Jake answered, “She married Jonathan after Mary died, so the story goes.”
Another portrait hung next to Lucy’s. A young girl. Fair-haired with blue eyes, dressed in cornflower blue with the inscription Emma Alida Powell.
The next picture was of a small boy, about two, with green and amber eyes, a shock of black hair, and a nose the exact duplicate of Edmund’s. “Anthony again.”
“Jake, Mary is buried next to Jonathan. I didn’t see a grave for Lucy. What happened to her?”
“No one knows. She just disappeared.”
AFTER JAKE LEFT, PHEBE TRIED to make sense of things. She decided the answers were in the diary. If I want to know, I’ll have to read it.
The private diary of Mary McAdams lay heavy in her hand.
“Edmund was upset about something in the book. I am curious about the boy in the portrait.”
The journal beckoned her until she opened it.
Her eyes focused on the part she’d read before. Dear Diary. I met the most wonderful man today. His name is Edmund.
Impatient, she let the pages flutter through her fingers, looking for the part where Jonathan confessed something.
She found it. Dear Diary. Jonathan confessed to me today.
Her index finger underscored the words and with a bit of trepidation, she continued.
I’m taking the children and leaving today. He has left me no choice. I won’t live in a house of deceit.
The candle sputtered on Phebe’s nightstand, almost extinguished in the melted wax. The morning sun streamed through the windows, but she remained focused on the words she’d read over and over, trying to make sense of the whole thing. She flipped back to the first part, afraid she might miss something.
Mary wrote: Edmund is dead. Nothing can comfort me. I am lost with a secret I cannot share. Oh, my love, I miss you. You didn’t know. I tried to tell you, but it’s too late, now.
Phebe whispered over the diary, “How did she bear it?”
The next page described Edmund’s death and Mary’s anguish at the discovery.
I found him in the sky-parlor, a broken sherry glass lay near his hand, the dark wine stained the carpet like blood. His skin was cold, his lips blue. I screamed his name.
Phebe’s head jerked up at the sound of voices floating up the stairs. Her name was called.
“Phebe, Ms. Phebe, are ya upstairs? Me and Winston are back.”
She shoved the book under her pillow and rushed to the stairs. “Yes, I’m here. I’ll be right down.”
Her dress was wrinkled, as she hadn’t changed it since yesterday morning. Hurriedly, she tucked her hair under a cotton scarf and flew down the stairs.
“My, I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
Myrtle looked her up and down. “Whatever have you been doing, child? You look a mess.”
She reached up to touch her hair. “Oh, I was rearranging the classroom. I decided it wasn’t to my liking. With the house so empty, I felt it better to stay busy. I’ll run upstairs and straighten up. Will the Powell’s be back soon, as well?”
Myrtle’s sour look relaxed. “Well, good. It’s nice to know you stayed busy. Idle hands, ya know. Yes, the family will return this afternoon. Now get along with ya. I have meals to prepare.”
Mixed emotions played in her mind as she rushed upstairs. Of course, she was glad to have them back, but at the same time, their return left her no time to read more of the diary.
The afternoon passed quickly in preparation for the Powell’s return. Phebe helped in the kitchen while Myrtle chatted about the visit with her family.
“How come you didn’t tell me you were married?”
“I suppose it’s because you never asked.”
Phebe snorted a laugh. “You are the one who tells me I ask too many questions. Now, you’re complaining because I didn’t ask enough? Do you have children?”
The Powell children burst through the door, halting the conversation.
“Ms. Phebe, Ms. Phebe! We’re back. I have so much to tell you. I caught a fish.” Elizabet tumbled her words in excitement. “There was a boat ride, a black cat, Charley climbed the biggest tree, and —.”
Mr. Powell interrupted, “Enough Elizabet.” He turned to Phebe. “Take the children upstairs and get them settled with a story or something until dinner.”
His disgruntled demeanor wasn’t lost on her. Something hadn’t gone right for him on this visit. She scooped the children with arms out-stretched and herded them upstairs, loathe to be out of earshot.
