Spring House
Page 2
She handed him the watch. “Your message said you found information on Winter Cottage.”
Megan had written her PhD dissertation on Winter Cottage, which had been her lone anchor in a childhood spent adrift. Growing up, she could not count on where she would be living in any given year, but she could rely on a summer vacation to the Eastern Shore in the shadow of Winter Cottage. Her great-grandmother Catherine Buchanan had hosted her father here each summer from the age of five until he left for college. According to her dad, Claire had been loving and kind to him, and he’d always spoken fondly of her and the old house.
Megan had assumed her great-grandmother would leave Winter Cottage to her father, but the property had gone to Samuel Jessup, a merchant marine. Though the Jessups made their living either as watermen or merchant marines, or in the military service, their lives were closely intertwined with the wealthy Buchanans’. Samuel, in fact, had been her late fiancé’s great-great-uncle.
Megan had thought the land would revert back to the Buchanans after Samuel’s death, but his will had been clear that Winter Cottage should go to his grandchild. And Lucy Kincaid, a Nashville bartender, had been located.
Thanks to a generous trust established by Claire, Lucy had the means to renovate Winter Cottage and its surrounding buildings. Lucy, perhaps reluctant at first to live on the Eastern Shore, had quickly embraced ownership and all the restoration. Six weeks ago, she had hired Megan to oversee the operation.
“I hear you moved into Winter Cottage,” Duncan said.
“It’s easier to be on-site during the renovation,” Megan said.
“How’s it going so far?” he asked.
“As much as I love history, I do prefer modern plumbing and electrical systems that won’t short-circuit over a hair dryer or microwave oven.”
He nodded ruefully. “Those were the good old days.”
“Perhaps, but I’m very happy in the world of epidural blocks and antibiotics.”
“What will you renovate first?”
“Spring House. It was Samuel Jessup’s house. He was the property’s caretaker before Claire died. Once we have Spring House renovated, Lucy, her sister, and I will move into it. Then the work on Winter Cottage begins.”
His gaze flickered to her swollen belly. “You got a lot on your plate.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She hoped that was true. “What do you have for me?”
He reached under the counter, pulled out a box, and laid a bent hand on top. A vaudevillian devotee to the core, he tipped the edge of the box back a fraction so that only he could peek inside. “Have you ever heard of Thomas Delany’s photography?”
The name sparked her interest. “Sure. He was a cold plate photographer and did most of his work in the 1890s.”
“Well, a treasure trove of his photographs surfaced at an estate sale a few weeks ago. I received the call and bought them all up. I spent the last week going through the glass plates as well as the photos.”
She resisted the urge to tell him to hurry up. Duncan loved the suspense. “Keep talking.”
“I came across a series of photographs of Spring House before Winter Cottage was built.”
“Late 1890s?”
“Exactly.”
He removed the lid, pulled out the first picture, and slowly placed it on the counter. It was a black-and-white picture of Spring House.
The center section of Spring House was basically a two-story log cabin that had been built circa 1700 by a local merchant named Stuart Wentworth, who had been awarded the property by a grant from the king of England. Wentworth went on to grow corn and beans, which he shipped along the East Coast and to England via the deepwater port of Onancock, located twenty miles north.
The house was sold around 1870 to an engineer who had been sent by the railroad company to survey the extension of the rail line south to Cape Charles.
George Buchanan purchased Spring House in 1895 and used it as a hunting lodge until Winter Cottage could be built five years later.
Standing on the porch of Spring House was a young girl who couldn’t have been more than five. She had dark hair and wore a calico dress that looked two sizes too big for her small frame. To the right of the clapboard house was the brick foundation of an outbuilding that Megan guessed had once been a kitchen, which were often built away from the main house to guard against fire.
Her gaze shifted to the shoreline and the expanse of the Chesapeake Bay. Two ships were on the horizon. A thick gaggle of geese flew past fluffy white clouds.
The land was stark, barren, with no hint of the grand mansion that would soon come to dominate the Eastern Shore and the neighboring town of Cape Hudson.
“It’s interesting. Do you know who the girl is?” she asked.
“I have no idea. I wonder what brought Mr. Delany to the shores?”
“No doubt George Buchanan. He enjoyed having his picture taken.” She tore her gaze from the girl. “It’s fascinating. Historical context is always valuable in restoration work.”
“Do you really think I’d have called you here if it were only that picture?”
She grinned. “I was hoping for more.”
He removed another picture from his box. The image featured four young girls standing by their pregnant mother. The girls ranged in age from about eleven to eight. “The oldest girl is your great-grandmother, Claire Buchanan.”
“Really?” She leaned in, searching for resemblances and finding eyes shaped like her father’s. “How can you be sure?”
“Flip it over.”
Written on the back was The Hedrick Women. Hedrick had been Claire’s maiden name.
“Look at the youngest girl and then back at the first picture.”
She glanced between the two images. “They’re the same girl.”
“Yep. Kind of odd, isn’t it?”
“The youngest Hedrick girl was named Diane.” Megan had been able to trace the lineage of the three oldest Hedrick sisters, but Diane had vanished from history.
