by Barbara Ross
“I know.” She handed me two glasses. “I’m sorry.”
“I wanted it to last until we shut down for the season, so we could all get out of it gracefully. It will be hard for him to find a job as an ex-con.”
“It would have been hard anyway. And he would have been looking for a new job no matter what. You did your best.”
“I guess.”
“You did, Julia.”
We returned to the living room. I reached into my tote bag and pulled out the journal. “Wyatt and I found this in the sealed room. We thought you might want to look through it, Marguerite. The dates are way before you were born, but maybe some of the names will be familiar.”
Tallulah reached out to take the book. “Cool! Maybe we can figure out what happened, Granny.”
“When you’re done with it,” I said, “you can help us decide whether we donate it to the historical society, or if it’s some precious family heirloom we should keep.”
Tallulah had already opened the book to the cover page. “Lilly Smythe, 1898,” she said.
“Thank you, Julia, for giving me a new mystery to solve at my age,” Marguerite said, though I had the feeling if anyone did any solving, it would be Tallulah.
* * *
When I got back to Mom’s everyone was there.
“Almost dinner,” Chris said, offering his cheek for a kiss. The food smells were fantastic. “Can you and Page get the table again?”
“Of course. Page!”
Page and I got to work. This time I put china soup bowls on top of the dinner plates and added bread plates to the place settings. I helped Page find the soupspoons and she put one at each place. I got the silver candlesticks out and lit the candles. Then I took a porcelain tureen to the kitchen and filled it with hot water to warm it. “We’ll serve the cioppino from this,” I told Chris.
He raised an eyebrow. Normally at my mother’s house soup or stew would be served from the pot it was cooked in. “Will the queen be dining with us tonight?”
“Pretty nearly,” I answered, and he laughed.
We gathered around the table. Mom had invited our across-the-street neighbors, Fiona and Viola Snugg, known to all as Fee and Vee. She thought Marguerite and Tallulah would find them delightful, which, of course, they did.
Chris dished out the meal, his own version of cioppino, the Italian-American fish stew invented in San Francisco. Chris used typically East Coast seafood, instead of West Coast. He started his broth with lobster bodies, something we always had plenty of on hand.
When the bowls were dished out, I leaned over mine and let the steam hit my face. Mom picked up her spoon. “Let’s eat.”
The cioppino was delicious. The different tastes and textures of the shrimp, clams, lobster, haddock, and Maine crab shone through, even as they blended perfectly with the tomato base.
“A triumph,” Vee pronounced. She was the third cook in the triumvirate with Livvie and Chris. He beamed.
The conversation flowed around the table. We interrupted and talked over one another as we told Fee and Vee about the secret room at Windsholme, eager to give our differing experiences of the event. They were both properly impressed.
When she finished her meal, Marguerite said, “Tallulah and I have been reading the governess’s journal.”
We all demanded to know what they’d learned.
“We’ve only read the first entry. Would you like to hear it?” Marguerite asked. “Tallulah, dear, why don’t you bring it here?”
Tallulah left and returned with the journal and Marguerite’s reading glasses.
“The entries start in June of 1898,” Marguerite said as she opened the book. “Lilly Smythe is a young woman who’s come with the Morrow family to Windsholme.” She pronounced it “Sm-eye-th,” with a long “I.”
I worried the candlelight in the room would make it impossible for Marguerite to see the faded script, but she put on the wire-framed glasses and read in a voice that was stronger than any person her age had a right to. Nonetheless, we all leaned in to hear her, hanging on the words.
“June 4, 1898
“I arrived at the appointed time at the town house in the Back Bay. Two carriages were waiting to take us to the sailing yacht in Boston Harbor. I sat with the young men whom I had only met for a few moments when I had my interview. William is fourteen and Charles eleven. I am to tutor them this summer before they go off to school in the fall. Their father, Mr. Lemuel Morrow, is particularly concerned they are deficient in German and mathematics.”
“She was a governess to my brothers,” Marguerite explained to Fee and Vee.