The mysteries surrounding this family continue to grow.
It was difficult to calm the youngsters. A weekend of running free only served to unleash their naturally wild nature. They regaled her with the adventures of the countryside, all trying to speak at once, interrupting each other with a new, more exciting story.
Finally, it was too much.
“Halt. Enough. Sit in your seats with your hands folded on your desk. I will hear one story from each of you. Five minutes at the most. Elizabet, you go first. Tell me the most favorite thing about your visit.”
The little girl stood, gave her brothers a smug look, and began. “The thing I loved most was fishing. I caught a fish all by myself. Well, I had help reeling it in, but I caught it.”
One by one, they tried to outdo each other with their adventures. She listened patiently.
As the dinner hour approached, Winston came to retrieve the children.
Elizabet dawdled behind her brothers. “I told the best story, didn’t I, Ms. Phebe?”
She hugged the child and urged her out the door. “You told a wonderful story. Why, it was almost as if I was there.”
Anxious to get back to the diary, she decided to skip dinner, confident Myrtle would leave her a plate in the icebox.
When she was sure everyone was downstairs, she hurried to her room. The diary opened easily to the last page she’d read. The description of Mary’s discovery.
I tried to shake him, begging him to wake up, but he lay still. The room was so quiet. I screamed his name again. Winston found me bent over him. ‘What happened?’ he asked.’ I answered, sobbing. ‘I found him like this. Please tell me he’s not dead.’
As she read on, Mary explained the chaos in the wake of the tragedy. A flurry of activity, the authorities, the investigation, the funeral. All of it happening with Winston by her side.
She looked up from the page. Winston must have been very young. Even then, he was very loyal to the family.
She hurried through the aftermath and read on the next page. My dearly beloved is gone. Gone before I could tell him. My position is now in jeopardy, because the devastating news will disgrace my family. I’ve no one to turn to. Winston has been a solid friend throughout this ordeal, but as a butler he can do little for me, now. What am I to do?
Tears stained the next few pages as Mary lamented her plight, giving over to grief and fear. And then…a solution.
Jonathan came to me today, pulled me out to the garden.
He whispered, ‘I’ve been watching you, Mary. Yes, you’re grieving, but I fear something else is bothering you. You can confide in me. I’m here to help you.’
Phebe read on as if devouring a mystery novel.
‘Yes Jonathan, I’m afraid I am in trouble. I cannot go to my family. It has to do with—Edmund.’
‘Are you with child, Mary?’
I thought I would die with shame. ‘How did you know?’
Jonathan gripped my shoulders. ‘I saw you and Edmund in the hayloft one day. It didn’t take me long to realize what happened. There is only one thing to do. You must marry me. Soon.’
Phebe whispered to the empty room. “The child is Edmund’s.”
THE SHOCK OF MARY AND Edmund’s indiscretion left Phebe breathless. Anthony McAdams was the product of their love; Mary is trying to tell Edmund he has a son.
Possibilities abounded. Did Jonathan kill his brother to claim Mary for his own? What happened to Anthony? Mary
said she was taking the children, so a second child was born. Jonathan’s child. Emma—Mrs. Powell. Did Mary discover Jonathan killed Edmund?
The facts as Phebe saw them: younger brother, jealous of the older brother, kills him to take everything, even Mary, for himself. It was a huge scandal. Did the whole town think Jonathan killed him? They must have. Did Jonathan confess to her?
Edmund’s ghostly appearance in the sky-parlor made perfect sense if one thought about it in the realm of the supernatural. Mary can’t rest until he knows.
She whispered over the diary and turned the page. “Edmund’s spirit doesn’t know she married his brother, nor does he know about the child. Their love is so strong the grave cannot contain it.”
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
Myrtle’s voice drifted through the closed door. “Phebe. You didn’t come down for dinner. I’ve brought you something to eat. You can’t keep skipping meals, my dear. It doesn’t do a body good.”
