Winter Cottage

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  He kissed his mother on the cheek. “Maybe another day. Catching up with some of the boys in town.”

  “Claire? You must be hungry.”

  Slowly Claire unbuttoned her overcoat and shrugged it off. “Thank you. I’ll be very ready to eat by then. Where’s my room?”

  Mrs. Latimer fetched a fresh muffin from a tin, wrapped it in a napkin, and pressed it into Claire’s hand. “You’re on the third floor, last door on the right.”

  Jimmy grabbed another muffin for himself. “But while I’m here, I won’t say no to another one of these.”

  His mother squeezed his hand tight. “I swear to heavens, boy, you could eat your weight in food.”

  “When it’s your cooking, I surely can.” He winked at Claire. “See you soon, Songbird.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Claire

  January 10, 1916

  Suitcase in hand, Claire moved past a grand staircase on her right and around a corner to a smaller, narrower set of stairs. She climbed to the second floor and glimpsed several doorways leading into large rooms. This was the family’s floor. A narrower set of stairs took her to the third floor, where she made her way to the last door on the right.

  She pushed it open to find a beige room furnished with a twin bed, a compact dresser, a washbasin with a pitcher, and a cane chair. The last time she had stayed at the cottage, she’d shared a room with another servant, who she remembered hated the wind, snored, and was desperately missing New York and her large Italian family. But this time Claire had a room to herself. If she extended both her arms, she could almost touch both walls, but the private room was a sign of her improved position in the household.

  She set her bag by the bed and carefully placed the muffin on the dresser. Closing her door, she hung her coat on the door hook and then removed her hat and placed it beside the muffin. From her bag, she removed a muslin-wrapped package, carefully unwound the fabric, and found the silver frame containing a picture of Claire, her mother, and her three sisters. The girls were gathered around their mother, whose belly was heavy with her fifth child, the first Hedrick boy, Stanley, who would become the apple of their father’s eye, along with Joseph, born in 1899, and finally Michael, in 1900.

  The photograph had been a luxury. Their father had done well sailing the seven seas, and the extra income had allowed his wife to splurge. Claire had been ten, Jemma had been nine, Sarah, eight, and Diane, seven. She remembered the photographer had smelled of engine smoke and spicy aftershave, and he’d kept ordering Diane to be still as he positioned her beside the settee where their mother sat. He’d instructed Claire to place her hand on her mother’s shoulder, and when she did, her mother had instinctively covered it with her own. The photographer had taken this picture at that exact moment.

  Claire kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the black-and-white image of her mother’s face. “Love you, Mama.”

  She positioned the frame on the dresser and then unpacked a brush, comb, and other necessities, which she always arranged in the exact same order, no matter where she was staying. She carefully stripped off her jacket and then her blouse.

  The sound of a barking dog drew her to the freshly washed windows overlooking the back property stretching toward the bay. Her gaze settled immediately on a man’s broad shoulders. He was swaggering across the sand toward the lighthouse, and there was no mistaking it was Jimmy.

  She raised her fingers to the glass and gently traced the outline of him. She’d hoped to see him again on this trip, and to discover he was the driver had thrilled her more than she should have dared to allow herself to feel.

  As if sensing her, he stopped, turned back, and looked up, searching. Their gazes locked for a moment, and he touched his index finger to his temple in salute. Realizing she was in her shift, she stumbled back into the shadows, her heartbeat jumping a few beats as a blush warmed over her cheeks. Perhaps she should have been embarrassed, but she wasn’t. She smiled, happy he had remembered her.

  The wind pressed against the window, rattling the thick glass. She wanted to look again and search for him. She hesitated until she could summon the courage to approach the window a second time. As she did, the excitement rushing through her body quickly fizzled when she realized he was gone.

  Disappointed, she wondered why she couldn’t tease and tempt like Victoria. Even her sister Diane had had the courage to speak to people or joke with the boys in town when she was only nine. “You’re Mama’s solid, dependable one,” Diane had once teased.

