Charlock's Secret

by Leah Moyes

  Obediently, I followed the man through a series of labyrinth hallways before I arrived at the door of what appeared to be an office.

  “Thank you, Mr—”

  “Hennessey.”

  “Mr. Hennessey.”

  “Just Hennessey.” He nodded with a slight bow. “Good day.” Then he disappeared. Note to self, require the staff to be normal when visitors are not present.

  I stepped inside and instantly remembered my initial mistake. “Pauline,” My voice pled forgiveness. “I’m sorry. I set my alarm, but I must have slept through it somehow.”

  Even as I spoke, those very words sounded foreign. I couldn’t remember a time in the last year I wasn’t already awake when the alarm went off.

  “Haver’s child,” She cried from across the room, both hands deep in a filing cabinet. “Sattle darling, ‘tis ye first day, a tald Gretchen tae let yersel rest.”

  Pauline told me she spoke English, but each word took time for me to decipher. “Wait, who’s Gretchen?”

  “Ye maid.”

  “I have a maid?” My brows furrowed. My best friend Isabel from Central Park West had a maid. Occasionally, when I visited her brownstone, Katia would fix me lunch and sometimes wash my clothes, but I never had a maid.

  “Aye dear, now calm yerself and sit.”

  I obeyed and slipped into the sole chair without a stack of papers on it. “Those flowers,” I pointed to a charming bunch of yellow buds in a vase. “I see them all over the grounds, what are they called?”

  “Oh, love tae bonny Charlock.”

  “Charlock?” Oh, of course, that’s why it’s called Charlock Manor. The blooms exploded everywhere. I felt foolish. You would think that was something I should’ve known before I came.

  “Oh, a hae a quaisten fer ye . . . ” Pauline sat down in her chair, shuffled through papers, and even glanced about the room, but didn’t finish her sentence. I tried to wait patiently, I really tried, but the silence drove me crazy.

  “You have a question?” I urged, hoping this would jog her memory.

  “What?” She stared at me blankly.

  My expression rivaled hers. I knew I’d recently woken up, but who emerged more confused was a mystery. How could Mr. Gilford, Mr. finicky, put up with someone like her managing his home?

  “Never mind,” I mumbled quietly. “When will I see Mr. chi—” I caught myself mid-sentence and pretended to cough as she peered up from her desk. “Mr. Gilford,” I said.

  “Mr. Gilford?” Pauline shoved a tall unorganized stack of papers aside which revealed a rarely used calendar underneath. She slid her finger down through the months, then stopped on a circled date. “7 July love, aye ‘tis when he a-comin.” She winked with a wide smile.

  My eyebrows wrinkled before I could stop them. “You mean, I—I’m on my own here for two months?” Pressure in my chest amplified. Insecurity was a newly developed reaction, and I hated it.

  “Naw, nivver alane, Katharine.”

  “Kat,” I corrected her. The last person to call me Katharine was my kindergarten teacher.

  “Kat, lassie, ye have a wee staff tae sair, but ye wull dae fine.” She patted my hand before she moved back to the file cabinet and thumbed through a drawer of folders. “Here.” She pulled the last one from the back. A handful of papers fell to the floor. I stooped to pick them up and attempted to hand them to her. She brushed them off and pointed to the desk to add to the growing mound. I surveyed the room. There were enough papers here to fill a dozen filing cabinets—piles on top of piles and in no apparent order.

  “Does the computer work?” I pointed to the small monitor hidden behind yet another stack of folders.

  “Ah Dinnae ken. Prefere peper system.”

  I blinked repetitively. What system could she be referring to?

  Pauline spread a folder flat atop some books. As she thumbed through the sheets, a brief biography was attached to a picture by a paper clip. “Tae staff.”

  There were no lengthy resumes, no letters of recommendation or required certificates. It was as simple as it gets. With a hurried glance over each one, I was astounded. Most of the eight staff members served the Gilfords for the past two to three decades. Such vast loyalty to an employer was impressive.

  “Come, Kat, a’ll give ye an innin.” She was halfway out the door, and swiftly down the hall, despite her short legs.

  “Wait . . . ” I cried in my poor attempt to keep up. “I don’t report to anyone?” Pauline turned the corner into the kitchen.

  “Hou’r ye Helen?” A large hefty woman was kneading dough against the center island. Pauline nudged me forward. “Tis Kat love, me cover.”

  Helen’s smile filled her round cheeks. She clapped her hands together as flour sprayed in all directions and didn’t even bother to wipe her hands before she grabbed mine. I couldn’t help but laugh at her warm welcome.

  “Welcome to England, doll.” Helen reminded me of my grandma Jo.

  “Thank you.” The words barely out before Pauline hustled quickly from the kitchen, and into a foyer where we crossed paths once again with Hennessey. Pauline was quick to point out that Hennessey’s paternal lineage had all worked for the Gilfords over the past two centuries. This was a source of pride for him. He bowed respectfully with his gloved hand extended. Although, the moment he saw it covered in flour, it never connected with mine. I chuckled as I recognized my oversight. Hennessey was not an actor. He was the real deal and exactly how I pictured a stereotypic English butler to behave.

