All twelve members of the Palette Club boarded a bus outside St. Luke’s, and we rode it all the way to the end of the line. From there it was a quarter-mile walk along a country road. Florence and I chose Abigail as our companion, trying to make her feel at ease. Conversation became rather difficult, however, as the girl was wont to answer every query with a solitary “yes” or a “no.” I was relieved when, after what seemed an eternity, we came within sight of Roseacres.
“There’s the old house,” I said, pointing out a steeply pitched roof-top which rose above a jungle of tall oaks. “It’s been vacant for at least ten years now.”
The Covington estate—picturesquely referred to as Roseacres—was a handsome dwelling of pre-Civil War days. It had long had been Greenville’s most outstanding architectural curiosity. Only in a vague way was I familiar with its history. Its last mistress, Mrs. James Covington, had moved away from Greenville ten years ago, and ever since, the house had stood unpainted and untended. Once so beautifully kept, the grounds had become a tangle of weeds and untrimmed bushes. Even so, the old house with its six graceful pillars retained a measure of dignity and beauty.
We entered the yard through a space where a gate once had stood and looked around. I caught a glimpse of the Grassy River which curved around the south side of the grounds in a wide bend.
“Where is the old wishing well?” Abigail asked. “I’ve heard so much about it.”
“We’re coming to it now,” I said, leading the way down an avenue of oak trees.
Not far from the house stood the old-fashioned covered well. Its base was of cut stone, and on a bronze plate had been engraved the words: “If you do a good deed, you can make a wish, and it will come true.”
“Some people around Greenville really believe that this old well has the power to make wishes come true,” Florence said looking down at her reflection mirrored in the water far below. “In years past, when Mrs. Covington still lived here, it developed quite a reputation.”
“The water is still drinkable if you don’t mind a smattering of good old green algae,” I said. “I see that someone has replaced the bucket. There was none here the last time I came.”
I lowered the old wooden bucket and brought it up filled with water.
“Make a wish, Mrs. Carter,” Madeline, one of the livelier girls of the Palette Club, urged. “Maybe it will come true.”
“Everyone knows what she’ll ask for,” teased Florence. “Her desires are always the same—a diamond engage—”
I flung a dipper of water at Flo to shut her up, and the girls laughed when Flo neatly sidestepped the splash.
Flo’s suggestion that I was angling for a diamond engagement ring was a spurious and wholly unfounded accusation. Jack Bancroft—a longtime friend of mine—and I had indeed grown a trifle hotsey-totsey of late, but the implication that I was dying to marry the man—well, Florence Radcliff was clearly in the grips of an overactive imagination, something she’s always been quick to accuse me of.
I smiled in what I hoped passed for an unperturbed air as I drew a second dipper of water from the wooden bucket.
“How about the good deed?” I said. “I’ve done nothing worthy of a demand upon this old well.”
“You helped your father round up a group of Night Riders,” Florence reminded me. “Remember the big story you wrote for the Greenville Examiner about the Moresby Tower clock striking thirteen?”
“I did prevent Clark Bronson from tricking a number of people in this community,” I acknowledged. “Perhaps that entitles me to a wish.”
Drinking deeply from the dipper, I poured the last drops into the well, watching as they made concentric circles in the still water below.
“Old well, do your stuff and grant my wish,” I entreated. “Please get busy right away.”
“But what is your wish, Mrs. Carter?” demanded another of the girls. “You have to tell.”
“All right, I will. My wish is that Roseacres could be restored to its former beauty.”
“You believe in making hard ones. You’d have been a lot closer to success if you’d just been honest and wished for an engagement ring.” Florence laughed. “I doubt that this place ever will be fixed up again—at least not until after the property changes hands.”
“It’s Abigail’s turn now,” I said, ignoring Flo’s loose talk of engagement rings and offering the dipper to Abigail.
The girl stepped to the edge of the well, her face very serious.
“Do you think wishes really do come true?”
