I threw my arms around Ben’s neck, laughing.
“If you saw that cat, then I’m not crazy after all.”
Ben slowly peeled my arms from around his neck.
“Is that why you haven’t told me any of this until now? Because you thought you were crazy?”
“I think I was more worried you would think I was crazy and you’d divorce me.”
He pulled me close to him and kissed the top of my head. “I’m so sorry you felt that way, but I married you for better or for worse, crazy or sane and I meant it.”
I pulled away from him slightly. “I don’t remember hearing that when we were saying our vows.”
“Well I’m saying it now. But just for the record, I don’t think you’re crazy. And I definitely saw the cat.”
I showed him the journal, and asked him if he thought it would be okay to bring it back to the cottage with us. He said he thought it might be better to leave it here and come back tomorrow to read it. It was getting late, and the small amount of light filtering in through the dirty, oval window was not enough to even read the pages anymore.
We closed the door to the attic, and brushed the dust from our clothes. The faint sound of bells jingling stopped us from leaving the second floor of the manor, as we listened intently for the whereabouts of the calico ghost cat. Suddenly, Ben squeezed my arm with one hand, and pointed to the end of the hall with the other.
Jingles, as Ben referred to the cat, was pawing at something, and balancing on his hind legs to reach whatever it was that had captivated his attention. We watched him as he jumped happily, playing with some imaginary item, pawing at it, then, racing across the hall to chase after it. He seemed quite content for a ghost cat, and I wondered if he’d been that happy and playful when he was alive. The game ended when he jumped a little too far and disappeared behind Lizzie’s bedroom door.
I hugged Ben, then, took Amelia’s treasured belongings to the nursery and placed each item on the table next to the teapot, intending to revisit them in the morning.
CHAPTER NINE
I woke to the sound of rain hitting the bedroom windows with such force I feared they might blow in. I rolled over and threw a leg across my soundly sleeping husband, who only stirred long enough to put his arm around me, then, drift back to sleep. I could hear Sophia turning in her crib from the monitor that sat atop the bedside table, and I wondered how the two of them could sleep through such a storm.
As I cuddled in my husband’s arms, I replayed the previous day’s events, and sighed with relief that Ben, too, had seen the calico cat. Not only did it prove I probably wasn’t seeing things, but I hoped it proved I wasn’t crazy—unless we were both loony. After all, most people would find our instant marriage and family a bit on the crazy side, but I didn’t care anymore. I was happy. But not just happy—I was content, and nothing could make me feel this way except Ben, Sophia, and our new baby.
Hillary agreed to watch Sophia so I could spend the morning at the manor. Emily would be over in the afternoon to go over details of our wedding party, which she’d begged me to let her throw at the manor. I’d begrudgingly agreed, but on the condition that she wait at least a few weeks for the contractors to finish their work. I couldn’t tell her that I secretly feared my in-laws would witness me seeing and talking to ghosts during the party, but I think she got the hint. What I really needed was time to try to sort out whatever was keeping Amelia from staying in her grave or moving on to the next life, or whatever her final destiny was.
Before entering the manor, I paused to check my feelings. I held up my hands in front of me, proving to myself that I wasn’t shaking. I wasn’t nervous, and I no longer feared the unknown, for I had determined to embrace Amelia’s ghost and endure her dilemma for as long as it would take to help her find her way.
As I wandered the open rooms of the first floor, I came upon a library separated by French doors. A twenty-foot ceiling adorned with copper tiles encased the room with a warm glow that highlighted the books that occupied each wall from floor to ceiling. In the center of the room, atop a long library table, was a black, Wellington No. 2 typewriter with a piece of paper still in its roller. The ink had mostly faded from the page, but from what I could read, it seemed to report the ending of the civil war. The ribbon was dried and frayed as though time had rotted it from its original state.