  “Nice to see you again, Hennessey.” I grinned. He nodded dutifully as he subtly pulled his hand back behind him.

  “Hennessey,” Pauline interrupted. “Cry the hoose noo, nae Helen, ‘tis in tae scullery.”

  Blood drained from my cheeks. I didn’t understand what she said. Hennessey bent forward. “Yes, ma’am, I will gather the staff in the parlor for a proper introduction.” His translation seemed entirely for my benefit, but he didn’t look at me. I sighed, relieved. This stiff might become my best friend.

  Pauline was on the move again. Even as we waited for the others to arrive, she disappeared and reappeared a handful of times. I became nervous watching her, unsure if her peculiar behavior was because of a severe case of attention deficit or more of her unknown duties.

  With a swift clap of her hands, she gathered the small crowd. All eyes fell upon me despite Pauline demanding their full attention. Because of our family-run deli, I’d been taught at a young age to look people in the eyes. Only now, full well knowing that’s what I should do, my head lowered, and my gaze dropped to the tile floor. A slight nudge from Pauline forced my eyes to follow her hand.

  “Gretchen and Lara tae maids, Patrick and Billy tend tae gardens, Ralph and Oscar security.”

  I nodded in each direction, but sound failed me.

  “Á nod’s as guid as a wink tae a blind horse, lassie.”

  My eyes flashed to Hennessey. Would he come to my rescue again? Ralph guffawed loudly as if they all knew I hadn’t a clue.

  Gretchen, the one closest to my age, cleared her throat, and whispered, “Miss, she’s giving you an opportunity to introduce yourself.” Then she glared at Patrick, who sneered childishly back despite the gray that clouded his sideburns.

  I smiled in her direction. “Thank you, Gretchen. My name is Kat Shelton. I grew up in New York City, but graduated from college in Arizona.” A few blank stares met me. “. . . in America.”

  Ralph blurted out, “bollocks! Do you think we’re daft? Of course, you’re a Yank!” A few chuckles followed.

  Gretchen stomped over and slapped his shoulder. “You’re a prat.”

  “It’s okay, Gretchen,” I waved her off him. “I know I have big shoes to fill after Ms. Campbell, but when I committed to this job, I committed to you as well. I don’t intend to let you down.” My lips quivered between words, and my breath sputtered.

  A nod of encouragement came from Pauline as I continued, “please be patient with me. I’m willing
to learn all I can to keep Charlock Manor’s efficiency remain uninterrupted.”

  My soapbox speech lasted one minute before I shoved my trembling hands into my pant pockets, afraid they would see them. Except for the warm wink from Gretchen, the air about remained chilly until Pauline excused the staff. I didn’t quite anticipate this response, but then I really didn’t know what to expect.

  As she led me back towards the office, Pauline linked my arm with hers. Halfway there she stopped, paused, and studied me intently. “Gonnae ring ye each Monday mornin at 9.”

  My nose scrunched, confused. “What?”

  “Mr. Gilford, he be tae one ye reportin to.” She let go of my arm and scurried ahead.

  “Oh, okay.” I realized she just answered my question from an hour ago. I chuckled. As quirky as she was, I would miss her.

  Chapter Five

  For the next three days, I followed Ms. Campbell around the premises, inside and out, and still only saw a half of the house. I observed her movements while she led a ninety-minute tour each day. One that she was well versed in as she covered limited parts of both the home and the gardens.

  I never grew tired of her dialogue, and after some research discovered a Scottish key for most of her common words. Although I admit to some surprise, the guests never seemed to have a problem with it. Possibly because they were as spellbound with the view as I was and rarely needed an explanation beyond that.

  Each time I entered a room, it was like the very first time—awe-inspiring. It was by far the most beautiful building I’d ever seen. Being from the East Coast where a mixture of both contemporary and antiquated architecture existed, that said a great deal.

  The guided tour always began in the entry hall. I loved to see the expressions on the tourists’ faces as they stepped through the front door, much like how I felt from day one and every day since. Audible gasps and sighs echoed loud and often as their eyes magnetically floated upwards.

  Most of the ground level was public—with the kitchen, dining room, ballroom, library, billiard room, parlor and two long hallways that branched opposite of one another. Each hallway led to three guest rooms, one of which was mine and private, but also a couple of random rooms used over the years for personal study or music.

  Once the tour reached the mezzanine, Pauline shared the details of the exquisite painting before them. She informed the group of its commission in the year 1878, prior to the matriarch's untimely death. The portrait is deliberately written into their descendant’s will to never be removed from its post. Even if the residence is sold outside of the family, its position is eternally preserved. Her death must’ve been quite a tragedy. Based on the picture, Martha was the center of their lives.

  In the artist’s rendition, she appeared to be in her young forties and incredibly attractive. In fact, if the painter got each member’s likeness correct, they all possessed striking features. Frederick stood behind his wife's chair and tenderly rested his hands on her shoulders. Merritt, the only living son at 23, was standing on the right side of his father with his two sisters on the left. Elizabeth, 16 and Abagale, 11.