“Oh, it’s only for the fun of it,” Florence said. “But they do say that in the old days, this well had remarkable powers. Rumor has it that many persons came here to make wishes which they claim came true. I’m not sure I believe in it myself.”
Abigail stood for a moment looking down into the well. She drank from the dipper and then allowed a few drops to spatter into the deep cavern below.
“I wish—” she said in a low, tense voice— “I wish that someday Pop and Mrs. Sanderson will be repaid for looking after my brother and me. I wish that they may have more money for food and clothes and a few really nice things.”
An awkward, embarrassed silence descended. Everyone knew that Abigail and her younger brother, Ted, lived in a tiny cottage at a tourist camp with a family unrelated to them by blood, but not even I had troubled to learn additional details. From Abigail’s wish, it was apparent to all that the Sandersons were in dire poverty.
“It’s your turn now, Florence,” I said quickly.
Florence accepted the dipper. Without drinking, she tossed all the water back into the well and said, “I wish Jane would grow long ears and a tail! It would serve her right for playing hard to get with that lovely Jack Bancroft who is completely devoted and hopelessly besotted—”
“Your turn, Maryann,” I said, wrenching the dipper from Flo’s grasp and handing it to one of the giggling members of the Palette Club.
Maryann, followed by all the remaining girls, took their turns and made equally frivolous wishes. Thereafter, we abandoned fun for serious work, getting out our sketching materials. Flo and I began to draw the old well, but Abigail, intrigued by the classical beauty of the house, decided to try to transfer that view to paper.
“You do nice work,” I said, looking over Abigail’s shoulder. “The rest of our drawings look liked they’ve been produced by ossified orangutans.”
“You may have the sketch when I finish,” Abigail offered, not bothering to contradict my uncharitable assessment of our collective artistic expertise.
As she spoke, there was a commotion in the bushes behind the house. I heard the cackling of a chicken followed by the sound of pounding feet.
From the direction of the river, a young man darted into view, pursued by an older man who was far less agile. It was immediately apparent why the youth was being chased, for he carried a fat hen beneath his arm. He ran with his hat pulled low, obscuring his face.
“Stop! You filthy chicken thief!” I shouted, springing to my feet. “Come on, girls, let’s head him off.”
Chapter Two
The young man saw us congregated around the wishing well. He swerved in the opposite direction and darted into the woods. Pursuit was futile. I’m a fairly fast runner, but I’d been putting in too many hours on racking up pages on Lady Ramfurtherington’s Revenge and too few hours getting up early, sneaking out of the house and running myself around the block—an activity I was careful to conceal from Mrs. Timms.
Mrs. Timms is officially my father’s housekeeper, but she’s the closest thing I currently have to a mother. She is also a woman of very rigid and hidebound notions when it comes to suitable athletic pursuits for ladies.
Tennis, golf, swimming, archery and riding horseback—when practiced in moderation and eschewing the use of vulgar language—all meet with Mrs. Timm’s approval. Sprinting down the street wearing a pair of my father’s cast-off trousers hacked off at the knee is not the sort of thing I had any wi
sh to be caught doing by Mrs. Timms. It would very likely send her to an early grave.
I will not stand for Mrs. Timms shuffling off this mortal coil before I can convince my father—who’s been carrying a torch (albeit concealed under a bushel) for Mrs. Timms for years now—to gather his courage and ask Doris Timms to center aisle it.
“Who was that boy with the chicken?” I asked the others. “Did any of you recognize him?”
“I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere,” Flo said. “Were you able to see his face, Abigail?”
The man who had pursued the boy ran into the yard. Breathing hard, he paused near the well.
“Did you see a boy come through here? The rascal stole one of my good layin’ hens.”
“We saw him,” I said, “but I’m sure you’ll never overtake him now. He ran into the woods.”
“Reckon you’re right,” the man muttered, seating himself on the stone rim of the wishing well. “I’m tuckered.” Taking out a red bandana handkerchief, he wiped perspiration from his forehead.