  Claire had been the daughter who kept the oven fires burning, watched after her siblings, cared for her mother after a difficult birth, and guided her sisters over the two-mile walk to the school. She’d wanted to be careless and to laugh more like Diane. She’d wanted to read more like Jemma or daydream like Sarah. “You’re the little mother while I’m gone,” her father had always said before he left for one of his distant voyages. Being the oldest, it had been expected, just as it had been expected that she look after Victoria. She’d never once shirked her responsibilities.

  She turned from the window and changed into a serviceable black skirt that skimmed her calves, a white blouse, and her very practical black boots. Sliding her hands over the skirt, she glanced into a small mirror and adjusted a curl before she headed downstairs for supper.

  The utter silence of the third floor was comforting. In the city, there were always servants rambling about the large Buchanan house, the rattle and roar of the city streets, or the thump, thump of the sewing machine. Always noise.

  On the second floor, the room on the right was painted a light blue and furnished with a simple four-poster double bed made up with a robin’s-egg blue eyelet cotton coverlet. A polished pair of men’s dress shoes were by the bed, and on a coatrack hung a black evening coat. She moved into the room and reached out to gently rub the garment’s fabric between her fingers. The cut was the latest in fashion, suggesting this was the young Mr. Buchanan’s room. Like his father, he enjoyed finely made clothes. On the dresser was a bottle of cologne, and beside it, a silver comb and brush. Entwined in the bristles were strands of thick, dark hair. Jimmy, she imagined, would laugh at such finery.

  Floorboards creaked behind her. “Claire, you have found your way back to us.”

  She turned quickly, finding a smiling Robert Buchanan standing on the threshold. His suit was fitted to his tall, lean frame, and thick, dark hair swept away from pale, delicate features reminiscent of Victoria’s.

  She hurried toward the door, knowing she’d been caught snooping. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Buchanan.”

  He blocked her exit, looking more amused than vexed. “Please, I’ve told you, it’s Robert. If you’re here, that means my sister has arrived.” He cocked an ear. “Though I don’t hear the phonograph or the endless peals of laughter. Are you sure you didn’t forget Victoria?”

  “She’s here. Napping, I believe.”

  “Ah, she had a devil’s night, I would imagine. Out with our cousin Edward again. That boy adores her, and she treats him like a piece of furniture. Tell me, what was she up to these last two weeks?”

  “Nothing out of the usual.” Although Robert could be charming, she never forgot her place.

  He wagged an amused finger at her. “You’re a wise woman to never speak ill of your mistress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh God,” he said, laughing. “Don’t call me sir. I can’t be much older than you, and frankly, you’re too pretty to make me feel like an old man.”

  The compliment caught her off guard and teased hints of a smile. “Yes, Mr. Robert.”

  “No Mister either. Just Robert will do.”

  “Yes, sir. Robert.”

  He sighed like a man accepting that a dawning modern age couldn’t banish the lines between social classes. “I suppose that’s progress. Where’re you headed now?”

  “To check on the trunks. They hold the gowns for the next two weeks of festivities.”

  “Always
the little worker bee. You’re the most sensible woman I know, Claire. It’s refreshing to see a woman who keeps her wits about her while herding all the women in my father’s life.”

  “I enjoy what I do.”

  “Of course you do. You aren’t a spoiled little twit like Victoria or Mrs. Lawrence. You appreciate what’s given to you.” He studied her face and then, dropping his gaze quickly to her chest and back up, cleared his voice and tugged the edges of his suit jacket down. “Mrs. Lawrence should return from the fields soon. She’s tromping through the reeds as we speak, inspecting duck blinds with my father.”

  “She loves it here.”

