As they drove out of the only town she had ever known, away from the ruin of the past few days and a lifetime shared with Rory and John and Charles and Mother and Father, Lenora closed her eyes. She had seen enough destruction. She did not want to see more buildings caved in on themselves, cars piled on top of roofs, mud everywhere. She rested her head against the window beside her, the vibration making her nose itch. She never got a chance to raise her hand and rub it, because she fell promptly to sleep.
His spirit was large and his influence was deep, as both had been in his life—the real life, the one where he could touch and converse with and swindle people out of their greatest possessions with little more than a conversation. That’s how it always began: with a conversation, which bloomed into a false friendship, which then led to his greatest achievements, or, rather, their greatest losses. Some would say he was skilled in stealing life; he would say he was skilled in revealing the best parts of life, which could always be found once possessions and trappings were cleared away.
He had been hung for his crimes, in these very woods.
April 18, 1947
The progress I intended to make on my work today has been temporarily interrupted. I am on my way home from Texas City, where a terrible tragedy has necessitated my intervention. My niece is sleeping in the car. I am trying to distract my mind from the curves and ever-present dangers of the road with this journal, though I do not have much of the scientific kind to say.
Lenora is her name. This is the first time I have met her.
She is deeply troubled by her loss, as anyone can understand. She wants to believe, as most minds do, that her family is still alive. I saw the town, the bodies, the severed limbs. My brother’s house is still standing, as though untouched by the devastation around it, but I lingered on its porch while Lloyd searched its interior. There were no bodies. The house was empty.
Little remained of the harbor, where the explosion originated (perhaps it is more accurate to say it originated in the ships docked there). Anyone who stood near the harbor—and there were many (Dr. Remus Sparks, an old colleague of mine, told me of the lovely smoke and the crowd it drew on the day of the explosion)—must have been destroyed, too.
I think my brother and his family—excepting Lenora (and why?)—must have been among them.
This knowledge feels too heavy to bear this afternoon. Why is life so full of agonizing loss? Why must we endure such misfortune? Why does the sun continue to shine?
If only my brother had remained at Stonewall Manor . . . if only I had believed him all those years ago . . . if only I hadn’t waited so long to tell him of my discoveries, my change of heart, my plan to break the Stonewall Curse . . .
Well, there are a great many things that would have been different. We would have fought the darkness together. I would not have lost a son, perhaps. My brother would be alive.
Regret is a dangerous companion.
And now I have his daughter. He wouldn’t like to know that; it’s why he left in the first place. He couldn’t raise children at Stonewall Manor, he’d said. Not with the woods so close. Not with the danger. Not with generations of children disappearing.
How I wish I had followed him, left this old manor to whatever lives in the woods. But who would have broken the curse?
I do not know what to do with a daughter. I am not equipped to be a father; the events of the past have proved that. I fear I will fail in a way that will destroy me and possibly Lenora, too.
And there is, as always, the business of the woods—the work that must be done and the hold it has on children. John felt it once; he knew its power, though he did not fully understand it then. He tried to tell me, begged me to use my scientific mind to find a solution, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe until my son . . .
I must accelerate my plans. There is no telling how long the woods will leave Lenora to me.
—excerpt from Richard Cole’s Journal of Scientific Progress
STONEWALL MANOR, NACOGDOCHES
7
The car jerked to a stop.
“Here we are.”
The voice reached her in a haze. Lenora opened her eyes, confused and disoriented. Lloyd spoke from the front seat. “I thought you might like the loveliest view of your new home.” He waved a hand toward the passenger window.
“It’s not my home,” Lenora said, the words somewhat sharp and pointed.
Lloyd cleared his throat. She really had not meant to be rude again, but she needed them to understand. She would not be here long.
Uncle Richard grunted. She hoped she had not upset him with her impolite words; Father had always told her brothers and sister that good manners were essential in life. He would be disappointed.
Uncle Richard was asleep, however, and likely had not heard her retort. His hands loosely gripped a journal, a pencil balancing precariously on its edge.
Lenora turned her attention to the house outside the car window. It was the largest and most beautiful one she had ever seen. She could not see it fully, because trees lined both sides of the stone walk that stretched from the front door to the street, where the car idled, and hid the corners from view. The branches of the trees looked like arms reaching toward one another, arcing gracefully in a limb-and-leaf hollow. She counted eight white pillars on the front of the house, two towers (with pointed roofs and stacks of windows, just like out of a storybook!), and six steps leading to the front door. A rectangular balcony stretched the length of the second floor. Shutters painted a deep green framed eight long windows.
The house must be very grand inside; what had they called it? A manor?
“There are twenty-six bedrooms in Stonewall Manor,” Lloyd said.
“Are they all filled?” Lenora could not help herself; curiosity and questions had been a normal part of her life, from the time she could speak. Mother had found them trying at times, but Father loved them. Or so he’d said.
“Only two of them,” Lloyd said.
Two people in this enormous house? It must be terribly boring to live here, and lonely, too. Lenora’s throat dried out. Well. She would not be staying long.
“Do you live here?” Lenora said.
