by Karey White
“Oh, Mother,” Lucy whispered. “I cannot sell this place.”
Her mother’s scoff brought her back to reality. “You’ll say that until the winter sets in, then find yourself spending the days huddled by a fire.” She smoothed her skirt then repositioned her hat. “Your father always said there was nothing modern about this manor. No electric lights or radiators. It would cost a fortune to renovate. Besides, what would Robert think? You can’t very well be married to a man on another continent. I’d never have any grandchildren.”
Lucy knew her mother was right, but for now, Lucy wanted to pretend she would stay longer, perhaps forever. The manor was small according to English standards. But this property was perfectly charming.
Perhaps she could convince Robert to move to England, or this could be their summer home, and they’d fashionably travel back and forth between continents. Yet even as she thought it, she knew Robert would not be content away from his thriving stock broker company. He was always in the middle of things— vibrant and intelligent, with ambitions for politics— and Robert was the last man Lucy could picture living a quiet life in the middle of the English countryside.
No, Lucy would have her two weeks here. She would sketch the beautiful scenery to her heart’s content, and then she’d meet with the solicitor in London before returning home. Papers would be signed, and once the estate sold, Lucy would have a sizable inheritance. It was exciting to consider. She’d be a self-made woman marrying the most famous bachelor in New York City.
Not a bachelor for long, though. Lucy was certain that Robert was close to proposing. This trip had set that back of course, but once she returned, it wouldn’t be long before she was booking a reception hall.
I am a lucky girl.
Chapter Two
Calvin Bevans scowled at the broken fence along his property line. It seemed he’d be spending his time off doing manual labor. The cracked wood extended for a couple of dozen meters, and there would be much to do in repairing it. First task— order new wood.
He hesitated before turning away and walking back to his house. This part of his land bordered the Quinn property. Perhaps they had replacement wood stored. If Calvin were to study his father’s well-kept ledgers, he might be able to discover who had originally built the fence to see if there was extra wood stored somewhere. But such a study would take hours. Calvin was tired of paperwork. Besides, he was sure his father had built it. It seemed that the Bevans Estate had always been saddled with the majority of the upkeep. The history between the two families was not friendly.
The sun peeked out from behind the clouds for a moment, reminding Calvin that he was on vacation. His job as a barrister kept him at the townhouse in London most of the time. He’d used his summer vacation to watch some of the 1908 London Olympic Games, so he put in extra hours to make up for that and wasn’t able to check on his ancestral estate until now.
It had been neglected for too long.
Calvin continued along the property line, hoping he wouldn’t find any more damage. It seemed that hiring a man a few days a month wasn’t enough... Calvin would have to pay for more work. Since he’d been a young boy, he knew he’d inherit his great-grandfather’s estate, and Calvin had always looked forward to it. He supposed he looked at it from a status viewpoint, rather than with the reality that he would be sinking money into a place that would only require more and more money. It never ended.
Calvin was too busy to enjoy it besides. The house was enormous— much too big for just him and a couple of servants. He rarely invited guests on his sporadic vacations, because, frankly, his closest university friends had all up and married. They were starting families of their own, leaving Calvin behind.
Logic told him that at thirty-one, he wasn’t all that old; in fact, in London, he spent after-hours with other barristers who were older and still single. But each one of them had a strange quirk. One was nearly bald except for some excessive ear hair, another bachelor friend had a horrible stutter, and a third seemed to hate all women.
Calvin fit into none of those categories… He believed himself to be a pleasant fellow and not too terrible-looking. He certainly didn’t hate women. Nothing is wrong with me. So why do I feel like I’m dragging my feet in life? Turning circles, and getting nowhere?
He’d reached the far edge of his property that sat atop a hill. A wooden sign, which looked like it had been carved a century ago, read Blackberry Hollow. Calvin had been fascinated with the hollow as a child, but it had been a good many years since he’d ventured there.
