of the séance that went so horribly wrong,” she said. “The séance that ended the magnificent career of this magnificent woman, and caused her to disappear from history. That it was held here at Havenwood—it was almost more than I could bear.”
I glanced from Adrian to Drew and back again. Both men were staring at Mrs. Sinclair, seemingly rapt by her words.
“Is that when you wrote the novel about her?” I asked, remembering reading it when I was in school. I had no idea that it was true to life or that I’d be walking into its haunted pages years later.
“It is indeed, my dear,” she said, her voice papery and thin. “But that’s not all I did, I’m afraid.” A tear escaped one eye and she brushed it away, shaking her head and turning her gaze once again to the flames. She seemed to be lost in them, watching their dances and sways.
“You said something about being greedy?” I prompted her.
“Yes,” she said, turning her head slowly to me. “I had great success, more than anyone should hope for in one lifetime. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I had to have more.”
She pushed herself up from her chair and walked over to the sideboard where Drew was standing. He freshened her drink and squeezed her arm, palpable concern on his face. She laid a hand on his cheek and smiled, her sadness radiating from her like an aura.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Adrian said, shifting in his chair. “Nobody blames you.”
“But, my dear, the sad fact is I am to blame for all of it, for what happened to our darling Audra.”
Saying the name of this Audra, Mrs. Sinclair’s voice broke into tiny pieces. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stifled a cry, turning to Drew, who wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
“Shh,” he said to her, patting her back and eyeing me over her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. Please believe that.” I wondered if he was speaking to me or to Mrs. Sinclair. Or to us both.