“No,” Lloyd said. “I live in town. I only come around when your uncle needs me to drive him somewhere.” He lowered his voice. “He is not fond of driving.”
Lenora found this just as odd as everything else she’d learned about her uncle, but her curiosity was currently running in two different directions. So she said, “Who lives here, then?”
“Your uncle, of course,” Lloyd said. “And Mrs. Jones.”
“Mrs. Jones?”
“She is the cook.”
“There is a cook at Stonewall Manor?” Lenora’s eyes focused on Lloyd’s face.
“Yes.” His voice lowered. “She is a good one. She makes the best cakes. You should request the strawberry one while you’re here.”
Lenora remembered that she had not celebrated her birthday with a cake. Mother would have baked a strawberry one, and they would have eaten it around their supper table the night of the explosion.
Her birthday. Her birthday would be forever linked with the explosion. Her vision blurred.
Lloyd said, “I believe Mrs. Jones has something prepared for you. Though it is past lunchtime.”
Lenora had not eaten a proper meal in days. Her stomach felt vacant, just like this after-explosion life. Was it the pain of the disaster, or was it hunger? She could not tell the difference anymore.
“I have never lived in a place with a cook.” Lenora’s voice sounded very small.
“My wife would love it,” Lloyd said. His eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. His were shining.
“My uncle must be a wealthy man,” Lenora said.
Lloyd coughed. “Yes, well.” He stretched his neck, pulled at the collar. “He is a brilliant man. And this home has belonged to the Cole family for centuries.”
“Stonewall Manor?” Lenora said.
&n
bsp; “Surely your father told you as much.” Lloyd looked at her in the mirror again. “He grew up here.”
No. Father had never told her anything about Uncle Richard and Stonewall Manor. All she had known was that Father had once had a brother. He did not speak well of his brother—in fact, she recalled Father’s eyes growing dark and cloudy—sometimes wet—the few times he’d mentioned Uncle Richard.
Lenora eyed her uncle. He did not look as bad as Father seemed to think. He looked like a sleeping man, like her father’s brother. The wrinkles around his eyes had smoothed out, and she could see Father’s face in his.
“Why did my father never tell me?” Lenora said. The question hung in the car. Uncle Richard opened his eyes.
“Time heals and hardens in equal measure,” Uncle Richard said.
Lenora did not understand the words, but she gathered there were many things about her uncle—about her father, too—that she did not understand. Perhaps her stay at Stonewall Manor would reveal some of the answers.
Lloyd eased the car forward again. Lenora watched the manor from every angle. It really was beautiful. It was so different from the home she had shared with her family. She imagined wide-open hallways and secret passageways and large bedrooms that did not need to be shared. How John and Charles and Rory would have loved it here.
How Mother would have loved a cook, just like Lloyd’s wife. And Father . . .
An ache elbowed its way into Lenora’s chest. Her eyes dripped. She blinked hard. She did not want to cry, but sometimes it was impossible to control the tears.
Her family would be here before she knew it, and then she and John and Charles and Rory would run through these halls and the secret passageways and the large bedrooms and play hide-and-seek in the dark like they used to do in the old abandoned storefront near their home that Mother and Father had forbidden them to enter. (Lenora had always waited outside until the fun inside grew too jubilant. Rules were one thing; missing out was another.)
Lloyd pulled around to the side of the house, where a circular drive curved out to the road. He parked the car beneath a covered patio. Lenora could not stop looking at the thick expanse of trees, which swallowed all the land behind and around the manor. Only the front of the manor was untouched by woods.
She climbed out of the car while Lloyd held the door open for her.
“Stonewall Woods,” he said, nodding in the direction where her gaze settled.
“They are dangerous woods,” Uncle Richard said. His voice was clipped, even, urgent. “Stay out of them.”
Lloyd stiffened and tugged on the bottom of his vest, straightening what appeared to already be perfectly straight.
“Why are they dangerous?” Lenora said. They looked intriguing to her. The trees were not the same kind that lined the house. These trees were taller, thinner, with leaves that looked like needles. The sight of them, lined up in a regal wall of green, reminded her of home. The parts of Texas City that were not covered in homes and industrial plants looked very much like Stonewall Woods.
How far were they from Texas City? She had not even paid attention.
Lenora turned her eyes to Uncle Richard. He stared at the woods with such longing that she had to look away, or she would cry again.
“Stay out of them,” was all Uncle Richard said before turning toward the entrance of Stonewall Manor.
8
Lenora’s eyes were drawn back to the woods. Surely something so beautiful could not be dangerous. But then she remembered the smoke in Texas City and the explosion that destroyed everything she had ever known.
Beauty could deceive.
“Mrs. Jones.” Uncle Richard’s voice spun Lenora around. She saw a wispy woman with silver hair tied back at the nape of her neck and blue eyes that crinkled at the edges, as though she had known a lifetime of laughter. The woman’s thin lips drew into a smile.
“Come along inside, love,” Mrs. Jones said.
“This is Lenora,” Lloyd said. He grinned at Mrs. Jones and slid past her through the door.
