For a few miles they admired the frosted countryside. Nothing, it seemed, broke up expanses of snow deep enough to bury all stubble from the harvest. Overhead, hawks could be seen wheeling, searching for a meal, while the blue mountains in the distance stood out with new brilliance.
But all too soon, enjoyment changed to anticipation, and concern. There to the right was the island, dark, rocky, robed with coned trees whose branches had already lost much of their new coating. Between island and road lay well over a mile of brush, reeds, and river ice, which would have to be negotiated carefully. Knowing this, Longfellow had brought along a length of rope, to be used in case of emergency.
They passed the house of John and Rachel Dudley, where they saw Winthrop busy with the eternal chore of chopping firewood. At least Rachel and the children would stay warm, thought Charlotte, whether the constable returned home or not. Still no word of his whereabouts had reached the inn, according to Longfellow's information that morning.
They stopped when they reached the point of land nearest to the island. Lem remained where he was, better able to watch their progress from a high seat.
Climbing down, Longfellow helped the ladies who each, he was again glad to see, wore stout footwear. Their capes looked sufficient for the day; he and Reed, he supposed, would need to open their great coats before long, due to the exertion of walking.
This proved true as the sun rose higher, shimmering on the ice around them, forcing them to squint through the crisp air. They reached a few small rocks within the hour, and sat for a few moments to rest. Then they moved on, and with surprising suddenness seemed to be upon the main mass.
Observing a sharp shadow, Longfellow led them around to the south, until they could see sunlight penetrating a thin cleft.
Charlotte realized this must be the place Lem had told her about, which he must have described to Richard Longfellow. She watched as her neighbor strode into unknown territory, with a strong curiosity that took him well ahead of the rest.
Longfellow looked about to see bare vines, and a mixture of trees that seemed to hang above him. Through the cleft was the small meadow he sought. On one side, snow had fallen heavily; on the other a projecting cliff offered protection, so that brown fronds of wood ferns still poked through the new layer of white. Over all, climbing bittersweet with orange berries had drawn several sorts of birds, all chattering busily, ignoring the new arrivals.
They came to a stone building. It was square, with a sloping roof; some of it was newly repaired and mortared haphazardly. A new door, too, had been attached to the old rusted hinges. It was partially open.
Of whatever had once been inside, little remained. Someone had come before them, probably on the day of the old woman's death, for there were no tracks in the snow beyond distinctive hoof marks.
Longfellow imagined a few men had hurried over after hearing of Alex Godwin's death, to clear away all trace of their illegal activity. They found a hearth, but no bellows; a bench built into a wall, but no chair, nor implements to tell how someone might have created the shillings. However, a few candle stubs were still melted onto shelves of flat rock projecting from the wallstones. These were recent; mice had only begun to gnaw them.
“If you ladies are chilled, we might find some fallen wood and make a small fire. No? Fine. It will be a warm walk up to the house. And since there's little here to see, we might as well go.”
Leaving the meadow as they'd come, they again took to the ice, and walked further to the east. They eventually reached the wooden landing. Today, only its upright columns were visible, for the rest was covered by several inches of glittering snow. Finding the path to the house, they started to climb.
At the top, though the air was still, they heard little beyond their own labored breathing. Then an insistent crow cawed as it flew far below, over the sunny marsh.
“I see nothing ghostly,” Longfellow said aloud, causing Charlotte to wonder what, then, had brought the idea into his mind. “An old manor, sorely in need of attention. We'll give it our own for an hour or so. Shall we go in?”
He opened one of the great doors and stood back to allow Magdalene to enter first, though she hardly seemed anxious to do so. Facing her home of many years, she appeared less than pleased with it.
“You don't have to go in,” Charlotte assured her. “If you like, I'll bring out whatever you ask for. But you might want to choose, yourself, what you'd like to take back to the village. To Mr. Longfellow's house. Or to mine.”