  “She says she enjoys the sporting life, but I’ve never been convinced. Personally, I think the rumors are true that she’s an accomplished stage actress and the mysterious Mr. Daniel Lawrence, a man of business, is a fabrication.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” It was common knowledge among the servants that Robert and his father clashed. When he’d been away at school, Robert’s grades had been poor. Now that he worked at his father’s finance company, he was often late to the office, and his choice of female escorts was a far cry from marriage material. Robert wanted the rewards and none of the responsibility.

  “And if you did, you wouldn’t say.” His eyes crinkled with a smile. “Well, I suppose you better get on with your work.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She stepped toward the door, and he shifted only a little, forcing her shoulder to brush him as she passed. The faint hint of sandalwood mingled with tobacco and brandy.

  “It’s good seeing you, Claire.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lucy

  January 15, 2018

  Lucy’s footsteps echoed in Winter Cottage as she moved away from the bank of windows and the thickening storm clouds lurking in the sky.

  Mr. Garrison stood beside her, his impatience radiating around them. “Your mother really told you nothing about her childhood?”

  “Once she told me she was born into a traveling circus. Another time her parents were rock stars, and another time they were Russian spies. I stopped believing the stories about her past about the time I gave up on Santa Claus. I didn’t ask much about my extended family until I was about eight or nine. Beth had finally put me in school, and I noticed other kids had dads, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. I remember asking about my father, and whatever story she produced made sense to me at the time. It wasn’t until I was about thirteen that I started to press for more details. That time, she said my father was a roadie named Charlie who died in a car accident. That was close to plausible, and I believed her at the time. I assume now Charlie was also a lie.”

  “Didn’t it seem odd that your mother avoided basic questions about your family?”

  “If you’d known Beth, you’d understand. She had a heart of gold, but details weren’t her thing. I guess you could say she was a free spirit.”

  “Your grandparents, the Jessups, were anything but free spirits. Their families have been in this area since the Civil War.”

  “What did my grandparents do?”

  “Donna, your grandmother, died nearly forty years ago. She was in her midthirties and had cancer. Your grandfather, Samuel Jessup, died last September. He was a day shy of his hundred and first birthday.”

  “Good to know there’s some longevity in my gene pool.” She sighed, trying to process all the information. “But what is my connection to the Buchanans?”

  “I have no idea. And I’ve asked around. No one knows.”

  “I can just move into the house now?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s quite the house,” she said. The wind blew outside, bending the tall grass by the water and pushing cool air in through the cracks.

  “It was a showpiece in its day. Built to withstand the worst storms.”

  “My luck, it’s haunted.”

  That prompted a smile. “There have been rumors the last couple of years.”

  She arched a brow. “Since Mrs. Buchanan died?”

  “Even before that. She always said she had enough company in the house, though she lived here alone.”

  Lucy laughed. “Did you start the rumor so you could buy the house from me?”

  “I’m not that creative. But it’s a good idea.” His smile faded. “If this place bothers you, there’s a nice inn in town. This time of year, it’s off-season rates and there’s plenty of room.”

  Even off-season rates were out of her budget right now. “Believe me, I’ve stayed in worse places. If there are locks on the doors, Dolly and I can handle a few ghosts.” She slid her hands into her pockets. “Beth asked me to bury her ashes in the Jessup family graveyard. Do you know where that is?”

  “Not the Buchanan graveyard on this property?”

  She shook her head. “She wanted to be next to her parents, so I assumed the Jessups.”

  “It’s on the other side of the lighthouse, about a mile up the road. The Jessups were merchant marines for several generations, and some still serve. I’ve got appointments in town this afternoon, but I can take you there tomorrow.”

  “I’ve never buried anyone’s ashes before. Is there some kind of protocol?”

  “I’ll be happy to check.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” She shook her head. “This is the last spot I would ever picture as Beth’s final resting place.”

  “Did your mother say why she wanted to be buried here? She’s been estranged from her family for a long time.”

  “A simple explanation would have been way too easy for Beth, but it would have answered a lot of questions. Do I have to sign anything to take possession of the house?”