Calvin gazed at the tangled blackberry bushes, and he was surprised to see a plethora of large berries, fully ripe and practically falling off their branches. He strode down the hillside and picked a few, then popped them into his mouth. The sweetness burst in his mouth, making him crave his mother’s pies. Both of his parents were long gone, and his sister wasn’t around to make them either. She was living in London, busy being a mother.
Out here in the blackberry patch, Calvin was suddenly feeling quite alone in the world.
He walked slowly up the far side of the hill and stood there for a moment, looking over Quinn Manor. He’d read about the passing of Jonathan Quinn in the papers, and Calvin’s housekeeper had informed him that a niece from America had inherited the place. He supposed it would be auctioned off now. It was hard enough for a born and bred English gent to keep up with an old estate, so he wondered whatever an American woman would do with one.
He was about ready to start down the hill, when, across the quietness of the countryside, he heard the distinct sound of a pair of horses and a carriage. He paused and watched as a carriage came into view. Curious, he stood in his spot and waited as the carriage pulled up to the manor and two women were helped out by the driver.
Calvin didn’t recognize the driver or the women, and so he assumed they must be the Americans. He wasn’t close enough to distinguish much about them, except that one seemed to be older— the mother, perhaps?
The older woman followed the driver toward the house, but the younger woman walked to the front of the carriage, looking in Calvin’s direction. He didn’t think she could see him, at least not directly.
She set out toward him, surprising Calvin so much, he didn’t move. She’d soon enough find the stone wall she’d have to walk along to reach the gate before she could reach his property and the hollow.
The older woman called out, her voice faint, and words indistinguishable. The younger visitor stopped and turned then answered back. After a final glance behind her, one that landed almost directly where he stood, the young woman walked back toward the house.
Calvin let out his breath— not realizing he’d been holding it. His heart had been hammering like a school boy watching a horse race. And he’d been doing absolutely nothing but observing an American woman walk toward him.
Chapter Three
It was like a dream, or, more accurately, like a description from a travel book. The man on the hill looked as if he were part of an advertising bill for estate living in England. Behind him sprawled a mansion that could have housed a dozen families. With the clouds in the sky, the mansion looked a bit forlorn and gothic, which only intrigued Lucy more.
Perhaps the man on the hill was a ghost. But when she had set out toward the hill and he had moved, Lucy had known he was real. A thrill had run through her as she thought about meeting a neighbor of one of her relatives, someone who could tell her about her uncle and the history of Quinn Manor. He could tell her of weddings held here, of births, funerals, parties, summer picnics… But she’d have to meet the neighbors later. Perhaps they’d invite her to English tea.
The thought made her smile.
“Who was that man?” her mother asked as she approached.
Lucy glanced over her shoulder again. He was gone. “Our neighbor, I assume. You didn’t give me a chance to find out.”
“Oh, Lucille. You can’t go traipsing about talking to strange men.”
Lucy
laughed. “There’s no reason I can’t introduce myself. Besides, he’s only strange until we learn his name.”
The driver had set their luggage by the front door, and Lucy knocked. “We’ll find out soon enough who he is from Mrs. Yates.”
Her mother pursed her lips as the door was opened by a stout woman wearing a black dress.
“Mrs. Yates?” Lucy said.
“Yes,” the woman said, her voice formal, but there was warmth beneath it. “I assume you are the Quinns from New York?”
Her mother answered. “Yes, it’s wonderful to finally be here.” She was already looking past Mrs. Yates into the hall.
“Peters will bring in your luggage,” the housekeeper said. “Come in and sit by the fire, and I’ll bring you some tea.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said as she followed her mother inside. The quiet from the countryside seemed to extend into the house, and Lucy marveled at the stillness. A dark wood staircase rose to the second floor, and hanging above it all was a gorgeous chandelier. Her mother was eyeing everything as well, more for the value of each item, surely, than from appreciation.