Magdalene looked to her lawyer, who nodded his approval. Then she disappeared through the pointed portal.
Surprised at the amount of courage she, too, had to summon, Charlotte went next. Nothing had changed. Yet today the house seemed even less inviting than it had been before. She realized it had become a dead thing, a relic with no meaning. No person remained to give it a glow of warmth, a pulse of daily activity. Yet perhaps she did feel something here, after all.
“By all that's holy!” Longfellow exclaimed. He'd looked first across strips of dark carpet on the broad stone floor, up the walls to where weapons shone dully. The tapestries beyond had made such an impression that he stood staring, his mouth open. Finally thinking to close it, he turned to regard the others. “I imagined,” he said, “that there were furnishings here, of a primitive sort. But this!”
“Are they very old?”
“Undoubtedly. Such skills no longer exist. The classical scenes are a delight—but I wonder how he got them here? Wrapped around a mast, possibly. I suspect our lieutenant governor would give his eyeteeth for such decorations! The weapons add a curious touch. It's as if Fisher hoped to keep the medieval past alive, far from where it once belonged. All in all, it's an amazing collection.”
“There is more,” said Moses Reed shortly.
“Then let's go and see it,” said Longfellow. He took a few steps one way, then turned another and began to stride toward the room Charlotte knew would lead to the hearth where she'd taken tea.
Once in the dark antechamber, he went to the windows and grasped a curtain. Turning to Magdalene, he asked for permission to let in the light. She nodded and he pulled, only to find the material falling in a heap at his feet, setting dust flying all around. However, he'd lightened the room so that the paintings on the walls seemed to come to life, and the chairs made of antlers and tusks stood out against the darker wood paneling of the walls.
“German, certainly,” said Longfellow, dismissing them for the moment. Turning on his heel, he went on through the far doorway to enter the larger room beyond. Here, he and the lawyer both took hold of sets of curtains, and let them fly. These held, sliding on iron rings over their rods, so that the air remained reasonably clear. The next thing to draw their attention was the portrait of Catherine Knowles, whose blue eyes fell upon the room with an icy sentience that caused Charlotte to shudder.
“I see now why Horace Walpole imagined a portrait might leave its frame, to walk among us,” was Longfellow's first comment. “I only wish it could speak, so we might learn exactly what happened to old Mrs. Knowles.”
Charlotte was about to reply. She saw movement just above the hearth. She felt her stomach lurch. The mirror had renewed its gamboling. In its dark reaches, between spots of blackened silver and the overlay of rosy glass, she again seemed to see colors swirling.
“Look!” she cried.
“A lovely old thing, to be sure,” Longfellow answered. “Venetian glass, I would say. Older than the one in my study, but similar. Do you admire it particularly, Carlotta? I might find one for you one day, during my travels.”
“You—you see nothing unusual?”
“How do you mean?” he asked, his nose wrinkling.
“Nothing moving?”
“Well, Reed, behind us.” Longfellow turned to make sure. “Yes, looking at a small chest on the table there. Meant to hold letters, do you think, Moses?” he asked, going to investigate further.
“Possibly,” the lawyer replied. He found
that the jeweled lid needed a key, which none of them had. “Magdalene, do you know where we might find something to open this?”
“She wears the keys at her waist,” she answered. Charlotte then recalled putting such a set away, in her desk at home.
Removing a small folding knife from his pocket, the attorney inserted it into the brass lock. He rocked it back and forth, then applied a prying motion, forcing the mechanism to give way. Inside were folded letters; the seal to each had been lifted gently, to keep the wax impression of a signet ring intact.
“It seems,” said Reed a few moments later, “that they're all letters of love, addressed to Catherine by a man named Donald.”
“A good Gaelic name,” Longfellow said, allowing the matter to drop. “Let's move on. I see nothing to help us understand what has occurred here.
Charlotte pulled her eyes from the mirror, and saw that the rug before the hearth was singed and stained with ashes.