  He frowned. “I thought you’d take one look at the place and run.”

  “Nowhere to run to, Mr. Garrison.”

  “Please call me Hank.” Hank returned to the briefcase he’d set by the front door and removed a stack of papers and a fancy ink pen. “If you sign the papers, you can move in now.”

  She glanced at the two-paragraph statement. It was simple and straightforward. She had to live in the house at least thirty days before monies for renovation and maintenance could be released. With each new month she could draw more from the trust, and at the end of a year, she could take control of the trust, but all monies were entailed to the house.

  “And if I leave before the year?”

  “I’ll take possession of the house, and you don’t receive a dime from me.”

  “Sounds like Mrs. Buchanan wants a Jessup in this house.” The old woman had not ensnared her mother or grandfather, but Lucy and Dolly had no qualms about staying for a little while. She signed her name. “So I’m the official occupant for the next thirty days.”

  He replaced the papers in his folder. “Unless you decide to leave earlier.”

  “Not much faith in me, Hank?”

  “It’s not an easy place to live. If you’re used to nightlife, you’ll find Cape Hudson somewhat restrictive.”

  “That experience talking?”

  “It is. I spent summers here as a kid, but I’m still adjusting to the recent move.”

  “And how long did you say you’ve been back?”

  “Six months.”

  “So you might leave?”

  “No. I’m never leaving.”

  The finality in his tone silenced her next quip. The last thing she wanted to do was press a man who sounded like he had shit to work out. “Fair enough.”

  “The electricity and water will be paid out of the trust. There’s also an account at the grocery store for you. There are a couple of cars in the garage that are in good working order.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Not me; it was Mrs. Buchanan who set up all the requirements. She wanted to give your grandfather, mother, and now you every reason to stay. She loved this place and hoped one of you would fall in love with it.”

  “So far my team’s batting average isn’t too good.”

 
; “No. It’s not.”

  “How did you get roped into all this?”

  “Your grandfather gave my dad and me power of attorney.”

  “If Mrs. Buchanan was so keen on us coming here, why didn’t she reach out to us?”

  “She was in contact with your mother when you were an infant, but she died shortly after you were born.”

  More secrets. And here she’d thought Beth had always been quirky but had her back.

  “When Mrs. Buchanan became ill, she asked my father to speak to your mother about returning, but she refused.”

  “Your father talked to Beth? When?”

  “You’d have been about fourteen months old.”

  “Beth confirmed this?”

  “Yes. I spoke to your mother last September when Mr. Jessup died. She said I sounded like my father and mentioned her last conversation with him.”

  “Why did you call her?”

  “I wanted to strike a deal with her, but she refused to discuss it or return for Mr. Jessup’s funeral.”

  “I don’t understand why she never said a word to me.”

  “She must have been thinking about our conversation, because she called me back several weeks later. She wanted to know if the deal was still available. I said it was. Your mother ended the call because she felt poorly.”

  “Sick in September? She didn’t tell me she was ill until early November.” Had Lucy’s relationship with her mother always skimmed the surface? “Did Mr. Jessup ever say why he and Beth were estranged?”

  “No.” Hank stared out over the choppy waters as if the answer might be out there. “He was a merchant marine and didn’t retire until he was eighty. According to my father, he wasn’t around much, even when your mother was little. I suppose they weren’t that close.”

  A hint of judgment hummed under the words, and she found herself rising to Beth’s defense. “Don’t think badly of Beth. She was a good mother. She loved me. And if she didn’t tell me about this place, she had a reason.”

  “Of course.”

  She shifted her focus away from her mother’s motives to the house. The light fixtures were made of a lovely Tiffany glass, illustrating collections of songbirds. Though the home didn’t feel overly formal, the cork floors, board-and-batten walls, and hand-painted stencils were all the highest quality. “It clearly cost a fortune to build.”