This brought an inevitable round of questions and explanations. How could Marguerite, living and breathing today, have brothers who were adolescents in 1898?
The answer was a trick of our family history. Lemuel Morrow had fathered William and Charles when he was in his twenties. As a widower, he had married a much younger woman when he was sixty and they had produced Marguerite. Thus, Marguerite had a father, my great-great-great grandfather, who was born on the eve of the Civil War. It seemed amazing, but it was also true.
The candlelight glimmered and danced, adding to the atmosphere. It was like we were back in time, when these very candlesticks had sat on the long dining table at Windsholme. Marguerite picked up the journal again and continued reading.
“When we got to the docks there was another cart piled with steamer trunks three deep. I had only my valise, with a second blouse and skirt, two nightgowns, my undergarments, and a bathing costume I borrowed from my cousin Bertha.
“Before I knew it, we were on the Morrow yacht, preparing to leave. The party is large. There is Mr. and Mrs. Morrow and their boys. Mr. Morrow’s mother is with us, too. She is almost as wide as she is tall and wears a perpetual scowl. I hope I won’t have much intercourse with her. Then there is Mr. Morrow’s brother, a bachelor, quite a bit younger than Mr. Morrow, I think. I am to call him Mr. Frederick.
“And that’s just the family! We have a cook and two maids traveling with us, along with the yacht captain and four crew. I am told the yacht will return to Boston from time to time to bring weekend parties of guests to the island. In addition to those on the boat, there will be a gardener and a porter awaiting us there, and a housekeeper who has gone ahead to open the mansion with help from two local women. This is the largest and grandest household I have ever worked in. I hope I am up to the task.”
Marguerite stopped reading. We all looked at her expectantly.
“But that doesn’t tell us why the room was sealed up, or why her things were still there,” Livvie said. “Have you skimmed ahead?”
“You are as impatient as your cousin here.” Marguerite tipped her head toward Tallulah. “Some things must be savored. Besides, you are going to want to hear this next bit.”
I grabbed my empty bowl along with Marguerite’s, which she’d pushed forward to make room to hold the journal in front of her. Others jumped in to help. I brought out the dessert, apple pie contributed by Vee, and served it along with vanilla ice cream and coffee. They all groaned about how they couldn’t eat another bite, but no one turned down a piece.
When everyone was served, Mom said, “What is it we absolutely need to hear, Marguerite?”
Marguerite put her glasses on and read.
“The yacht was finally loaded and we left in the late afternoon. A light supper of cheeses and meats was served on the deck and we all made merry, singing and playing guessing games. All except the cook, Mrs. Stout, who was sick despite the calm seas and took to her bunk.”
“Mrs. Stout!” I almost shouted. “Wasn’t that the name of the cook you told us about today?”
Marguerite smiled, pleased I remembered. “She was indeed. I remember her as an old woman in the late 1920s. She would have been so much younger when Lilly Smythe knew her.”
“Did she ever tell you any stories about a governess or a sealed-off room?” Vee asked.
“No, but I was quite young. May
be too young for the story, whatever it was. Mrs. Stout worked for my half brother William and his family, who lived in New York City. They didn’t approve of my mother and we never visited them there. I saw Mrs. Stout only in the summers at Windsholme.”
Marguerite turned a page of the journal and continued.
“My young charges are delightful. I look forward to working with them. On the deck, young Charles approached me, staring deeply. ‘You are too beautiful to be our governess,’ he whispered.
“‘If it wasn’t for her specs,’ William added.
“‘Charles! William!’ Mrs. Morrow senior scolded. ‘You apologize to Miss Smythe.’
“‘I don’t see why Charles should apologize,’ Mr. Frederick responded. ‘He speaks the truth. We have our own Gibson girl among us.’
“I blushed and old Mrs. Morrow snapped, ‘Enough. All of you.’
“The stars at sea are the brightest I have ever seen. Finally, we all made for bed. I slept in a compartment filled with bunks for the female servants.