“It's a terribly sad place,” she said suddenly, looking up. Longfellow stooped to examined her face. “Are you all right, Carlotta? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”
Though she had not, she heard once more the sound of faint music—a harpsichord jingling, voices joined in song. Looking to the others, she saw their concern for her, but nothing more.
“I'm quite well,” she assured Longfellow, taking her skirt in her hand, making her way quickly to the sunlight by an uncovered window.
“Then let's keep moving,” he suggested. “Magdalene, do you know where Mrs. Knowles kept her papers? Those that dealt with legal matters, and finances?”
“In her bed chamber,” the woman replied without hesitation. “She has them there.”
“Will you lead the way?”
Magdalene turned and looked about the room, as if for the last time. Straightening her back, she walked with new resolve along the way they'd come. In the vast entry she began to climb steps against a gray wall, past windows with colored glass, toward a second floor. The others followed, enjoying a closer view of the niches full of weapons and spiders, and the tapestries above.
At the top, they came upon a long gallery. Clear glass in small, high panes let in enough of the noon sun for them to admire portraits of several gentlemen and their ladies, in two long rows that faced one another. Most seemed very well done.
Charlotte felt especially drawn to one whose etched plate identified its subject as Ermengarde Fischart, wife of Johan. This, then, was Catherine's mother. It strongly resembled the young woman in the larger painting below them. Yet this woman had been more slender, and seemed resigned to an unhappy fate—no use to her a gown enriched with a fortune in pearls, embroidered in thread of gold.
“Here is old Johan himself,” said Longfellow, coming to stand a few steps away.
Next to Ermengarde, they saw a man whose face showed great force of will, and a contempt for the world he took no trouble to hide. Something of him, too, had been given to the young woman below, though here was a more sensuous set to the forward lips, and a gleam of appetite in the eyes. He appeared to be dressed for the hunt. Thick leather straps ran over a heavy doublet, and on his head perched a hat made with small curled feathers, which Charlotte suddenly recognized.
“It's the hat Alex wore, isn't it?” she asked. “On his last day.”
“In the cellar now, rotting with the rest of him,” Longfellow returned cruelly, moving away. His voice, she thought, had sounded like that of someone else—someone frightening. “Carlotta,” he ordered. “Come here.”
She did as he asked, and felt as if fingers of ice had penetrated her skirts, chilling her legs and thighs. With a shocked gasp she stepped back, and found herself as she'd been before.
“You felt it, then.”
“Oh, yes!” she assured him. “How do you explain it?”
“A draft seems improbable, and could hardly account for the strength of the cold,” he said in his usual voice. “Actually, I have no idea what has made it.”
“None at all?”
“Well, it is a stone house. Perhaps a magnetic force, from embedded ore, has set itself up in a column, with its center here in the building's core. I may come back one day, with tools for measuring the drop in temperature. Or I may not,” he finished with more assurance.
“It does seem oppressive, doesn't it?”
“Worse, even, than below.”
“You felt something there, too?” she asked in surprise.
“Didn't you?”
“You didn't say—”
“And just what, I wonder, did you find so special in an old mirror?”
Finally she told him.
“I see. Or rather, I didn't—but there was an oppressive smell, I supposed, that grew more horrible as one neared the hearth. Possibly from the burning… but was that something you noticed?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Perhaps we should finish our business. I wouldn't want to keep Lem waiting too long,” he added, giving them yet another reason to move on. “Miss Knowles?” he called out. “Will you show us the bed chambers?”
No one asked for more time to examine the considerable number of portraits. Instead they moved off in a close group, each glancing to the left and right as they moved on to a corridor that was smaller, and darker.
Chapter 33
MAGDALENE'S CHAMBER WAS of a more pleasant than Charlotte had imagined. Beside an ample bed sat a chair with bright cushions; others lay along a wide sill that formed a seat by a window. Here, it seemed, the curtains were often shaken, and they appeared to be less dilapidated than those below.