“One last picture,” Duncan said. He reached under the counter and pulled out a framed photograph of a stunning woman with clear blue eyes and blonde hair coiled in a style fashionable in the early 1940s. Megan did not need Duncan to tell her who this woman was. It was Victoria Buchanan Garrison, Claire’s sister-in-law.
Victoria had married Edward Garrison in 1920, and the couple had traveled the world while Edward served in multiple Foreign Service posts. They moved among the elite, and it was not until their sons were born in the pair’s later years that the couple returned home. Victoria, according to family lore, had credited her belated pregnancies to a fertility goddess she had met in North Africa shortly before World War II broke out.
Megan’s great-grandmother Claire had left behind videotapes that Lucy had found recently. In the tapes, Claire stated that Victoria had given birth to a son at Winter Cottage, and Claire had turned the child, Samuel, over to the Jessups. Claire had been nearly one hundred years old when she made the tape and had no reason to lie. Adding credence to the baby’s birth was Victoria’s own behavior. Before the summer of 1916, she had lived a very public life and was often seen at the theater or dinner parties. After her marriage, she became very private. When she and her husband finally had children, they withdrew even more without a hint of explanation.
“An interesting collection, Duncan. Can I buy these from you?” Eventually, Winter Cottage would be set up as a museum, and these pieces would be of great interest to its visitors.
“I’m thinking two hundred bucks a picture.”
“How about two hundred for all three?” she countered.
“I hear Winter Cottage has a large trust fund behind it dedicated to the renovation.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to pay a crazy high price.”
“Four hundred for all three,” the old man whispered.
“Three fifty for all three. Final offer, Duncan.”
He stared at her as if peering over a hand of po
ker, wondering whether she was bluffing. If attending ten schools before the age of seventeen had taught her any lesson, it was to keep her emotions to herself. She said nothing and waited.
“Fine. But only because I don’t feel like haggling with a pregnant woman. Makes me look bad.”
“Can I take these and have you bill me?”
“I’ll send the bill out this morning.”
“If you find more pictures as you go through those glass-plate negatives, call me.”
“You’ll be the first.”
As he collected and boxed the pictures, she said, “May I also buy these games?” She fished a couple of twenties out of her purse. “They’re for me.”
“What do you want with a bunch of old games?”
“Lucy’s sister, Natasha, likes games.”
“Kids today don’t care about these games.”
“I’m trying to teach her that not all fun is had online.”
He snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“If the Mystery Date board game doesn’t do the trick, then the Ouija board will.”
“I’ll sell them all to you for ten bucks.”
“What? You’re giving me a deal without haggling.”
“Getting soft in my old age.”
“Thanks, and remember, I’m looking to buy furnishings for Winter Cottage. You find any other Winter Cottage items, call me.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. Half the antique vendors on or near the bay know you’re looking. Word of that trust fund has spread.”
“Thanks.”
He bagged up the games and pictures into a large paper satchel, and Megan carried her new treasures out the front door. After settling the bag carefully on the back seat of the truck, she slid behind the wheel, her belly barely fitting.
She drove through town and finally along North Hampton Boulevard toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge–Tunnel, which connected Virginia’s mainland to the Eastern Shore. She paid the toll and set off for the seventeen-mile bridge and tunnel.
Megan rolled down her window, and the salt air funneled into the truck’s cab, brushing the tips of those too-short bangs off her very round face. The breeze from the bay coaxed some of the tension from her shoulders, but when she flipped down her visor, she did not see a posh woman staring back, but rather—as Duncan had suggested—Friar Tuck. She groaned. “It’s hair, for God’s sake.”
The horizon was painted a rich blue and dotted with the occasional plump white cloud. The waters were calm today, but hints of whitecaps foretold that bad weather was coming soon.
As the bridge descended over the grasslands of the Eastern Shore, her phone rang. One glance at the display sent fresh waves of stress crashing over her.
Megan tightened her hold on the steering wheel and then answered the call. “Hello, Mom.”
“How did the appointment go with the obstetrician?” Sandy asked.
“It went well. The baby is doing fine. How did you know I was in town today?”
“The geo-tracker on your phone. These days you only go into Norfolk for baby checkups.”
Megan downshifted, sorry she had agreed to allow her mother to track her. But her parents had been on the verge of canceling their trip to Australia if she refused. They were due home just before her delivery date. And if they were going to be a world away from their only daughter while she was pregnant, they expected stalking rights. “It all went well. The baby is fine.”
“Are you still on target for a late April delivery?”
“That’s the plan.” The doctor had said she and the baby were doing great. There had been the usual warnings to slow down and put her feet up more often, but with normal blood pressure and more energy than she’d had in months, she took these as only suggestions.
“Your father and I will be back in plenty of time for the delivery.”
Megan straightened in her seat, working the tension from her back. “See, it’s all working out fine.”
“How’s the restoration project going?” her mother asked.
“Phase one begins today. The dumpster will arrive, and Lucy and I will start going through her grandfather’s study.”