Phebe slammed the journal shut and stuffed it under the mattress. “Coming.”
Her hand shook as she opened the door, the question ready to explode from her lips. Where is Anthony McAdams!
The cook bustled into the room. “What’s gotten into you, young lady? Skipping meals and such. You need your strength to corral those children. I don’t understand how you do it.” She placed the tray on the bed, still chattering.
Phebe remained at the door and watched her, trying to still her erratic heartbeat.
Myrtle stopped and looked up. “What is it child? You’re positively pale. Are ya ill?”
“No,” Phebe whispered.
“Well, something’s not right. Let me feel your forehead.” She felt Phebe’s cheek and brow. “No fever. Maybe you’re not getting enough red meat. Now, see that you eat. And no more skipping meals.” She turned half way down the hallway. “The children will be up for you to tuck them in, soon. You can bring the tray down to the kitchen then.”
She stifled the question she wanted to scream, ‘What happened to Anthony McAdams!’
The aroma of hot biscuits and honey tickled her nose. “She’s right in one respect. I need to eat if I’m to continue searching out this mystery. I’ll need strength for the late- night visits with Edmund. If he returns.”
Myrtle was a marvelous cook; however, she could only pick at the biscuits and honey, stab her fork at the slab of pork roast, turn her nose at the steamed green beans, but she smiled at the side dish of sliced apples. “That I can eat.”
As she savored the last bite of apple, the children clattered up the stairs, calling her name, shouting over one another.
She pulled the door open. “Children! That will be enough.”
Charley hurried in front of the others. “I want to be tucked in first tonight.” He crossed his arms and his bottom lip protruded.
“Now, Charley, you know we do things in order. It’s Benjamin’s turn to be first. Your turn is tomorrow night.”
Benjamin pushed his brother out of the way and took her hand. As a last jab at Charley, he stuck his tongue out.
Charley wailed.
“Benjamin, a gesture like that is totally unacceptable. You have forfeited your turn. You are brothers. You must look out for one another, not indulge in such divisive behavior.” She dropped Benjamin’s hand.
Elizabet stepped forward with a sweet smile and asked, “May I have my turn first tonight? Both the boys have been so naughty.”
“No, it’s not fair,” Benjamin shouted.
Exasperated at the wild behavior the children displayed since their return from the trip, she made a snap decision. “You will all tuck yourselves in tonight without me. When you can learn to be respectful and take your proper turns, we will discuss the matter. Until then, I will not come to your rooms before bedtime. You all have books on your shelves. Please read a short story to yourselves and prepare to give a report in class tomorrow.”
Elizabet protested, “But I didn’t…”
She pointed to the bedroom doors. “All three of you have been naughty since your return. We must restore order.”
“Yes, Ms. Phebe,” they said in unison.
Each door closed softly.
Fifteen minutes passed.
She went to each child’s room, knocked softly and peeked inside to make sure they were tucked in, reading a story. “Bad behavior will not be rewarded,” she told them. “Give respect and respect will be given in return.”
When the children were settled, she returned to her room and stood at the window. The stars shined bright, twinkling as if in amusement. “I don’t know what happened on that trip this weekend, but Myrtle said I’d be expected to go along the next time. Maybe I’ll find out why they become so rowdy after a visit with their aunt.”
The need to read more of the diary pulled her back to the present, but when she turned toward the bed, she saw the dinner tray. “Oh, I need to take it down to the kitchen. The diary will have to wait.”
As she approached the last few steps to the kitchen, she heard her name and held her breath.
Myrtle’s hushed voice continued. “Phebe doesn’t look well. Not ill exactly, but like something is bothering her. Strained, you know what I mean? I didn’t like leaving her alone in this house all weekend.”
Phebe’s heart raced.
Winston answered, “I was of the same opinion. She’s barely been here a week. It wasn’t right to leave her alone.”
“What if the noises overwhelmed her? What if she went snooping?”