“In the morning, we were at anchor. When I came up on the deck, Morrow Island was before us. The house they call Windsholme sits at the highest point on the island. It has a deep porch where I believe I will spend many happy hours. It looks strong and sheltering, ready to protect those who live inside. What a grand adventure is in store. I believe this will be the happiest summer of my life.”
Marguerite closed the journal. There’d been a sharp, collective intake of breath when Marguerite read the name “Windsholme.” We knew Lilly Smythe had been there. That’s where we’d found the journal, but her love of the house wove her more tightly to us.
Sonny stood. “It’s a school night.” Page had crept off during the reading to play in the living room. The normally active Jack dozed in his high chair. While Livvie gathered up their things, Sonny pulled me aside. “Did you fire Terry?”
“First thing in the morning, I promise.”
“We’ll walk out with you,” Vee said to Livvie. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
Chris and I stayed to clean up. “The journal passage was so idyllic,” I said as he washed and I dried. “Imagine the days when the family arrived on the island in a sailing yacht.”
“Yes,” he said. “Imagine you spent the summer trimming their hedges, making their meals, and boiling their laundry. If you were lucky.”
“Let me dream,” I pleaded. “It’s going to be the happiest summer of her life.”
“Honey, the only reason you have that journal is because that woman’s room was sealed up like an Egyptian tomb. How can you imagine her story has a happy ending?”
Later, as we walked home, I told Chris I had to let Terry go.
“I know. I was there,” he said. “When?”
“I’ll go over to the Dark Lady first thing in the morning.”
Terry, so recently out of prison, couldn’t afford a cell phone. In some ways, I was grateful. It would be easier to look into his eyes when I spoke to him than to imagine his reaction if I did it over the phone.
Chapter Five
But when I got to the Dark Lady’s berth in the morning, the boat wasn’t there. The wooden sailboat was Chris’s pride and joy, inherited from an uncle. Terry had been living aboard since he’d been out of prison. The water in the harbor got colder every day. The cabin was cramped and uncomfortable. In a couple of weeks, as soon as the snowbirds who were renting Chris’s cabin headed south, Terry would move out there.
I stood for a moment, staring through the clear water where the boat should have been to the stony harbor bottom. Terry had Chris’s blessing to live aboard, but did that include taking the Dark Lady for a spin? I scanned the harbor looking for her familiar sail but didn’t see it.
Maybe Terry had taken the sailboat out to Morrow Island to report for work. He’d never done that before. He always went over with Sonny and the others in the Boston Whaler. But there was always a first time. Maybe he didn’t want to ride with Jason after their fight. What if I’d missed him? Sonny would be furious.
I left the marina and walked to the concrete town pier where our ticket kiosk stood and our tour boat was tied up. Sonny and Livvie were already aboard the Boston Whaler. Jack and Page were with Mom. She’d bring them over later on the Jacquie II. Sonny fussed with the Whaler’s engine and grumbled.
“Hey!” I called to get his attention.
“Julia. To what do we owe the honor?”
“I went to the Dark Lady to let Terry go, but he wasn’t there. I came down here to head him off in case he shows up.”
Sonny looked around, hand to brow, exaggeratedly scanning the harbor. “Nope, not here.”
“Very funny. I’ll stay in case he shows up.”
“He’s not the only one who isn’t here.”
What Sonny said was true. Now that Sonny and Livvie were living back on the mainland, they took the Whaler out to Morrow Island every morning with the two cooks who worked with Livvie in the kitchen, Pru and Kathy Cippoli, and the two guys who worked the clambake fire with Sonny, Jason, and for the last four weeks, Terry. The rest of the employees followed later, catching a ride on the Jacquie II, but this group had to get a head start or the food wouldn’t be served on time.
“At least today it’s a cruise ship,” I said. One of the small cruise lines that visited our harbor during foliage season had contracted with us to provide a harbor tour and serve lunch to their passengers. A hundred and two people had signed up, half our usual number of guests. Plus, the cruise started in Nova Scotia, so by the time they got to Busman’s Harbor, they would be used to being on time and queuing up. Groups from a single tour were generally easier to manage.