Beside the typewriter, a Swinton’s Language Lessons; Introductory grammar & Composition for Intermediate & Grammar grades lay open to lesson XXVI; Relative Pronouns. I managed to read the first paragraph before I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. My eyes lifted from the page toward an ornate, arched door, tucked away at the far end of the room. Thinking it to be a strange place for a closet—especially one with a lock, I stepped a little closer, reaching for the glass doorknob and tried the handle, but it was locked. The cleaning crew had told Ben that there was a set of rooms on the lower level they were unable to get into because they couldn’t find a key. I eyed the nearby bookshelves for a place that one could hide a key, but decided to randomly pull books from the shelves until I reached a book too stiff to yield to my prodding.
Just as I suspected, the leather-bound copy of War and Peace that I pulled from the shelf was a leather-bound box rather than a book. I turned it on its side and opened the cover. Inside the box, I found a pipe, a leather pouch full of tobacco and a key that matched one of the keys in Amelia’s steamer trunk. I quickly replaced the box on the bookshelf and went to the mysterious door to see if it would fit the lock. The hair on the back of my neck prickled again as I turned the key and unlocked the door.
Much to my surprise, it led to Dr. Blackwell’s office where a small waiting area containing two wooden benches and a side table with a large oil lamp created an immense contrast from the preceding room. Across the small waiting area, another door led out, and I wondered how we’d managed to miss this additional entrance to the manor that evidently served incoming patients visiting Dr. Blackwell.
Another door opened up to an exam room with a very primitive exam table containing manual levers for adjusting the height and incline. The surface of the table was covered with a dull leather cover, and was fastened with rusted screws at the sides. On the other side of the large room, separated by a curtained room divider, was a metal table; most likely used in surgery. A matching metal cart with several narrow drawers housed instruments used for surgery. Several glass bottles used for intravenous fluids sat atop the cart, and actually looked usable in their present state. There were many bottles still containing medicines that boasted such ingredients as chloroform, morphine, codeine, heroin, and there was even a bottle containing elixir of iron quinine and strychnine, which I thought was used to treat various plagues still present in the 1800’s. Beside the cart, stood a tall cabinet containing linens and primitive scrubs that had all yellowed with time.
I picked up a stethoscope that hung from a hook above a large bowl with a pitcher in the corner. The faded, red rubber tubing was cracked, and the earpieces worn; the chest piece resembling a cylindrical bell. As I reached to replace the stethoscope on its hook, I knocked over a bottle of iodine. The glass shattered allowing thick, aged, iodine to paint streaks across the bottom of my jeans. Carefully stepping over the glass so I wouldn’t track it in the remainder of the room, I walked over to yet another door in the large office.
The final door led to a very large room that one could easily mistake for a pharmacy or a laboratory. Multiple shelves filled with bottles of varying elixirs and tonics lined the walls; each marked with Dr. Blackwell’s signature. A large apothecary occupied the center of the room, where the wooden countertop contained dried herbs, a mortar and pestle, and several unfilled bottles labeled for Dr. Blackwell’s array of potions boasting cures for various ailments. Spider webs and a thick layer of dust spoiled the effect, but even a piece of primitive equipment that may have been used as a distillery for brewing such concoctions stood out a
mongst the layers of filth.
I pulled open a few drawers of the large apothecary that dominated the room, exposing the remnants of dried herbs that had disintegrated to an unrecognizable state. I imagined the room at a time when business was probably quite profitable for the doctor, who seemed to spend a lot of time caring for other’s ailments. A newspaper article had even reported that Dr. Blackwell’s concoctions had kept his wife alive longer than any other physician had achieved to date for the same type of leukemia that finally consumed her life.
I scanned the room, feeling a sudden sense of closeness to this unknown relative, as I had always taken an interest in the use of herbal remedies. Resting my hand on the dirty, roughly-hewn wooden top of the apothecary, I noticed a set of thick journals lying next to a primitive microscope. Picking up the journal on top, I opened the cover to the middle and pored over page after page of recipes for Dr. Blackwell’s remedies. Recipes for everything from cough suppressants to corn remover, to wrinkle smoothers and pain remedies filled the pages, and all contained a patent number.