But that’s why they’d come, Lucy reminded herself, to sell the house and decide if there was anything they wanted to keep before scheduling an auction. Mrs. Yates led the way into a sitting room with a cheerful fire. Vases of fresh-cut roses sat on tables dotted throughout the room.
Lucy’s mother sank onto one of the sofas. “What a lovely room,” she said. “Are the flowers from the gardens?”
Mrs. Yates beamed. “They’re watched over quite particularly— we’ve always prided ourselves in our roses at Quinn Manor.”
Crossing to the fireplace, Lucy studied the portrait hanging above the hearth. She’d seen a miniature of it in her father’s possessions. Her father was a young boy in the picture, about ten, and his brother about thirteen. Between them stood a pair of hunting dogs. But now, she saw something new. The two boys were standing on a hill... one that looked like the hill she’d seen their neighbor standing on.
Her thoughts turned to the man she’d just seen. She supposed she’d meet him soon enough. “Who lives to the north?” Lucy asked when Mrs. Yates bustled back in, carrying a tray full of tea things.
“That would be the bevans family, except it’s only Calvin Bevans III there now,” Mrs. Yates said in a disapproving tone. “A bit reclusive, he’s always been. Sent off his sister, let go most of the help, and now the place is falling apart.”
Lucy settled onto the sofa next to her mother and reached for a tea cup from the tray Mrs. Yates had set on the low table. “Did he lose all of his money or something?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Mrs. Yates said. “I don’t make it my business to guess, either.” She set out two small plates and put a scone on each. “As much as I hate to see this manor sold and all the memories with it, it would be better than having it go downhill like the place next door.”
“Do many of the estates in this area belong to the original families?” Lucy’s mother asked.
Mrs. Yates clasped her hands in front of her. “Not many. They’ve been bought up by rich investors— some of them Americans. Over time estates have been renovated and used as vacation homes.”
“Well, we certainly don’t have that kind of money,” Lucy’s mother said with a laugh.
Mrs. Yates gave a curt nod, and Lucy knew the two women would get along fine.
“Perhaps you can show us the items you believe we should keep in the family,” Lucy’s mother continued. “And if there are a few things you’d like to keep yourself, for sentimental reasons, that can be arranged as well.”
Mrs. Yates smiled— the first Lucy had seen from her. “That would be wonderful, ma’am.”
A bell chimed from someplace in the hallway. “Mr. Peters is taking care of the driver, so I’d best answer the door,” Mrs. Yates said and left the room. A moment later, a male voice echoed through the hallway and into the sitting room. Lucy was immediately on alert. “Do you think it’s him? Our neighbor?” she whispered to her mother.
Lucy stood, thinking that Mrs. Yates would be ushering him into the room at any moment, but the front door shut, and the house went silent again. From where Lucy stood, she could see the driveway and the man leaving. His back was to her, but she was certain he was the same man she’d seen before.
She was about to find Mrs. Yates when the woman hurried into the sitting room. “Well, that’s that,” she said, brushing her hands together, her face flushed.
“What happened?” Lucy asked.
The housekeeper let out a sigh. “Mr. Bevans won’t bother you now. You can expect a peaceful stay and plenty of quiet to make your decisions about the house.”
“You sent him away?” Lucy blurted. Her mother sent her a sharp look— one Lucy knew well. It meant to hold her tongue and her questions would be answered.
“We don’t look kindly upon the Bevans. Not after how Calvin Bevans Sr. treated Lucille.”
“Lucille? The woman my Lucy is named after?” her mother asked.
Lucy walked over to the sofa again and sat down, intrigued to hear the story about the Bevans and the great-great-aunt she was named for.
“Yes, that’s the one,” Mrs. Yates said. “Lucille was hopelessly in love with Calvin Bevans Sr. But she was never good enough for him, living in a simple manor house and all, and he married another woman who brought a sizable fortune to Bevans Estate.”