“I know who she is,” Mrs. Jones replied while swatting his back. Lenora almost smiled at the easy way between them. Mrs. Jones held out a spotted hand. Lenora took it, and Mrs. Jones pulled her into a tight embrace and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Lenora stiffened for a breath, then relaxed. It felt good to be held, if only for a moment. Even by someone she didn’t know.
Did Mrs. Jones know her?
“I was here at Stonewall Manor when your father was a boy,” Mrs. Jones said, as though she could hear Lenora’s thoughts. “You look just like him.”
Lenora beamed, but the smile quickly dissolved. Father. How she missed him.
Would she ever be done with this pain?
She would when they came back.
They had to come back.
Mrs. Jones seemed to sense Lenora’s sorrow. Her eyes darkened, a hint of private grief gathering at the corners. She placed an arm around Lenora’s shoulders. “Now, then,” she said. “Let me show you inside.”
They walked up the steps together, and when they were inside the manor, Mrs. Jones said, “Welcome to Stonewall Manor, Lenora.” Lenora was glad she had not said, “Welcome home.”
She gazed up at the sparkling chandelier hanging from the top of the hall, which was so tall her father would not have been able to jump and touch it, as he could do with the light at home. The table in the hall had not a speck of dust on it; Lenora ran her finger along it to check. (She had been tasked with the dusting at home, and she had never been much good at it.) The rug inviting Lenora deeper into the manor was brilliantly colored with red and green and blue and gold swirls. She walked very slowly; she wanted to observe every part of this spectacular place where her father had grown up. Why had he never said a word about it?
An assortment of brass clocks hung above the hallway table, all turned to the same time, which was not the current time (2:49 p.m.) but 3:07 p.m. Their hands did not move. On the table was a golden telephone, the kind that had a bell for the mouthpiece and a tunnel-like apparatus for the earpiece. Lenora touched it with her fingers as she passed.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jones said. Her eyes smiled for her.
“Very much so,” Lenora said.
“And it will be your home,” Mrs. Jones said. “We have a billiard room and a library—”
“I won’t be staying long.” Lenora hated to interrupt, but she had to make it clear to Mrs. Jones, who had not heard any of her earlier assertions. She softened her words with, “But in the meantime, a library will be nice.”
Mrs. Jones looked at her for a long moment, her eyes turning soft and sad. Then she said, “You like to read?”
Lenora read every chance she had. She nodded.
“We have a lovely library,” Mrs. Jones said. “I’ll take you there first thing tomorrow.” She turned, her shoulders slumping forward into a sadness Lenora did not understand. What was it Mrs. Jones carried?
“Would you like to eat first or change into some fresh clothes?” Mrs. Jones tossed the words behind her.
“Eat?” Lenora said. It came out like a question, as though she were asking permission. Her stomach was so empty it thundered.
Mrs. Jones nodded and bustled toward a swinging door with a small window cut in it. Lenora followed.
“You’ll eat in the kitchen with me this afternoon,” Mrs. Jones said. “But tonight and every other night you’ll dine with Mr. Cole promptly at six o’clock.” Mrs. Jones leveled her gaze at Lenora. “Your uncle is very punctual, and he does not like children to be late to the table.”
Was that a warning? What would happen if she were late?
“Are there other children?” Lenora said. Her hope lifted its head. Perhaps Lloyd had miscounted the people living here. (She knew this hope was ridiculous—even as she felt it warming her chest. But hope is a ridiculous thing.)
Mrs. Jones pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No.” She paused, rubbed a finger across one eyebro
w. “No, love, there are no other children.” Her voice held all the sadness in the world, Lenora thought.
No, not all of it. It did not contain Lenora’s.
“Would you like a tuna sandwich and some grapes? I would offer more, but supper is in a couple of hours.” Mrs. Jones reached for a plate.
“A sandwich would be wonderful,” Lenora said. “Thank you.”
Mother and Father would be proud that she was remembering her manners. The thought made her throat constrict. Would she ever be able to think of them without tears burning the back of her nose?
Mrs. Jones opened a small white icebox with a silver latch and pulled out a blue bowl, which Lenora assumed was the already-made tuna. She took bread out of a brass box sitting in a corner on the counter and slathered tuna onto two slices.
Lenora looked around the room. It appeared to be larger than her entire home. It had two sinks and two white stoves with black coils resting on top and a shining window that looked out on Stonewall Woods. It was expansive enough to fit a table inside it and still have room to do cartwheels—probably four of them. Lenora couldn’t believe that this grand manor had existed without Rory even knowing. She would have loved it here. Rory always complained about their home—it was too small, she said. What she really meant was she hated sharing a room with Lenora, but the sharing had suited Lenora just fine; she’d never asked for a room of her own.
She would give anything to share all this with Rory.
They must be alive.
They must.
She touched the pearl necklace in her pocket.
What would she do if they weren’t?
Who would she be?
9
The sandwich on Lenora’s plate was cut into small triangles, and the green grapes rolled around it as she turned the plate in circles.
Her elbow brushed a newspaper. She saw the familiar plume of smoke and squinted at the day’s date printed at the top of the paper. April 18, 1947, it said. Today’s paper. Two days after the explosion, and they were still talking about it.
The Woods Page 3