“I guess,” Sonny said. While the smaller number of guests would make it easier on the waitstaff, it would make only a marginal difference for Sonny at the clambake fire.
“I’m here! I’m here.” Kathy, the third cook, who worked with Livvie and Pru in the kitchen, ran up the pier. “Sorry, I’m late.”
“Thank goodness.” Livvie hugged her once she’d climbed aboard. “I was beginning to worry I’d be cooking alone.”
“I’m going to be alone,” Sonny grumbled. “No Jason, and no Terry.”
“You didn’t want Terry,” I protested.
“Well, he doesn’t know that, does he?”
“I’ll come,” I said. “I’ll come now and help.” Sonny’s red eyebrows were pinched together over his nose. The work at the clambake fire was hot and heavy. Clearly he didn’t think I was capable. “I can’t help you during the bake, but I can help you set up,” I added.
He rolled his big shoulders. “No call from Pru?”
Livvie looked at her phone and shook her head.
“Okay, let’s go.” Sonny started the Whaler while I climbed aboard. “Jason may even be on the island,” he shouted over the engine noise. “Sometimes when he takes the Money Honey out he forgets to tell me.”
Sonny pulled away from the pier and eased us into the harbor. He observed the speed limit in the no wake zone, and then opened her up once we cleared it. At that point, conversation became impossible. I sat back to enjoy the ride.
* * *
Jason’s fancy lobster boat, the Money Honey, wasn’t at the dock on Morrow Island when we arrived. Neither were the Dark Lady and Terry. I wished I’d called Chris and told him the boat wasn’t at its mooring when we were back in the harbor and still had cell service. The old junker Mark Cochran had found for the demo crew was there, and I could see the men moving around up by Windsholme and hear the pounding of sledgehammers and the crash of debris as they threw it in the dumpster.
Livvie and Kathy went off to the kitchen while Sonny and I got to work at the fire pit. We grabbed rakes and pulled out the ashes and charred bits of wood from the previous day’s fire. Once the ashes were removed, we repiled the stones that would heat the food for the clambake. The rocks had to be a very particular size, bigger than a brick but smaller than a cinderblock. A too big rock was hard to move
and wouldn’t heat through easily. A too small rock could get too hot and explode. Sonny had a collection of treasured stones he used over and over. Whenever we were at the beach or in shallow water, all of us kept an eye out for a perfect one. If I found one the right size and it passed Sonny’s detailed inspection for composition and density and made it into the collection, my heart swelled with pride. If one of his rocks did break after countless fires, Sonny reacted as if he’d lost an old friend. “That’s an old reliable,” he would say. “Thank you for your service.” Then he would drop the pieces off the dock, returning it to spend its days with its similarly broken brethren.
“Why do you think Jason didn’t show up?” I asked.
“He got beat up yesterday, didn’t he? Probably he’s too achy to work and he looks terrible. Probably he didn’t want to see Terry.”
“But wouldn’t Jason call you if he wasn’t coming?”
“I’m sure he figured I’d know why he wasn’t here. Why do you think Terry didn’t show up?”
“Probably he knew I was going to fire him and thought he’d save me the trouble.” I turned to Sonny. “I’m sorry I didn’t take care of that yesterday. Then you could have let Jason know Terry was out and you might not be here alone.”
Sonny nodded, focused on piling the rocks perfectly so they would heat up and cook the food correctly.
“I’ll start on the wood,” I said.
“Julia—” Sonny squinted at me skeptically.
“I’ll use the wheelbarrow,” I assured him.
I found the wheelbarrow up by the little house and pushed toward the woodpile. The path dipped down by the clambake fire and then climbed slightly upward again toward the flat spot where the wood was stored. I stopped along the way and looked out over the North Atlantic. It was a cool, sunny, fall day with a lovely breeze. The island was peaceful this early in the day with only the four of us—plus the demo crew—working. When the renovation of Windsholme was completed, I would live on the island during the season and get to experience these beautiful mornings.