I thought that I recognized the man as a stonecutter who lived in the back of his workshop at the river’s edge. He was short and muscular, strong despite his age, with hands roughened by hard labor. His face had been browned by wind and sun. His gray eyes squinted as if ever viewing the world with suspicion.
“Aren’t you Truman Kip?” I asked him.
“That’s my tag,” the stonecutter answered, drawing himself a drink of water from the well. “What are you young ladies doing here?”
“Oh, our club came to sketch,” I told him. “You live close by, don’t you?”
“Down yonder,” the man replied, draining the dipper in a thirsty gulp. “I been haulin’ stone all day. It’s a hard way to make a living, let me tell you. Then I come home to find that young rascal making off with my chicken.”
“Do you know who he was?” asked Flo.
“No, but this ain’t the first time he’s paid me a visit. Last week he stole one of my best Rhode Island Reds. I’m plumb disgusted.”
Abigail abruptly arose from the grass and gathered together her sketching materials. As if to put an end to the conversation, she remarked: “It will soon be dark, girls. I think I should start home.”
“We’ll all be leaving in a few minutes,” I replied. “Let’s look around a bit more before we go.”
“You won’t see nothin’ worth lookin’ at around here,” the stonecutter said contemptuously. “This old house ain’t much anymore. There’s good lumber in it, though, and the foundation has some first-class stone.”
“You speak as if you had designs on it,” I said. “It would be a shame to tear down a beautiful old house such as this.”
“What’s it good for?” the man shrugged. “There ain’t no one lived here in ten or twelve years. Not since the old lady went off.”
“Did you know Mrs. Covington?”
“Oh, we said howdy to each other when we’d meet, but that was the size of it. The old lady didn’t like me none, and I thought the same of her. She never wanted my chickens runnin’ over her yard. Ain’t it a pity she can’t see ’em now?”
With a throaty sound, half chuckle, half sneer, the man arose and started around the house, I followed close on his heels with Flo and the rest of the girls tagging after.
“If you want to look inside, there’s a shutter off on the east livin’ room window,” Mr. Kip informed us. “Everything’s just like the old lady left it.”
“You don’t mean the furniture is still in the house?” Abigail said.
“There ain’t nothing been changed. I never could figure why someone didn’t come in an’ haul off her stuff, but it’s stood all these years.”
I went to the window that Truman Kip pointed out and flattened my face against the dirty pane.
“He’s right!” I told the others. “The furniture is still covered by sheets. Why, that’s funny.”
“What’s funny?” Flo asked.
“There’s a lady’s hat lying on the table.”
“It must be quite out of style by this time.”
“On the contrary, it looks to be the latest fashion, and there’s a purse lying beside it.”
At the other side of the house, an outside door squeaked. We turned in the direction of the sound and then stared as if gazing at a ghost. An old lady in a long blue silk dress with lace collar and cuffs stepped out onto the veranda. She looked beyond us toward Truman Kip who leaned against a tree. He straightened to attention.
“If it ain’t Priscilla Covington. You’ve come back.”
“I certainly have returned. High time someone looked after this place. While I’ve been away, you seem to have used my garden as a chicken run.”
“How was I to know you was ever coming back? Anyhow, the place has gone to wrack and ruin. A few chickens more nor less shouldn’t make no difference.”
“Perhaps not to you, Truman Kip. But you know I am home now, so I warn you—keep your livestock out of my garden.”
I was acutely aware that the members of the Palette Club, too, were trespassers.
“We’re very sorry,” I told Mrs. Covington. “Of course, we never dreamed that the house was occupied, or we wouldn’t have peeped through your window. We came because we wanted to sketch the old wishing well and your lovely home.”
Mrs. Covington came down the steps toward us.
“I quite understand. This place has been unlived in for years,” she said in a far milder tone than she had used in speaking to the stonecutter. “You were doing no harm. You may look around as much as you wish. But first, tell me your names.”