A thought occurred to me. If Dr. Blackwell had a patent for each of these remedies, could they be manufactured and sold in today’s market? In the city, stores lined the streets that were filled with herbal remedies and healthy fixes in lieu of the harsh chemicals that are often considered the norm with modern medicine.
Shaking myself from my daydream state; a quick glance at my wristwatch, let me know I’d already wasted too much time on things other than what I’d come to the manor for. Reluctantly leaving Dr. Blackwell’s apothecary room behind, I retraced my path through the office and the library until I reached the main stairwell that led to the second floor of the manor.
When I entered the nursery on the second floor, Amelia was seated at the table in the center of the room as though she’d been waiting for me. The journal, along with her treasured items, sat in front of her as though she was guarding them until I returned. I slowly pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. Studying her pale skin, I was tempted to touch her hand just to see if she was vapor. Despite her pale appearance, she looked physically real, and I was curious about what exactly her physical make-up was. Pushing aside the thought, I slowly opened the cover of the journal, making vulnerable its pages of private thoughts embodying a century-old ghost.
I looked to Amelia for permission to read her private journal, and a weak smile revealed her acceptance. It was the first real expression I’d seen from her.
Thursday, January 17, 1901
My name is Amelia Rose Blackwell. I am 9 years and 11 months old, and this is my new journal Daddy gave to me for Christmas. My Momma is very ill. It’s been a very long time that she’s been stuck in her bed with illness, and I don’t know if she will be able to play croquet on the lawn in the spring or bake me pastries the way she used to before Baby Lizzie came along. Having Lizzie gave her much joy, but made her very weak. Since Daddy and the nurses are too busy taking care of Momma, I have had to take care of Lizzie for a while now.
Daddy locked me and Fredrick out of Momma’s room so he and the nurses could give her some new medicine, but he doesn’t know I took the spare key so I could sneak in to see Momma late at night when I can’t sleep.
Fredrick was scolded again today for not finishing his lessons. Mr. Leesburg is our tutor. He comes to visit on Tuesday and Thursday every week. Tonight I will show Momma the high marks Mr. Leesburg gave me for my penmanship and reading comprehension. Mr. Leesburg tells Daddy I apply myself better than Fredrick, and it makes my brother unhappy that I read from his lesson books. Daddy threatened to send Fredrick to boarding school if he doesn’t turn his work around, but I don’t think he will really send him away.
Momma’s birthday is coming soon and Nurse Mary brought me a new handkerchief so I can embroider Momma’s initials on it for her gift. Fredrick is making her a birdhouse out of twigs and pinecones he found in the woods. I will help Lizzie make cookies from Momma’s recipe, but I don’t know if Daddy will let her eat any. I hear her throwing up and crying most every day now, and Daddy says the medicine is getting rid of the sickness she has growing inside her. Momma is very thin now, and the little bit of hair she has left is turning dark like her eyes.
I wiped a tear from my cheek as I lifted my eyes from the page to look at Amelia, who still sat beside me, staring at me, and I wondered if she knew that she was dead. Or if she could talk to me. Since I was still unsure of the current level of communication between us, I didn’t dare push her, so I turned the page of the journal and continued to read. I was determined to read as long as she would let me.
Friday, January 18, 1901
It snowed so much overnight that Fredrick and I pulled Lizzie on the sled. Daddy warned us to stay away from the lake because the ice has begun to melt, but Fredrick never listens. He tried to slide across, and broke through the ice near the shore and nearly froze to death getting to the house. I promised him I wouldn’t tell Daddy, but I scolded him for not listening. If he had been out past the dock, he would have drowned for sure.
Momma didn’t talk to me last night when I sat at her bedside. She did squeeze my hand. It is comforting to listen to her breathing softly when she sleeps.
When I looked up from the page, Amelia was crying. Instinctively, I reached for her to comfort her, but my hand went through the vapor that formed her arm. She seemed to sense my energy, as she tipped her head with confusion showing on her face. I didn’t know quite how to react. Even she seemed lost, and appeared to sense my discomfort with the situation. I wanted to speak to her, but still couldn’t figure out if it was appropriate, so I continued to read on.