  “Martha died of Diphtheria in 1878 . . . died of Diphtheria in 1878.” I whispered to myself repeatedly, forcing it into memory as I trailed behind the group past the portrait. In my attempt to memorize as much as possible, I continued my oratory up the remaining stairs and towards the master wing. “Frederick continued his service to the Queen for two more years before he retired . . . or did she say one more year?” Ahhhh. I glanced down at my cheat card. Okay, it’s two. “The family was devastated at the loss of their matriarch who made a difference in the lives of many people, including many homeless children in London.”

  The child at the caboose of the tour held tight to her mother’s hand and continually turned around. Eyeing me suspiciously, she asked, “what are you doing?”

  I smiled and patted her on the head. “I’m practicing how to give this tour.” She wrinkled her nose in response and turned away.

  I paused at the door of the bedroom but spoke as if I were inside. “In . . . 1874,” I tried to confirm the year in my mind. “Yes, 1874, Martha started a home in London for orphaned children under the age of thirteen called the Gilford House. As many as thirty children could be housed and cared for by nurses at any one time. It was there that it was rumored she contracted the awful disease that killed her.” Whew, okay, I have that part down fairly well.

  I stepped inside as Pauline explained out of the eight bedchambers upstairs the only one open to the tour is the master suite, more like wing since it dominates one-fourth of the second floor. Like most of the house, it has remained in eighteenth-century décor. Once inside, however, you get a more intimate glimpse of the relationship between Frederick and Martha. A pure love story that developed from a marriage arranged for consequence.

  I watched with fascination as she described the single imprint of tiny hands framed next to the kingly bed. Then remained in the shadows once the group departed. When I held up the picture, my hand grazed over the glass. I whispered in partial imitation of Pauline’s words. “Not much is documented about the couple's second son, buried next to his parents in the family plot on the property. He was young at the time of his death. A simple inscription etched below, states the name Peter Frederick Gilford September 1862.”

  I wonder what happened or how old he was when he passed. I can’t imagine the pain of losing a child. I glanced around the impeccable room—snowy furniture trimmed in gold, crystal chandeliers with matching sconces, and elegant draperies lining the expansive windows. Yet, even surrounded by all this wealth, I pictured a heartbroken Martha bent on her knees suffering in agony at the news of Peter’s death. I replaced the picture with hallowed tenderness.

  From the records I read, the suite hasn’t been permanently occupied since Mr. Chill's father, Trenton Gilford II, and his wife Juliana moved out of the residence when young Trenton was 8 years old. No wonder he appeared distant. He left the only source of happiness behind when they left Charlock.

  I caught up with the tour as the visitors moved down the back stairs. Pauline explained their use was for the servants or occasionally a naughty child running from a nurse or a governess. They led directly to the kitchen. The massive room was designed to accommodate a great deal of preparation for entertaining large numbers.

  The final stop inside was the magnificent ballroom, next to the grand entrance, but a story all its own. As the tourists spread out in separate directions, admiring its beauty, I moved about as if it were me describing the details.

  “This room has changed very little since the night Frederick and Martha took the dance floor, celebrating their first embrace as husband and wife.” I gritted my teeth. Will I be able to say this as effortlessly as required? I shook my head, wiped the sweat off my nose and continued, “although there is a thin layer of plastic protecting the tiles on the dance floor, they are from the original construction. If you look closely, each square is hand painted with the family crest.” I pointed to the floor, and although I wasn’t speaking loud enough to draw attention, not one person glanced down. Every neck craned upward, and to their credit, the attention was justified.

  The luxurious chandelier was a dazzling arrangement of brilliance, designed after a waterfall. Each individual crystal was shaped like frozen icicles intertwined with branches of gold leaf. It cascaded an unbelievable eight feet from the core. It was the most astounding part of the house, and there were many.

  I beamed at their roused responses, then proceeded with my imitation tour voice from a vacant corner. “Each September, the Gilfords hosted an annual ball.” I peeked at my cards. “An annual autumn ball, attended by many with status, such as nobility, politicians, and local wealthy families.” I reached for my pencil behind my ear and scribbled additional notes. “Since they only hosted it once a year, the event was considered to be one of the most elegant affairs in the county.”

  According to Pauline, the annual ball brought wel
l over two hundred people within its walls. While that sounds crowded, they moved with ease around the ballroom, entry hall, main foyer, parlors, dining room, veranda, and gardens illuminated with hundreds of candles.

  Opposite of the ballroom and to the right side of the main stairs was the library. While I wasn’t known to read extensively beyond a college textbook or a plane trip, this quickly became one of my favorite rooms. It was the one I reverted to at the completion of each tour.

  “Git confortable lassie,” Pauline suggested. “Yer visitours be wantin’ to knowe alls ‘bout Charlock.” She pointed out books on English History and even some family journals to research.

  The only corner in the library that restricted my access was Mr. Gilford’s personal bookshelf. It was kept conveniently encased in glass and locked. This didn’t stop me from peeking. I was curious to see what books Mr. Chill found so worthy to not be touched by another. The attempt proved useless. All the spines on the books were too faded to identify. First editions, I’m sure.