By a small hearth, enough wood was stacked to ensure a comfortable fire, the next time one might be wanted. There were no candles, but it would matter little, for there were no books in evidence. Yet the needlework on the cushions was lovely, shining in the window's light. Had some of the metallic threads of silver been carefully plucked from old garments? Several colors, too, had been used to create patterns depicting ferns and spring flowers, which Magdalene might well have seen in the island meadows during her daily walks. These, thought Charlotte, were especially pleasing, and something of a relief in a house that held little else of softness. While their maker had a troubled mind, her eye, at least, was subtle and imaginative.
Without a word, Magdalene took a few simple robes from a clothespress that stood against a wall. She picked up a silver hairbrush, and two pairs of silk slippers, their worn soles replaced with felt. A chest of drawers held undergarments, and then she opened a box whose lid had been inlaid with nacre, to form a white rose. From this she carefully removed an infant's shift. It, too, had been beautifully embroidered. Magdalene held it up, allowing it to be admired. Her own eyes seemed to caress the garment—or perhaps she recalled the child who'd worn it. She then put it back into its special box, which she added to the small pile on the bed.
Meanwhile, sounds came from a larger room at the end of the hall, where Longfellow and Moses Reed had found work of their own.
“I have seen rats,” said Longfellow, “make tidier nests.”
“She could have noticed little,” Reed reminded him as he lifted a reeking shawl, thrown over the remains of a meal left on remarkably fine china. All about them were bits and pieces of a life declining—not neatly, as a mantel clock that slowed, but stumbling into darkness.
“She had a nose, after all,” Longfellow retorted, wondering at his harshness. What had gotten into him? He hadn't felt any great distaste for the old woman, to whom he'd never even spoken! But something now seemed to disgust him in the very air—
“Here!” cried the lawyer, pulling a miniature chest from beneath the bed. “This looks as if it might hold correspondence.” Disdaining the soiled quilt on top of a sagging mattress, Reed lifted the chest to a dressing table, shoving back odds and ends already there. He then began to open its many small compartments.
Meanwhile, Longfellow went to look out into the hall, wondering if he'd really heard distant footsteps, as he'd sup
posed.
When the attorney had gone through every drawer, he drew together a pile of papers which included copies of both wills. Other than that, they were mainly lists and receipts from chandlers and suppliers of food, wine, and cloth, sent from Salem and Kittery, Philadelphia—even London. A few were of great age; none had been marked paid.
“That would seem to be that,” said Reed.
“Then I propose we do a little more exploring below. Not for long, as Magdalene, at least, may wish to go.”
“You don't think Mrs. Willett—?”
“Her curiosity is something of a local legend,” Longfellow informed the lawyer. “She would stay, I think, to view the place from top to bottom, if we gave her the chance. Although today, I wonder—”
“Another day,” said Reed, “when there is time. For now, another twenty minutes or so?
“I, for one, will be waiting at the front door.”
With that, Longfellow went out of the room and down the gallery, leaving the lawyer to go wherever his own feet might take him.
MOSES REED WENT first to inform the ladies that they would all be leaving shortly. Charlotte then felt a heightened desire to explore. She left Magdalene with her attorney and walked back along the corridor, looking into each room.
There was little to see. Furnishings more useful than beautiful had been provided for visitors, although one or two chambers did have something more. In these, decorative hangings were flanked by tall stands that might take several candles. Carpets, too, had been provided; the others made do with bare wood floors.
When she had seen enough of the west wing, Charlotte hurried back through the picture gallery, avoiding the mysterious spot of cold. In another minute she stood below and frowned, unsure of where to go next. The second floor of the east wing could be reached only by another set of stone steps. Somehow it seemed wiser to remain where she was, or to descend. She chose the second option when she noticed another doorway, and a smaller flight of steps leading down. She'd wondered earlier about the kitchen, and decided to see it for herself.
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