The tray wobbled in her hands, the silverware clattered against the china plate. Caught! She hurried down the last few stairs and tried to act as if she hadn’t been eavesdropping. “What are you two whispering about? It’s not like you to be up so late. Are you telling ghost stories without me?”
Myrtle’s face blanched.
Winston coughed.
“You both look guilty. If it’s juicy gossip, I’d love to hear it.”
“Nothing to concern you, dear. You have enough to worry about. I was just going to bed.” She went over to take the tray from Phebe.
“No, no, I’ll clean up. You work too hard.”
“Well, all right. I’ll let you clean up…this time.” Myrtle went toward the room on the end of the kitchen and turned. “See you in the morning, then. Make sure you come down to breakfast. I’m making blueberry pancakes.”
Phebe nodded, turned to Winston and nearly choked. Flickering in the glow of the gaslight was an emerald ring, securely ensconced on Winston’s right-hand pinky. It was impossible for her to tear her eyes away. She feigned a fit of coughing.
Winston stood. “Are you quite all right, my dear? Anything I can do?”
She set the tray on the table. “No, no, I’m fine. Just a dry throat. I believe I’ll have a hot cup of coffee. Care to join me?”
He shook his head. “Coffee keeps me up at night. I’ll say good night, now.”
Alone in the kitchen, she busied herself with the cleanup and thought about the strange events. I wish I could get a closer look at that ring. I know it’s the same one Edmund wore in the portrait. How did it come to be on Winston’s hand? And why were they so concerned about me snooping around in the house. I’m going up to tell Edmund about his son, tonight. I’ll ask about the ring. I hope he shows up.
PHEBE ROCKED BACK AND FORTH in the sky parlor staring at the discovery she made near the window, all thoughts of the emerald ring gone as she stared at the floor. A red stain on the flat weave carpet. She never noticed it before. It raised the hair on the back of her neck. It’s either a wine stain or—blood. Edmund’s?
She rocked faster and faster trying to convince herself it was the wine stain. Edmund dropped the glass as he became ill. I’ve heard some poisons cause a person to bleed from the mouth, so it could be blood. Still, no one knew for sure what killed him. It might have been a blow on the head. Another accounting for blood.
The rocker stopped, and she stood. “What am I saying? Myrtle said the d
octor thought it was his heart. She suggested poison. No one said anything about a murder weapon or injury. Why would she bring up poison? It’s sure she knows more than she’s telling me.”
Myrtle told her about the sherry glass when she first arrived at the house. Mary talked about the stain in her diary. Now, it was real, right in front of her.
She addressed the empty room as she paced. “I’ve been up here a dozen times. Why didn’t I see it before?” Her fingers slid over the smooth tabletop; the toe of her shoe ran across the carpet. “Because I expected it to be near the table, I suppose. The decanter is there, the sherry glasses. I presumed he fell near the table after drinking the wine, but no stain darkens the carpet there.” She crossed to the window. “Was he looking out at the lawns when he died? Or was he looking at Jonathan?” Now, she whispered, “Please come back Edmund.”
The diary fell open to the last page she read. It told of the discreet marriage ceremony, held in the library, with only Jonathan and Mary’s parents in attendance. And the parson, of course.
‘The ceremony was short. I don’t remember much of it except for the bewildered looks from Mother and Father at the sudden decision. They must have suspected, because their faces looked so sad. Jonathan’s parents, however, beamed their approval of the match.’
Phebe’s heart wrenched at how Jonathan whisked her away on a honeymoon trip, designed to keep them away until the birth of the child.
‘I am mourning for Edmund, but Jonathan insists on exercising his husbandly rights. He argues it will make it more plausible that the child is his, at least in his mind. I have no choice. He rescued my child and myself. It is all I can do to let him touch me. He isn’t tender or loving, but rough, as if anger consumes him. Above everything, he wants this child to be his, to erase any part of Edmund from my memory.’
“The cad!” She slammed the book shut. “How can he treat Mary so? I dislike him intensely, even though he saved Mary from a life of disgrace.”
When her breathing slowed, she re-opened the diary and read on.
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