Sunday, January 20, 1901
Tomorrow is Momma’s birthday and I fear Daddy won’t let me see her. I finished embroidering the hankie with her initials on it. Nurse Mary even showed me how to embroider a bouquet of daisies in the corner. Lizzie is getting anxious to bake Momma’s cookies, but I told her she has to wait until tomorrow morning.
Fredrick made the most wonderful birdhouse. Even Daddy says he has a new medicine for her that will give her new strength so she will be able to get out of bed. I don’t believe him since he’s told us this before. Sometimes I have hope for Momma, but mostly I hate to see her suffer.
I was seriously crying by this time. When I went to wipe my face, I looked up, and Amelia had disappeared. I replaced the book on the table and pushed back the chair beneath me so I could look for her. I walked cautiously through the hallway, looking over my shoulder to be sure she didn’t sneak up on me. Sunlight filtered out into the hallway from the nursery creating shadows that brought life to the walls. Lingering dust particles danced along the waves of sunlight that mingled with the heat of the upper floor of the manor. I pulled off my sweatshirt feeling suddenly very warm. Looking at my watch, I realized I’d spent a considerable amount of time away from home already. I wondered about Sophia, and hoped that she wasn’t giving my sister-in-law a rough time.
At the end of the hall I could hear Jingles. I followed the sound of his bell hoping I’d find Amelia close by. I poked my head into each room but didn’t see her. Jingles, however, was playing happily disappearing behind walls and doors, then, popping back into the hallway where I could see him clearly. Giving up on my search for Amelia, I headed back toward the nursery. When I entered the room, she was waiting for me in the same chair she’d sat in just moments before. I tried looking her in the eye, but she sat facing forward with her hands folded as though she were ready to continue. I sat down and picked up the book slowly, waiting for her to object, but she didn’t.
Monday, January 21, 1901
Momma loved her gifts. She pretended to eat the cookies for Lizzie’s sake. I think she was too sick to eat them because I saw her spitting them out in her napkin. After Daddy made us leave the room, I could hear her throwing up again. It makes me sad to know how much my Momma is hurting. I want Momma to get well enough to see the crocuses around the porch in the springtime. If this dreadful winter wo
uld ever end, Momma would have fresh air and sunshine to make her feel better. Momma says our smiles make her feel better, but I’m not so sure that’s true. I held her hand and read her poetry until she fell asleep while Daddy was busy making a new medicine for her. I’m always careful to lock the door behind me so that he doesn’t find out I was in there and scold me.
I wasn’t sure I could read anymore, but Amelia didn’t budge from where she was sitting. I didn’t want to disappoint her by giving up so easily, so I swallowed down the lump in my throat and pressed on; reading several more passages until I came upon one that completely disturbed me.
Saturday, February 9, 1901
Today is my birthday and I am 10 years old. Everyone in the house has forgotten, and I dare say nothing about it. Momma seems to get worse every day, and Daddy is so sad we barely ever see him. He spends every day in his apothecary brewing up elixirs he hopes will cure Momma. Sometimes I sit and watch him through the open door in the library as he works frantically with roots and leaves and flowers to brew just the right blend of tea to give Momma strength. This morning I could hear him crying as he smashed bottles of elixir and cursed at them for not helping Momma. His temper tantrums scared me, but I understand his anger because I feel it too, and I think Fredrick does too.
The only thing I wanted for my birthday was for Momma to get out of bed and sing to me like she used to, but she didn’t.
I couldn’t bring myself to read any more, for I was sobbing so heavily I could barely catch my breath. Amelia looked at me with tears in her eyes as though she were reliving that day as I read it aloud. I wished so much to be able to comfort her, but had no experience in comforting a ghost that vaporized when I tried to touch her.
The Apothecary's Daughter (Romance/Mystery/Suspense) Page 13