Lucy knew that Lucille had never married, but she hadn’t known that the woman was in love with the owner of the neighboring house. Lucy tried to remember what her father had told her about Lucille. “She continued to live here, then? Even after the eldest Mr. Bevans married?”
“And had three children,” Mrs. Yates said. “Lucille had the purest heart. The woman even became friends with Calvin’s wife. But in the end, it was too much for Lucille. Her heart gave out with grief before she was thirty.”
It was a sad story, and the fact that it had started to rain outside made it even gloomier. Her mother continued asking questions, and Lucy rose and walked to the tall windows. The rain pelting on the panes obscured some of her view, but the estate was still charming. Her thoughts turned to the current Calvin Bevans. What would he say to the story about Lucille and his great-grandfather? Odd how, even after so many years, the housekeeper at Quinn Manor wouldn’t welcome a Bevans into the home.
She turned to interrupt her mother’s questioning about the furniture. “Are there any portraits of Lucille?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Yates said. “On the second floor and in her old room, of course. We call it the blue room now— it was her favorite color and all.”
A slight chill spread through Lucy, but she ignored it. “Can I visit her room?”
“Of course. This house belongs to you— and everything in it. Even Lucille’s trinkets.”
Lucy smiled and looked over at her mother, hoping she felt adventurous.
“Go on,” her mother said. “You won’t rest until you explore, but I’m too cozy sitting here. I can see everything in the morning.”
In agreement, Mrs. Yates nodded toward Lucy. “Take an oil lamp with you. The sun is nearly set, even though you can’t see it. The fires have been laid and lit in your bedrooms, so they should be comfortable by now.”
Chapter Four
Calvin paced the length of his study as the light faded from the already dark room. It was ridiculous that a feud more than fifty years old was still in effect. All of those involved were dead. Still, the housekeeper of Quinn Manor had refused to let him inside to be introduced to the visiting Americans.
But that wasn’t what had disturbed him the most today. He’d returned from his walk to a letter from Sylvia waiting on his desk. This meant that she was on her way to see him now. His older sister could be an angel one moment, then the very devil the next. And it didn’t help that she had married into extravagant money. Enough to turn Bevans Estate upside on its head and do a complete renovation without a dent in her
husband’s pocketbook.
Calvin settled on a cracked leather chair on one side of the mahogany bureau. It was littered with statements of accounts that he’d gone over more than once. He could afford to make a few basic repairs, ones he’d set into effect this week, but that was the extent his money would stretch. His parents hadn’t passed on debt, yet his father’s investments had gone bad and hadn’t been able to carry the estate through more than a few years.
But Calvin’s pride had stopped him from borrowing one pound from his sister. Bevans Estate was had been left to him by his parents. It was up to him to preserve the place, and if his business continued to thrive, then in about five years, he’d be able to start serious renovations. Unfortunately, his sister’s impatient nature had driven a wedge between them. So much so, that she hadn’t been to the estate in over a year.
That was about to change… It seemed Sylvia was on her way, and by Calvin’s calculations, she’d be there as soon as the next day.
Chapter Five
Lucy rested her hand on the latch to Lucille’s room. Her heart was pounding with both nervousness and excitement. She lifted the oil lamp higher, then turned the latch with her other hand. The door swung open, and Lucy was greeted with musty, cold air. She took a few steps inside, looking around in the dimness. Lucy practically tasted the dust as it irritated her throat.
A bed sat near the window, and next to it was a vanity dresser with bottles of what looked like perfume. White drapes covered the double windows, but the rest of the room seemed blue, although it was hard to distinguish the color in the almost darkness. Above a lounge chair, which sat opposite the bed, was a large portrait.
Lucy crossed to it and held the lamp to the side of the frame. The woman in the picture looked sort of ethereal. Her hair was pale, and her skin more so. But her eyes were strikingly dark— Lucy couldn’t tell if they were brown or dark blue or green. The woman sat on a chair, and a hand was on her shoulder.