One by one we gave her our names, answering other questions which the old lady asked. She kept us so busy that we had no opportunity to ask any questions of our own, but at last I managed to inquire: “Mrs. Covington, are you planning to open up your home again? Everyone would be so happy if only you should decide to live here.”
“Happy? Well, maybe some people would be, and others would not.”
“Roseacres could be made into one of the nicest places in Greenville,” said Florence.
“That would take considerable money,” replied Mrs. Covington. “I’ve not made any plans yet.” Abruptly she turned to face Truman Kip, who had been staring at her unrelentingly since she’d come out of the house. “Must you stand there gawking? Get along to your own land, and mind, don’t come here again. I’ll not have trespassers.”
“You ain’t changed a bit, Mrs. Covington, not one bit,” the stonecutter muttered as he shuffled off.
Truman Kip’s dismissal had been so curt that the rest of us turned to leave the grounds as well.
“You needn’t go unless you want to,” Mrs. Covington said, her tone softening again. “I never could endure that no-good loafer, Truman Kip. All the stepping stones are gone from my garden, and I have an idea what became of them!”
An awkward silence descended. I tried to make conversation by remarking that we were especially interested in the old wishing well.
“Is it true that wishes made there have come true?” Abigail Whitely asked.
“Yes and no.” Mrs. Covington smiled convincingly for the first time. “Hundreds of wishes have been made at the well over the years. A surprising number of the worthwhile ones have been granted, so folks say. Tell me, did you say your name is Abigail?”
“Yes, Abigail Whitely.”
“Whitely—odd, I don’t recall the name. Have your parents lived many years in Greenville?”
“My mother and father are dead, Mrs. Covington. My brother and I haven’t any living relatives. Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson took us in, so we wouldn’t have to go to an orphans’ home. They have three children of their own, and I’m afraid we’re quite a burden.”
“Where do the Sandersons live, my child?”
“We rent a cottage at the Dorset Tourist Camp.”
“I’ve always thought I should enjoy living that way,” Mrs. Covington said. “Big houses are entirely too much work. If I
decide to clean up this place, it will take me weeks.”
“Can’t we all help you?” suggested Florence, transparently eager to see the inside of the house.
“Thank you, my dear, but I shall require no assistance,” Mrs. Covington replied, abruptly turning starchy again. “Do come again whenever you like.”
That was our cue to leave, so we did. During the bus ride to Greenville, the members of the Palette Club speculated upon why the old lady had returned to the city after such a lengthy absence. One by one the members got off at various street corners until only Abigail, Florence and I remained.
“Abigail, you’ll have a long ride to the opposite side of the city,” I said as Florence and I prepared to leave the bus. “Why not get off here and let me drive you home in Bouncing Betsy? It won’t take long to retrieve her from the garage.”
“Bouncing Betsy?”
“Jane’s heap of scrap iron on wheels,” said Flo. “But she unwisely imbued her with a personality so now it’s virtually impossible to part with her.”
“Oh, it would be too much trouble to drive me home, Mrs. Carter,” Abigail protested.
“I want to do it,” I insisted. Taking the girl by the elbow, I steered her to the bus exit. “Why not come along with us?” I suggested to Florence.
“Perhaps I will, if Bouncing Betsy will make it all the way home, but I shouldn’t count on that happening.”
Bouncing Betsy is my ancient Peerless Model 56. She’s called Bouncing Betsy because her suspension is shot to bits. I will admit that she is less than reliable, but I can’t bear to trade her in on a new model, even though I’m now a prosperous lady-of-letters working on her third novel for a legitimate publisher. Even though it’s been almost two years now since I parted ways with the odious Mr. Pittman of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly and ceased to turn out overwrought romantic bilge under the nom de plume of Miss Hortencia Higgins, I haven’t quite yet grasped that I’m a respectable lady novelist with quite a stash of cash in the bank.
“Betsy hasn’t been running so well lately,” I explained, “I think she has pneumonia of the carburetor.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 16