Megan had pitched the restoration idea of Spring House and then Winter Cottage to Lucy a couple of months ago, and to her delight, Lucy had accepted it. Thanks to the substantial endowment from Claire, Megan had the freedom to do an accurate and full restoration of Winter Cottage, plus she could upgrade Spring House to a modern home.
“I received another call from Helen,” her mother said.
Helen Jessup was Megan’s almost mother-in-law and her baby’s grandmother. Helen had wanted her son to marry a woman adept at entertaining and capable of fully supporting his naval career, but she had been gracious and welcoming to bookish Megan when Scott had told her about the engagement. Days after the wedding announcement, Helen had set about reinventing her son’s fiancée, who was more interested in dusty books than making nice with an admiral’s wife. Soon Helen was taking her clothes shopping or for pedicures and manicures. Megan had loved Scott, so she had tried to please Helen.
And then it all fell apart when Megan abruptly ended their engagement two weeks before the wedding. She had barely begun to process the breakup when Rick Markham, Scott’s almost best man, called and told her that Scott was dead. Rick explained that Scott had been on a rescue mission when his helicopter crashed.
Megan should have stayed away from the funeral, but she had really loved Scott. So she had driven to the Jessup family plot near Winter Cottage on that hot and humid September day. The country cemetery had been packed with mourners from near and far.
It would have been better to remain on the periphery of the ceremony, but when Helen approached her, Megan had seen it as her chance to express her condolences. But Helen had taken one look at her and, in a voice only Megan could hear, hissed, “Get away from me. You killed my son.”
“What?” Megan had whispered.
“If you’d been grown-up enough to make your relationship work and be the woman Scott needed, he’d be alive.”
Megan had stayed silent, but she’d cried all the way back to Norfolk.
“What did Helen want?” Megan asked.
“She made a lot of small talk. I think she was hoping I would mention you. When I didn’t, she asked me directly about the baby. I didn’t realize she’d not seen you in so long.”
Megan had visited Scott’s grave. Helen had been there, sitting quietly on the ground, rearranging fresh flowers in a stone vase. She had been crying, and Megan had wanted to give the poor woman some hope to buoy her through the choppy waters ready to pull her under. So she had told her about the baby, thinking she might be tossing Helen a lifeline.
Helen had stared at her for a long, tense moment. “If you think you’re going to pawn that baby off as Scott’s, you are mistaken.”
They had not communicated since. “I’m not sure she believed me, Mom.”
“Cut her some slack, kiddo. She’s in a lot of pain. Scott was the world to her.”
Megan shifted in her seat, away from the annoying ache in her lower back. “What did you tell Helen?”
“She knows you’re back in Cape Hudson and working on Winter Cottage. It’s a small town. Word gets around. I told her the baby and you are fine.”
“So she has the basic update.”
There was a long pause. Then: “Helen wants the baby to take a paternity test.”
“A what?”
“She wants proof that the baby is Scott’s.”
Megan rolled her head from side to side. “I don’t have time for these kinds of games. I told her the baby was Scott’s.”
“I know. I know. That’s what I told her several times. I think she’s looking for an excuse to see you.”
“She’d have better luck reaching me if she’d stop insulting me.” Intellectually, she understood the woman’s pain far surpassed her own. But her rejection also made Megan angry. “I have to go, Mom. I have to get to work.”
“There’s no asbestos in this house,” she said. “The house was finished in 1901.”
“Renovation work is also strenuous. It’s too big a job, and it’s not the least bit good for the baby,” her mother warned.
“The baby’s fine. And I can do this job.” This project was her chance to prove herself. Her history degree wasn’t an expensive hobby, as her father had once called it, and she could give up her online baking business and still make a living.
“It’s a big job, Megan. And with the baby coming, I’m worried. Maybe you should tackle a smaller project.”
“Mom, stop.”
Sandy sighed, a last-ditch effort to maybe guilt her daughter to her side. When Megan didn’t budge, she said, “Well, on the bright side, if the renovation doesn’t work out, you can go back to catering.”
She was not going backward. She couldn’t. As much as the future scared her, her past was too painful and filled with disappointments to revisit. “Mom, I need to let you go. I’ve got contractors to meet at Spring House today.”
“I can see you’re almost across the Bay Bridge–Tunnel,” her mother said. “Good. I don’t like seeing you make that drive.”
On a good day, the bridge offered stunning views of the bay. On a bad day, it could get dicey, but she was careful to watch the weather. “I’ve made this drive countless times. I’ll be fine.” And before her mother could answer, she said, “Take care. Talk to you soon.”
The bright sky had her fumbling for her sunglasses from her purse. As she put more distance between her and the bridge, the knot in her back eased.
Ending the call so abruptly shoveled more guilt onto a growing pile. She needed to be kinder and more openhearted to Helen, but Megan herself felt as if she were on the verge of drowning. She simply did not have the reserves to save the woman.
CHAPTER TWO
Megan
Monday, March 5, 2018
Cape Hudson, Virginia
10:00 a.m.